#and someone please save mia

[dynamitekansai]

WWE: Nobody is safe during Boogey SZN… 👹🪱

[pucksandpower]

Jilted

Charles Leclerc x runaway bride!Reader

Summary: you find out that your groom is a cheating bastard on your wedding day … Charles helps you pick up the pieces

The sun-drenched bridal suite buzzes with anticipation as you stand before the full-length mirror, your reflection a vision in white lace and satin. Your heart races, a mix of excitement and nerves coursing through your veins. This is supposed to be the happiest day of your life, but something feels ... off.

“You look absolutely stunning,” your best friend, Mia, gushes as she adjusts your veil. “James won’t know what hit him.”

You force a smile, trying to shake the nagging feeling in your gut. “Thanks, Mia. I just ... I can’t believe this is really happening.”

Mia squeezes your hand reassuringly. “Cold feet are totally normal. Trust me, once you see James waiting for you at the altar, all those doubts will melt away.”

A soft knock at the door interrupts your thoughts. Your mother peeks her head in, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes. “You’re absolutely beautiful.”

As she enters the room, you notice her clutching her phone, her knuckles white. “Mom? Is everything okay?”

She hesitates, exchanging a worried glance with Mia. “I ... I’m not sure how to say this, honey.”

Your stomach drops. “Mom, what is it? Just tell me.”

She takes a deep breath. “I just got off the phone with James’ mother. She... she overheard him talking to someone. A woman.”

The room spins as you struggle to process her words. “What are you saying?”

“It seems ... it seems James has been seeing someone else. For quite some time, apparently.”

The words hit you like a physical blow. You stumble back, gripping the edge of the vanity for support. “No,” you whisper. “That can’t be true. We’re getting married in an hour!”

Mia rushes to your side, her arm around your waist. “Y/N, breathe. We’ll figure this out.”

But you can’t breathe. The room feels too small, the air too thick. “I need ... I need to talk to him.”

Before anyone can stop you, you’re bolting from the room, your dress billowing behind you as you race down the hallway. You burst into the groom’s quarters, startling the group of groomsmen inside.

“Where is he?” You demand, your voice trembling.

James’ best man, Tom, steps forward, his face pale. “Y/N, what are you doing here? It’s bad luck-”

“Where. Is. He?” You repeat, each word dripping with venom.

The bathroom door opens, and there he stands — the man you thought you’d spend forever with. James’ eyes widen as he takes in your disheveled appearance. “Honey? What’s wrong?”

You laugh, the sound bitter and hollow. “What’s wrong? How about you tell me, James? Who is she?”

His face crumples, and in that moment, you know it’s true. “Y/N, I can explain-”

“Explain?” You spit. “Explain how you’ve been cheating on me our entire engagement? How you were going to stand up there and lie to my face, in front of everyone we love?”

James reaches for you, but you recoil. “Please, just let me-”

“Don’t touch me!” You scream, tears streaming down your face. “How could you do this to me?”

The room falls silent, save for your ragged breathing. James’ groomsmen shift uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact. You turn to leave, but James grabs your arm.

“Y/N, wait. I love you. We can work this out,” he pleads.

You wrench your arm free, fixing him with a glare that could freeze hell itself. “Love me? You don’t even know the meaning of the word.”

With that, you’re running again, pushing past concerned guests and ignoring the calls of your name. You burst out of the hotel into the blinding sunlight, your legs carrying you down the street without a destination in mind.

You don’t know how long you run, your white dress now stained with dirt and tears. Eventually, you find yourself in a part of town you don’t recognize, your feet aching and your lungs burning. A neon sign catches your eye — The Dive Hole.

Without thinking, you push open the door to the dingy bar. The few patrons inside turn to stare as you stumble in, a bride in full wedding attire, mascara streaking down your cheeks.

The bartender, a gruff-looking man in his fifties, raises an eyebrow. “Rough day, sweetheart?”

You laugh, the sound bordering on hysterical. “You could say that.”

As you collapse onto a barstool, the weight of the day finally crashes down on you. You bury your face in your hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

The bartender slides a glass of amber liquid in front of you. “On the house,” he says gruffly. “Looks like you could use it.”

You lift your head, offering him a watery smile. “Got anything stronger?”

***

The world spins as you stumble out of The Dive Hole, your wedding dress now stained with whiskey and regret. The streetlights blur into a hazy glow as you teeter on your heels, struggling to maintain your balance.

“Hey, watch it!” A passerby shouts as you nearly collide with him.

“Sorry,” you slur, waving a hand dismissively. “Just trying to ... to find my happily ever after. Have you seen it? I think I lost it somewhere.”

The man hurries away, leaving you alone on the sidewalk. You laugh bitterly, the sound echoing in the empty street. “That’s right, run away! Everyone else does!”

As you take another unsteady step, your heel catches in a crack in the pavement. You lurch forward, bracing for impact with the cold, hard ground. But instead of concrete, you find yourself enveloped in warmth.

“Whoa there!” A gentle voice exclaims. “Are you alright?”

You blink, trying to focus on the face of your savior. Kind green eyes peer down at you, filled with concern. The man helps you regain your footing, his hands steady on your arms.

“I’m fine,” you insist, even as the world continues to tilt around you. “Just ... just celebrating. It’s my wedding day, you know.”

The man’s brow furrows as he takes in your disheveled appearance. “Celebrating alone? In the middle of the street?”

You nod vigorously, immediately regretting the action as nausea washes over you. “Yep! Best day ever. Who needs a groom anyway, right?”

“I’m Charles,” he introduces himself, his accent warm and inviting. “And I think maybe you should sit down for a moment. There’s a bench just over there.”

He gently guides you to the nearby bench, helping you settle onto it. You slump against the backrest, your head lolling to the side.

“So, Charles,” you drawl, poking him in the chest. “What brings you out on this fine evening? Looking for love in all the wrong places?”

Charles chuckles softly. “Actually, I was just heading home after a late dinner with friends. And then I found a beautiful bride who seems to be having a rough night.”

You snort, gesturing to your ruined dress. “Beautiful? I look like I’ve been through a war. A war of the heart.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Charles offers, his voice gentle and free of judgment.

For a moment, you consider spilling everything. But the wound is too fresh, the betrayal too raw. Instead, you shake your head, feeling tears well up in your eyes once more.

“No talking,” you mumble. “Just ... can you sit with me for a bit?”

Charles nods, settling onto the bench beside you. “Of course. Take all the time you need.”

You sit in silence for a while, the cool night air slowly clearing your head. Charles remains a steady presence at your side, occasionally glancing at you with concern.

Finally, you break the silence. “I should probably go home. Except ... I don’t really know where home is anymore.”

Charles frowns. “You don’t have anywhere to go?”

You shake your head, a humorless laugh escaping your lips. “Nope. Funny how your whole life can fall apart in a single day, huh?”

Charles is quiet for a moment, seeming to wrestle with a decision. Finally, he speaks. “Look, I know we’ve just met, but ... I have a spare room. You’re welcome to stay there for the night, just to sleep it off and figure things out in the morning.”

You blink at him, surprised by the offer. “You’d do that for a stranger?”

He shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. “Well, we’re not exactly strangers now, are we? Besides, I couldn’t live with myself if I left you out here alone.”

You consider his offer. Every logical part of your brain is screaming that this is a bad idea, but something in Charles’ eyes tells you he can be trusted. Plus, you’re not exactly swimming in options at the moment.

“Okay,” you agree softly. “Thank you, Charles.”

He helps you to your feet, steadying you as you sway slightly. “My car’s just around the corner. Think you can make it?”

You nod, determined. “Lead the way, knight in shining armor.”

The ride to Charles’ apartment is mercifully short. You spend most of it with your head against the cool glass of the window, trying to keep the nausea at bay. Charles fills the silence with gentle small talk, his voice soothing in the darkness.

When you arrive, Charles helps you out of the car and into the elevator. As you ascend, the reality of your situation starts to sink in.

“Oh God,” you groan, leaning against the elevator wall. “What am I doing? I don’t even know you. For all I know, you could be a serial killer or something.”

Charles chuckles. “I promise I’m not a serial killer. Just a guy who couldn’t leave a crying bride on the street.”

The elevator doors open, and Charles leads you down the hallway to his apartment. As he fumbles with his keys, you sway on your feet, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with you.

“Here we are,” Charles announces, pushing open the door. “Home sweet home.”

You step inside, taking in the stylish but comfortable living room. “Nice place. Very ... un-serial-killer-like.”

Charles laughs. “Thanks, I think. The spare room is just down the hall, but maybe we should get you some water first.”

He guides you to the kitchen, filling a glass with cool water. You accept it gratefully, gulping it down.

“Easy there,” Charles warns. “Small sips or you’ll make yourself sick.”

You nod, slowing down. As you finish the water, a wave of emotion washes over you. The events of the day come crashing back, and before you know it, you’re sobbing.

“Hey, hey,” Charles says softly, moving closer. “It’s okay. You’re safe here.”

Without thinking, you throw yourself into his arms, burying your face in his shirt. Charles stiffens for a moment, surprised, before wrapping his arms around you.

“I’m s-sorry,” you hiccup between sobs. “I’m getting your shirt all wet and snotty.”

You feel Charles’ chest rumble with a soft laugh. “Don’t worry about it. That’s what washing machines are for.”

He holds you as you cry, one hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. You cling to him, this kind stranger who’s shown you more compassion in one night than your fiancé did in years.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Charles asks gently.

You shake your head, still pressed against his chest. “Not yet. Maybe... maybe tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he says simply. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You stay like that for a while, your sobs gradually subsiding into quiet sniffles. Charles continues to hold you, his presence a comforting anchor in the storm of your emotions.

As your breathing evens out, exhaustion begins to overtake you. Your eyelids grow heavy, and you find yourself struggling to stay upright.

Charles seems to sense your fatigue. “Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s get you to bed.”

He leads you down the hallway to the spare room, supporting most of your weight as you stumble along. The room is simple but cozy, with a plush-looking bed that seems to call your name.

“There should be some spare pajamas in the dresser,” Charles says. “They might be a bit big, but they’ll be more comfortable than that dress.”

You nod sleepily, already fumbling with the zipper of your gown. Charles quickly turns away, a blush creeping up his neck.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll leave you to it,” he stammers. “Bathroom’s right across the hall if you need it. And I’ll be in the living room if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay,” you mumble, your eyes already half-closed. “Thank you, Charles. For everything.”

He smiles softly. “Goodnight. Sleep well.”

As the door closes behind him, you manage to slip out of your wedding dress and into a pair of soft sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. The bed feels like heaven as you sink into it, your body finally relaxing after the emotional roller coaster of the day.

But as you lie there in the dark, the silence allows your thoughts to creep back in. Memories of James, of the life you thought you’d have, of the future that’s now shattered. Tears begin to fall once more, soaking into the pillow.

Before you know it, you’re padding out to the living room, sniffling quietly. Charles looks up from his spot on the couch, concern etched on his face.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Can’t sleep?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Every time I close my eyes, I see ... I just ... I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Without a word, Charles opens his arms. You practically collapse onto the couch next to him, curling into his side. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re not alone. I’m right here.”

You nod against his chest, fresh tears soaking into his shirt. Charles doesn’t seem to mind, just holds you tighter and begins to hum softly, a soothing melody that washes over you.

As you lie there, surrounded by the warmth and kindness of this virtual stranger, you feel something you haven’t felt all day: safe. The steady rhythm of Charles’ heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of his chest lull you into a state of calm.

Your eyelids grow heavy once more, and this time, you don’t fight it. As you drift off to sleep, still wrapped in Charles’ arms and using his shirt as a makeshift tissue, your last coherent thought is a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be better.

***

The first rays of sunlight filter through the unfamiliar curtains, gently rousing you from your slumber. For a blissful moment, you’re disoriented, unaware of where you are or why your head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. Then, like a tidal wave, the memories of yesterday crash over you, bringing with them a fresh wave of pain and embarrassment.

You groan, burying your face in the pillow. How did you end up here? Slowly, fragments of the night before come back to you — a kind stranger, an offer of shelter, crying yourself to sleep on the stranger’s couch.

Charles.

His name was Charles.

The smell of coffee and something deliciously savory wafts through the air, making your stomach growl despite the lingering nausea. Reluctantly, you drag yourself out of bed, wincing at your reflection in the mirror. Your hair is a tangled mess, mascara smudged under your eyes, and you’re wearing clothes that are decidedly not yours.

Taking a deep breath, you steel yourself to face your host. You pad quietly down the hallway, following the sounds of movement in the kitchen. As you round the corner, you see Charles standing at the stove, his back to you as he hums softly to himself.

You clear your throat softly. “Um, good morning.”

Charles turns, a warm smile lighting up his face. “Good morning! How are you feeling?”

You grimace, running a hand through your tangled hair. “Like I’ve been hit by a truck. Emotionally and physically.”

He chuckles sympathetically. “I bet. Here, sit down. Coffee?”

You nod gratefully, sinking into a chair at the small kitchen table. “Yes, please. And maybe some painkillers if you have them?”

“Coming right up,” Charles says, placing a steaming mug in front of you before rummaging in a drawer for the pills.

As you sip the coffee, relishing the warmth spreading through your body, Charles returns to the stove. “I hope you like omelets. I wasn’t sure what you’d be up for, but I figured eggs are usually a safe bet.”

“Omelets sound perfect,” you say, your stomach rumbling in agreement. “Thank you. For everything. I ... I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t found me last night.”

He waves off your thanks, sliding a plate in front of you. “No need to thank me. I’m just glad I could help.”

As Charles settles into the chair across from you with his own plate, a comfortable silence falls between you. You pick at your food, your appetite warring with the knot of anxiety in your stomach.

Finally, Charles breaks the silence. “So ... seems like yesterday is quite a story.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “A very long one.”

Charles’ green eyes meet yours, filled with gentle curiosity. “Care to share?”

You hesitate, pushing your food around your plate. Part of you wants to keep it all locked away, to pretend yesterday never happened. But another part of you is desperate to unburden yourself, to make sense of the whirlwind that turned your life upside down.

Taking a deep breath, you begin. “Well, yesterday was supposed to be my wedding day.”

Charles nods encouragingly. “I gathered as much from the dress. What happened?”

“I found out my fiancé — ex-fiancé now, I guess — has been cheating on me. Throughout our entire engagement.”

Charles winces. “Ouch. That’s ... I’m so sorry.”

You shrug, trying to appear nonchalant even as tears prick at your eyes. “Yeah, well. Apparently I’m great at picking them.”

“How did you find out?” Charles asks gently.

You laugh bitterly. “Oh, it was a real soap opera moment. His mother overheard him on the phone with the other woman, literally an hour before the ceremony. She told my mom, who told me, and ... well, you can imagine how that went down.”

Charles shakes his head, disbelief etched on his face. “That’s awful. What did you do?”

“I confronted him, of course. In front of all his groomsmen. It was ... not my finest moment. There was a lot of yelling, some crying, probably some mascara running. And then I just ... ran. In my wedding dress. Like some cliché runaway bride, except I had nowhere to run to.”

You pause, taking a sip of coffee to steady yourself. Charles remains silent, his face a mix of sympathy and something else — anger, maybe?

“I ended up in some bar I’d never been to before,” you continue. “Drank way too much, way too fast. And then I was stumbling around on the street, and ... well, you know the rest.”

Charles nods slowly, processing your story. “Wow. That’s ... that’s a hell of a day.��

You snort. “You can say that again.”

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” Charles says, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand gently. “No one deserves that kind of betrayal.”

His touch is warm and comforting, and you find yourself fighting back tears again. “Thanks. I just ... I feel so stupid. How did I not see it? We were together for five years. We were supposed to spend our lives together. And all this time ...”

“Hey,” Charles interrupts softly. “You’re not stupid. He’s the one who made the choice to betray your trust. That’s on him, not you.”

You nod, not entirely convinced but appreciating his words nonetheless. “I guess. It’s just ... where do I go from here? We had a whole life planned out. A home, careers, maybe kids someday. And now it’s all just ... gone.”

Charles is quiet for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. “Maybe this is an opportunity.”

You look at him skeptically. “An opportunity? To what, have my heart ripped out and stomped on?”

He chuckles softly. “No, no. I mean ... look, I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but you’ve been given a chance to rewrite your story. To figure out what you really want, without having to consider someone else’s dreams or expectations.”

His words give you pause. You’d been so focused on what you’d lost, you hadn’t even considered what you might gain. “I ... I guess I never thought of it that way.”

“It’s okay if you’re not ready to see it as a positive yet,” Charles assures you. “Healing takes time. But I promise you, this isn’t the end of your story. It’s just the beginning of a new chapter.”

You manage a small smile, the first genuine one since yesterday morning. “Where did you learn to be so wise, huh?”

Charles grins, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Oh, you know. I moonlight as a philosopher when I’m not rescuing damsels in distress from the streets.”

You laugh, surprised by how good it feels. “My hero,” you tease.

As your laughter fades, a comfortable silence settles between you. You find yourself studying Charles, really looking at him for the first time. He’s handsome, in a boyish sort of way, with kind eyes and an easy smile. There’s something familiar about him, but you can’t quite place it.

“So,” you say, breaking the silence. “I’ve shared my tragic backstory. What about you? What’s your deal, Charles?”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, you know. Just your average guy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Average guys don’t usually invite strange women in wedding dresses to stay the night. Unless ... oh God, you’re not married, are you? Did I just cause some poor woman to think her husband was cheating?”

Charles laughs, holding up his hands. “No, no, nothing like that. I’m very much single. And I promise, inviting strange women in wedding dresses to stay over is not a regular occurrence for me.”

“So what do you do, then? When you’re not playing knight in shining armor?”

A flicker of something crosses Charles’ face before he answers. “I’m ... in sports. Racing, actually.”

You nod, impressed. “Racing? Like, cars?”

“Formula 1,” he clarifies. “I’m a driver.”

Suddenly, it clicks. The familiarity, the nagging feeling that you’ve seen him before. Your eyes widen. “Oh my God. You’re Charles Leclerc. The Ferrari driver.”

He grins sheepishly. “Guilty as charged.”

You bury your face in your hands, mortified. “Oh God. Oh God. I cried all over a world-famous race car driver. I used your shirt as a tissue. This is ... this is so embarrassing.”

Charles reaches across the table, gently pulling your hands away from your face. “Hey, none of that. I’m just a person, like anyone else. And I meant what I said — I’m glad I could help.”

You peek at him through your fingers. “You’re sure? Because I’m pretty sure I got mascara and snot all over your probably very expensive shirt.”

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “I promise, it’s fine. The shirt will survive. I’m more concerned about you. How are you feeling now?”

You consider the question, taking stock of your emotional state. “Honestly? Still pretty awful. But ... maybe a little less awful than before. Thank you. Really. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t found me last night.”

Charles smiles softly. “I’m just glad I was in the right place at the right time. And hey, look at it this way — you’ve got a pretty unique story to tell now.”

You groan, but can’t help laughing. “Oh yeah, because drunk and crying in a wedding dress is exactly how I wanted to meet one of the best F1 drivers in the world.”

“One of the best?” Charles teases, clutching his chest in mock offense. “I’ll have you know I’m clearly the best.”

You roll your eyes, grinning despite yourself. “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t realize I was in the presence of such greatness.”

As you banter back and forth, you feel something shift inside you. The pain is still there, raw and aching, but it’s no longer all-consuming. For the first time since yesterday, you feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll be okay after all.

***

The roar of engines fills the air as you make your way through the bustling paddock, the excitement of race day palpable. You can’t help but smile, still amazed at how much your life has changed in the past few years. From runaway bride to Formula 1 WAG — it’s a plot twist you never saw coming.

“Mon cœur!” A familiar voice calls out. You turn to see Charles jogging towards you, his race suit tied around his waist. He grins as he reaches you, pulling you into a quick embrace.

“Hey, you,” you say, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

Charles shrugs, his eyes twinkling. “I’ve got time. Besides, I needed my good luck charm.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “Flatterer. Go on, get back to work. I’ll be cheering you on from the garage.”

He steals one more kiss before heading back towards his team, leaving you shaking your head with a smile. As you turn to make your way to the Ferrari motorhome, a familiar face in the crowd stops you dead in your tracks.

Your ex-fiancé is standing just a few feet away, gawking at you with wide eyes. For a moment, you’re frozen, unsure how to react. It’s been years since you’ve seen him, since that disastrous almost-wedding day.

Before you can decide whether to acknowledge him or pretend you haven’t seen him, James is moving towards you, a strange mix of emotions playing across his face.

“Y/N?” He says, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Is that really you?”

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “Hello, James.”

He looks you up and down, taking in your sleek outfit and the VIP pass hanging around your neck. “Wow. You look ... different. What are you doing here?”

“I’m here with my partner,” you say simply, not feeling the need to elaborate.

James’ brow furrows. “Your partner? You mean like ... a business partner?”

You can’t help but laugh. “No, James. My partner. As in, the person I’m in a relationship with.”

His eyes widen comically. “You’re dating someone involved in Formula 1? Who?”

Before you can answer, a small group of fans approaches, their eyes lighting up as they spot you.

“Excuse me,” one of them says excitedly. “You’re Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend, right? Could we please get a picture?”

You smile warmly at them. “Of course!”

As you pose for photos with the fans, exchanging a few friendship bracelets as well, you can see James out of the corner of your eye. He’s standing there, mouth agape, looking like he’s been hit over the head with a frying pan.

Once the fans move on, James practically pounces on you. “Charles Leclerc? You’re dating Charles Leclerc? How ... when ... what?”

You sigh, already tired of this conversation. “Yes, Charles and I have been together for a while now. Is there something else you needed?”

He shakes his head, still looking dazed. “I just ... I can’t believe it. How did this happen?”

“It’s a long story,” you say, not particularly wanting to rehash your past with him. “One I don’t really have time to get into right now.”

James seems to ignore your hint, his eyes narrowing. “Come on, Y/N. You can’t expect me to believe that you’re actually dating one of the best F1 drivers in the world. What’s really going on here?”

You feel a flash of anger at his dismissive tone. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, no offense,” James continues, oblivious to your growing irritation, “but last I knew, you couldn’t tell the difference between F1 and NASCAR. Now you’re supposedly dating a Ferrari driver? It doesn’t add up.”

You clench your fists, trying to keep your cool. “People change. They grow. They learn new things. Not that it’s any of your business.”

He scoffs. “Right. So I’m supposed to believe that in the few years since our ... since we last saw each other, you’ve not only become an F1 expert but also managed to snag one of the most eligible bachelors in the sport? Come on, Y/N. What’s the real story? Are you some kind of ... I don’t know, brand ambassador or something?”

Before you can respond, a warm hand settles on the small of your back. You look up to see Charles standing beside you, his expression a mix of concern and confusion.

“Everything okay here, mon amour?” He asks, his eyes flicking between you and James.

James’ jaw drops even further, if that’s possible. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.

You lean into Charles’ side, drawing strength from his presence. “Charles, this is James. My ex-fiancé. James, this is Charles. My boyfriend.”

Charles’ eyebrows shoot up in recognition, but he recovers quickly, extending a hand to James. “Nice to meet you,” he says politely, though there’s a hint of steel in his voice.

James just stares at the offered hand, then back at you, then at Charles again. “This ... this is a joke, right? Some kind of prank?”

Charles drops his hand, frowning. “I assure you, it’s not a joke. Y/N and I have been together for over two years now.”

James shakes his head vehemently. “No. No way. This doesn’t make any sense. Y/N, what are you playing at?”

You feel your patience snap. “I’m not playing at anything. Charles and I are together. We’re happy. I’m sorry if that’s difficult for you to comprehend, but it’s the truth.”

“But ... but how?” James sputters. “How did this even happen?”

Charles tightens his arm around you, a small smirk playing at his lips. “Well, if you must know, I found her wandering the streets in a wedding dress, crying her eyes out because her fiancé was a cheating bastard.”

James blanches, his face turning an interesting shade of purple. “That’s ... that’s not ... you can’t just ...”

“Can’t what?” You challenge, feeling emboldened by Charles’ support. “Can’t move on? Can’t find happiness with someone who actually respects me? Can’t build a life that doesn’t revolve around you?”

A small crowd has started to gather, attracted by the rising voices and the presence of Charles Leclerc. You can see people whispering, phones discreetly pointed in your direction.

James seems to notice the attention too, his eyes darting around nervously. “Look, Y/N, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here, but-”

“It’s not a game,” you interrupt, your voice firm. “This is my life. A life I’m very happy with, I might add. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Charles has a race to prepare for.”

You start to turn away, but James grabs your arm. “Wait, just ... just tell me the truth. Is this some kind of revenge? Did you set this all up to get back at me?”

Charles tenses beside you, his eyes flashing dangerously. “I suggest you remove your hand,” he says, his voice low and controlled.

James lets go as if burned, taking a step back. “I just ... I don’t understand. How could you … with him?”

You take a deep breath, deciding to end this once and for all. “James, listen carefully because I’m only going to say this once. What happened between us was years ago. I’ve moved on. I’ve built a life I love, with a man I love. Your inability to believe that says far more about you than it does about me.”

You turn to Charles, softening your voice. “Come on, love. You need to get back to the team.”

Charles nods, pressing a kiss to your temple before addressing James one last time. “It was ... interesting meeting you. Enjoy the race.”

As you walk away, leaving a stunned James in your wake, you can’t help but let out a small laugh. “Well, that was ... something.”

Charles chuckles, squeezing your hand. “You handled that beautifully, mon cœur. Though I have to admit, I was tempted to deck him when he grabbed you.”

You lean into him, smiling. “My hero. But I think leaving him standing there like a fish out of water was far more satisfying.”

As you approach the Ferrari garage, you pause, turning to face Charles. “Thank you,” you say softly. “For being there, for backing me up. For ... everything, really.”

Charles cups your face gently, his green eyes full of love. “Always. You know I’ve got your back, just like you’ve always had mine.”

You stretch up on your toes, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I love you, you know that?”

He grins, that boyish smile that never fails to make your heart skip a beat. “I love you too. Now, how about we go win a race, yeah?”

As you enter the garage hand in hand, the organized chaos of the team preparing for the race enveloping you, you can’t help but marvel at the twists and turns that led you here. From the lowest point of your life to the highest — all because a kind stranger couldn’t leave a crying bride on the street.

You squeeze Charles’ hand one more time before he heads off to his car. As you watch him go, you silently thank whatever twist of fate brought him into your life that night. The road hasn’t always been smooth, but you wouldn’t change a single moment of it.

After all, sometimes the best love stories start with a broken heart and end with a chequered flag.

[badathumanemotions]

Hello! I don't know if you're taking requests, but if you are I'm begging for an emily prentiss × female!reader with a dom/sub dynamic involving... Scissoring (I don't know if that's how you say it, but that's how I'm going to say it) after a difficult private case involving children (which is Emily's weak point) and I thought about breeding kinks, if possible (I think it's hot involving sapphic couples). Please?

The Quiet After

Emily Prentiss x femReader

MDNI Masterlist Category: Smut CW: Normal Criminal Minds Warnings, Case Involving Children, BAU Reader, Angst, Smut, Oral Sex, Tribidism, Scissoring, Strap On, Breeding Kink, Light Dom/Sub, Comfort. WC: 7,852 *Updated* Completely missed the first section while transferring it over, sorry about that. (Not Proof Read)

The case weighs heavily on Emily. It’s in her eyes—those tired, worn-out eyes you’ve come to know better than anyone else’s. She doesn’t let it show on the surface, but you can feel it. You know her. And this case, with the kids, is getting to her in a way that’s deeper than usual.

You watch her for a moment, standing at the board, her fingers tracing the photos of the missing children. The unsub believes he’s doing them a favour—taking them to a “better” place. It’s not hard to guess why it hits Emily so hard. There’s a part of her, a quiet, secret part, that wants to be a mother. She’s told you once, during one of those rare moments when she lets her guard down, when it’s just the two of you, and she’s soft, vulnerable in ways that few people get to see.

You’ve seen the subtle changes—the way her hands linger over the files of the kids, her shoulders tightening as the day stretches on. She’s struggling, but you’re here. You’re with her. And even when the case is consuming her, she finds ways to steal small moments with you, little gestures that recharge her.

A quiet kiss behind the SUV after the briefing. Her hand slipping into yours as you walk to the next scene. The brief press of her lips to your temple when she thinks no one’s looking. It’s in these moments that you can feel her ground herself again, as if your touch can remind her that she’s not alone in this.

The board in the conference room is covered with photos of the missing children, their faces staring back at you. There are seven so far, ranging in age from five to eleven. Beneath each photo are snapshots of their lives—school pictures, candid moments from birthday parties, photos scraped from social media. It’s a cruel juxtaposition against the grim reality of their current circumstances.

“The unsub is targeting children they perceive as neglected,” Spencer explains, standing near the map dotted with pins marking the locations of the abductions. “But their definition of neglect seems warped. The children’s backgrounds don’t show significant patterns of abuse or systemic failures.”

“It’s subjective,” Emily adds, her voice sharp and focused. “They’re acting on personal judgment, deciding these kids aren’t being cared for based on arbitrary criteria—like an out-of-context moment or assumption about the family dynamic.” Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, a shield against the emotions brimming beneath the surface.

Garcia clicks through slides on the projector, her voice uncharacteristically subdued. “This is Evan Marshall, eight years old. His mom works two jobs, so he’s often in the care of his older sister. She’s fifteen. CPS has never been involved. Teachers describe him as happy and well-adjusted.”

The photo shifts to a girl no older than twelve. “And this is Sophia Grant. Her dad is a single parent. No abuse on record, but the unsub might have seen him disciplining her in public. And then there’s Mia Lang, five years old. Her parents had a loud argument at a grocery store a week before she was taken. Someone might have seen that and made assumptions.”

“They think they’re saving these kids from a horrible life,” JJ says, shaking her head. “But in reality, they’re just ripping them away from their families.”

Spencer frowns, adding, “It’s likely that the unsub sees themselves as a redeemer, correcting what they perceive as societal failures. Each abduction reinforces their sense of righteousness. The more they take, the more justified they feel.”

A heavy silence falls over the room. The photos on the board feel suffocating. Seven children—snatched away under the guise of salvation, only to be murdered by someone who thinks they’re better off dead.

Emily’s gaze lingers on the images longer than the others. Her jaw tightens, and you can almost see the turmoil brewing beneath her composed exterior. This isn’t just another case for her. It’s personal in ways she hasn’t fully shared with anyone but you.

Later, during a quieter moment, you find her standing by the SUVs in the parking lot, her back to the building. Her fingers worry the strap of her holster, a nervous habit she doesn’t even realize she’s doing.

You approach slowly, your footsteps pulling her from her thoughts. She looks up, her expression softening slightly when her eyes meet yours.

“Hey,” you say, your voice gentle as you step closer.

She doesn’t speak immediately, but she doesn’t resist when you slide your hand into hers, offering her an anchor.

“I hate this case,” she finally admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not just the kids. It’s the way the unsub thinks they’re doing the right thing. That they’re justified.”

You nod, squeezing her hand lightly. “It’s awful. But we’ll find them, Emily. You’ll find them.”

Her jaw clenches, and for a moment, you think she’s going to argue, but then she exhales a shaky breath and nods. “I hope so,” she murmurs.

Her hand tightens around yours, grounding herself in your touch. It’s a stolen moment, brief but powerful, as she lets herself lean into you. The team doesn’t need to see this—the way she recharges herself in the quiet moments you share.

“You okay?” you ask softly, your free hand brushing a strand of hair from her face.

Her eyes meet yours, and though the exhaustion is clear, there’s gratitude there too. “I will be,” she says, her voice steadier now.

You stand there together for a little longer, the weight of the case momentarily lighter between you. It’s enough to remind her—and you—that she’s not in this alone.

The tension in the room was electric as the team pieced together the final parts of the unsub’s profile. Spencer’s rapid-fire monologue laid out the psychological motivations, each word building up a picture of the unsub.

“The unsub’s fixation stems from a personal history of perceived neglect,” he explained, his hands moving animatedly as he spoke. “They’re projecting their own experiences onto these children and making judgment calls based on fleeting observations. The perceived neglect—a single-parent household, a sibling as a caretaker—is triggering their need to intervene.”

“They’re likely observing the children over time,” JJ added. “The unsub is targeting families that seem chaotic or unconventional from the outside, but these are often normal, loving homes. They’re misinterpreting moments—like a parent raising their voice in public or an older sibling looking overwhelmed—as signs of neglect.”

Emily’s arms were crossed tightly, her jaw set in a way you recognized. She was focused, determined, and more emotionally invested than she’d ever admit in front of the team.

“What we’ve seen so far suggests they’re escalating,” JJ added, her voice heavy with concern. “They’ve gone from abducting children every few weeks to every few days. If we don’t move fast, there’s going to be another victim.”

“Garcia, do we have anything on their potential location?” Hotch’s voice cut through the discussion with its usual authority.

Garcia’s fingers flew across her keyboard, her eyes scanning through reams of property records, utility bills, and work schedules for any anomaly that might point to a suspect. “I’m narrowing down properties owned or rented by individuals with ties to these areas," she said, her voice tense but determined. "I’m looking for someone whose daily routine brings them into contact with children in these areas—a school bus driver, a delivery person, someone who works near parks or schools. Those interactions might be how they observed the kids." She glanced at the screen. "Cross-referencing every property associated with individuals fitting the profile within a fifty-mile radius of the abduction sites. Hang tight, my loves, I’ll have something soon."

Moments later, her screen lit up with a match. "Okay, I’ve got something. George Lyman, 38 years old, works as a postal carrier in the targeted areas. His route regularly takes him through neighbourhoods where each of the victims lived. He’s single, no criminal record, but… oh." Garcia paused, her tone shifting. "He has a history of child protective services reports from his own childhood. His parents were flagged multiple times for physical and emotional abuse, but every time George ran away, he was returned to them. There are records of repeated visits by social workers, but nothing was ever done to remove him from the home.”

Emily’s face darkened. “So he sees himself in these kids, believes he’s saving them.”

Hotch nodded. “That fits with the profile. What else do we have on him?”

“He rents a farmhouse just outside town,” Garcia continued. “It’s isolated and matches the description of the type of location we’ve been looking for. I’m sending you the address now.”

You caught Emily’s eye across the room. The exhaustion in her face was mirrored in your own, but beneath it, you saw the same resolve. You gave her a small nod, and she returned it—just a fraction, but it was enough to steady you both.

The drive to the farmhouse was tense. Emily sat beside you, her leg bouncing with restless energy. She’d barely spoken since the briefing, and you knew better than to press her. Instead, you let your pinky brush hers on the console between you, a silent reassurance. She glanced at you briefly, the corners of her mouth twitching in a ghost of a smile, before turning her focus back to the road ahead.

The farmhouse loomed in the distance, its silhouette stark against the darkening sky. The team split into pairs, surrounding the property. You were with Emily, your weapons drawn as you moved toward the back entrance.

“Ready?” you whispered.

She nodded, her jaw tightening. “Let’s do this.”

The door creaked open under Emily’s firm push, revealing a dimly lit interior that smelled of damp wood and decay. You swept the first room together, clearing it quickly before moving deeper into the house. Upstairs, muffled voices and a child’s cry sent a chill down your spine.

Emily held up a hand, signalling you to pause. She leaned toward you, her voice barely audible. “They’re up there. We need to be careful.”

You nodded, your heart hammering in your chest. Together, you ascended the stairs, each step deliberate and silent. At the top, you found yourselves in a long hallway, the sound of the child’s cries growing louder. Emily gestured to the farthest door, and you both moved toward it.

Hotch’s voice came through your comm. “We’ve cleared the lower level. The house is empty except for one suspect. Any sign of the child?”

Emily responded quietly, “We’re about to breach a room on the second floor. Stand by.”

You reached the door and exchanged a glance with her. This was it. Emily counted down with her fingers, and on three, you burst into the room together.

The room was small, its walls covered with old wallpaper curling at the edges. A man stood in the center, his grip tight on a terrified boy’s arm. The child, no older than eight, was trembling, his tear-streaked face pale with fear.

“FBI!” Emily shouted, her voice commanding. “Drop the weapon and let the boy go!”

The unsub’s eyes were wild, darting between you and Emily. He clutched a knife in his free hand, the blade trembling as much as his fingers. “You don’t understand,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m saving him.”

“Saving him from what?” you asked, keeping your voice calm. “He needs his family. Whatever you think you’re doing, this isn’t the way to help.”

The unsub shook his head violently. “No one cared about me! No one ever cared! They won’t care about him either!”

Emily took a slow, careful step forward, her gun still trained on the man. “George, listen to me. You’re scared, and you’re hurting, but this isn’t the answer. Look at him—he’s just a child. You can’t make him go through what you did.”

For a moment, something flickered in George’s eyes—hesitation, maybe even regret. His grip on the knife faltered, his hand trembling. But then, in an instant, he pulled the boy closer, the blade pressing against the child’s neck.

“Stay back!” George screamed, his voice breaking. “Don’t make me do this!”

Your heart raced as you saw the terror in the boy’s eyes. Emily’s voice remained steady, though you could hear the edge of desperation in it. “You don’t have to do this, George. Put the knife down, and we’ll talk. No one else has to get hurt.”

The standoff stretched into agonizing seconds, every muscle in your body coiled and ready to move. You caught Emily’s eye, and she gave the slightest nod—silent confirmation of the plan forming between you.

In a swift motion, Emily fired, her shot hitting George’s shoulder with pinpoint accuracy. The knife clattered to the floor as George cried out in pain, his grip on the boy loosening. You didn’t hesitate, lunging forward and pulling the child into your arms, shielding him as Emily rushed to subdue the unsub.

“It’s okay,” you whispered to the boy, your voice gentle as you held him close. “You’re safe now. We’ve got you.”

The boy clung to you, his small hands gripping your shirt as he sobbed uncontrollably. You crouched on the floor with him, your body positioned protectively between him and the rest of the room.

Emily secured George with practiced efficiency, her jaw tight as she snapped the handcuffs into place. She glanced over at you and the boy, her expression softening ever so slightly when she saw you murmuring reassurances to him.

The rest of the team arrived moments later, the tension in the room finally breaking as Hotch and Morgan took over. Emily walked over to you, crouching beside you and the boy.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice a stark contrast to the authority she’d wielded moments ago. “You’re safe now. Can you tell me your name?”

The boy hiccupped through his tears. “E-Evan,” he managed.

Emily smiled gently. “Evan, you’re so brave. We’re going to take you home, okay?”

He nodded, his grip on you loosening just enough for Emily to brush a comforting hand over his back.

As the team began to clear the scene and escort George out, you stayed with Evan, his small frame still trembling against yours. Emily stood, giving you a brief but meaningful look before stepping away to help the others.

You held Evan a little tighter, feeling the weight of his fear and relief as if it were your own. In that moment, nothing else mattered but making sure he felt safe.

The boy, Evan, was safely in the hands of the paramedics now, his sobs slowly subsiding as he clung to one of the responders. The team had the unsub secured, and the farmhouse was already being cleared. You felt a wave of exhaustion wash over you as you watched them lead Evan to safety, but it wasn’t over yet.

“Good job, everyone,” Hotch said, his voice steady, even in the aftermath. “Let’s wrap this up.”

The drive back home was quiet, the weight of the case still hanging heavy in the air. You sat beside Emily, your fingers brushing occasionally, the small touches speaking volumes. She was focused on the road, her jaw tense, but you could see the weariness in her eyes. You didn’t speak, neither of you needed to, but your proximity was a comfort—a grounding force amid the chaos of the case.

By the time you made it to your shared apartment, the evening had settled into a quiet calm, but the emotions of the day were far from gone. You both stepped out of the SUV, the cool night air feeling sharper now as it hit your skin. Without a word, you walked side by side into the building, up to your apartment, and inside.

The door clicked shut behind you, and just like that, the quiet of the apartment surrounded you both, cutting through the exhaustion that clung to your bones.

Emily didn’t say anything. She simply kicked off her shoes, then reached for you, pulling you into a tight embrace. Her arms were strong, but there was something softer about this moment—more raw than you’d seen in her before. It was as if she couldn’t bear to let go of you, even for a second.

Then she leaned in, her breath warm against your cheek. Her kiss took you by surprise—intimate and urgent. It was as if she was trying to erase the horror of the day with the press of her lips to yours. You didn’t resist. You couldn’t. Instead, you melted into it, letting the heat of her touch seep into your very soul.

Her arms wound around your waist, pulling you closer, until there wasn’t an inch of space between you. Your hands found their way to her hair, tangling in the soft strands as the kiss grew deeper, more desperate. It was a kiss filled with fear and anger, but also with a fierce love and a need to be connected—to be human.

Without breaking away, you both stumbled into the bedroom. The door clicked shut, cutting off the outside world, leaving just the two of you. You didn’t bother with the lights, the moon casting enough of a glow through the windows to navigate the room. Her hands were everywhere—on your neck, your back, sliding down to your ass—and you could feel the urgency in every touch, as if she was trying to claim you as her own.

Emily’s strength was surprising as she hoisted you onto the bed. You felt your breath hitch as she looked down at you, a wild hunger burning in her gaze. You could see the need etched on her features, the same need echoing in your own chest. It was raw, animalistic, and you craved it like a drug.

Her hands moved to the buttons of your shirt, deftly undoing them one by one. Each button released cool air against your skin, causing goosebumps to break out. She took her time, kissing each inch of exposed flesh as if she were worshipping it, her lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. The fabric parted to reveal your bra, and she took a moment to simply look at you, her eyes darkening with desire.

Emily’s fingertips danced along the lace, tracing the edge of your bra before gently pushing the fabric up to reveal your breasts. She took one nipple into her mouth, her tongue swirling around it in a slow, tantalizing dance that had you arching off the bed. The sensation was exquisite, and you couldn’t help but moan, your hands fisting in the sheets. Her other hand found its way to your waistband, and she began to unbuckle your belt with an agonizing slowness that made you want to scream in frustration.

Her kisses travelled down your torso, each one more urgent than the last. She kissed your stomach, her breath tickling the sensitive skin, and you felt your abs clench in anticipation. As she reached the button of your pants, she paused, her eyes meeting yours. You nodded, giving her the silent go-ahead, your body aching for her touch.

Your pants fell away, revealing the simple cotton panties that were already damp with need. Emily’s gaze was intense, her pupils dilated with desire. Her hand reached out, tracing the waistband of your underwear with the back of her fingers before she hooked them and slowly began to pull them down.

Her eyes were focused as the fabric slid over your hips, exposing the wetness that had gathered between your legs. You watched her face, the hunger in her expression unmistakable. It sent a thrill through you, a heady mix of desire and power, knowing you could do this to her.

Emily’s fingertips brushed over your inner thighs, sending shivers of anticipation through your body. You spread your legs wider, silently begging for her touch. She didn’t make you wait long. With a soft, almost reverent sigh, she reached down and parted your folds with the tips of her fingers. You gasped as she touched you, the sensation of her skin against yours sending heat through your core.

Her touch was gentle at first—exploratory. She traced the length of your slit, her fingertips slipping through your slickness and circling your clit with maddening precision. Your hips rocked upward, seeking more pressure, but she took her time, her eyes studying your reactions. Each touch was calculated, a silent exploration of what you liked, what you needed.

Then, her fingers entered you, sliding in smoothly. You bit your lip to stifle a moan as she began to move, setting a slow, deliberate pace that had you panting. Her thumb found your clit, stroking it in time with the movement of her fingers. It was a sweet agony, the anticipation of what was to come building with every second that passed.

She brought her mouth to your pussy, her tongue swiping over your clit with a gentle touch that had you trembling. She took her time, savouring every part of you, and when she finally closed her lips around the sensitive bud, you couldn’t hold back the gasp.

Her suckling grew more intense, each pull sending shockwaves through your body. Her teeth grazed you gently, not quite biting, but adding an edge to the pleasure that had you digging your nails into the bedspread. Emily’s hand gripped your thigh, holding you in place as she explored your depths, her fingers moving in tandem with her mouth.

As the tension grew, you felt your body begin to quiver. You reached down to stroke her hair, needing to feel connected to her in every way possible. She took your cue, increasing her pace, her tongue flicking against your clit with a rhythm that had your toes curling. Your breathing grew ragged, your moans echoing through the room.

Emily’s own need was palpable. You could see it in the way her hips began to rock back and forth, grinding her core against the edge of the bed. She was so focused on bringing you pleasure that she forgot about herself. But you weren’t going to let that happen.

With trembling hands, you reached down and pulled Emily up onto the bed. Her body was a warm, solid weight against you. You both needed this—needed to feel each other, needed to be close.

You began to kiss her again, but this time, you were the one in charge. Your hands moved to her shirt, slipping it off her shoulders and down her arms, revealing her bare skin to the cool air. Her bra followed, and you took a moment to just look at her—her perfect breasts, the rosy tips of her nipples standing at attention.

Your tongue darted out, tracing the outline of one erect peak before closing your mouth around it. Emily gasped, her head falling back, and you took advantage, sucking gently as you teased the sensitive flesh. You felt her hands in your hair, her nails digging into your scalp as she pulled you closer, her hips bucking against you.

Your hands moved to her breasts, cupping the soft mounds before squeezing them firmly. Your thumbs flicked over the tightened buds, eliciting whimpers that only spurred you on. You could feel her nipples pebbled against your palms, the sensation sending jolts of desire straight to your own core. Emily’s breath grew shallower, her body arching towards you as you played her like an instrument.

With a sudden, urgent need to feel all of her, you slid your hand down her stomach, over the waistband of her pants. Your fingers worked the button and zipper with surprising dexterity, given how much your own hands were shaking. You pushed the fabric down, her underwear following, revealing her bare sex.

Emily’s thighs parted slightly, an unspoken invitation that you couldn’t resist. You gripped her thighs firmly, spreading her wider as you leaned in to taste her. Your tongue darted out, lapping up the wetness that had pooled at her entrance.

Her hips jerked in response, a soft whine escaping her as you found her clit, swollen and begging for attention. You took it into your mouth, sucking gently before swirling your tongue around it, feeling it pulse against you. Her legs quivered around your head, and you knew you had her exactly where you wanted her.

Your fingers slid into her, curling slightly to hit that spot inside that always made her moan. The sound was music to your ears, a symphony of need and desire that had you pressing harder, moving faster. Emily’s breath was coming in short gasps now, her body tightening with every stroke.

The two of you were a captivating mess—half-clothed and carelessly undone, tangled together on the bed in a chaotic, feverish embrace, completely consumed by desire. Emily’s eyes never left yours as you pleasured her, her gaze a blend of passion and something deeper—gratitude, perhaps, for this brief reprieve from the horrors of the case.

Her hips rolled against your mouth, and you knew she was close. You doubled your efforts, desperate to make her cum, to show her that amidst the chaos, she was cherished, loved. You added a second finger, curling them inside her in a come-hither motion that had her back bowing off the bed.

Emily’s breath grew ragged, her eyes squeezed shut as she whispered your name. You could feel her body tighten around your fingers, her muscles clenching as the first waves of her orgasm began to crash over her. You didn’t let up, your mouth working her clit, your other hand sliding up to pinch her nipple, twisting just enough to send sparks of painful pleasure shooting through her.

“Cum for me, Em,” you murmured against her folds, the vibration of your voice sending another tremor through her body. “Let go, baby.”

Emily’s eyes snapped open, meeting yours, and you could see the need there, the desperation in her gaze. You didn’t stop your relentless rhythm, didn’t ease up on her clit. You needed her to release, to feel the shattering pleasure that you knew was just out of reach.

Then, you began to hum—a low, steady vibration that resonated against her sensitive flesh. It was all it took. Her body went rigid, and then she was cumming, her orgasm ripping through her like a storm. Her cries filled the room, her hips jerking wildly against your face as you held her through it, her muscles pulsing around your fingers.

It was a beautiful sight—Emily’s release, raw and unbridled. You felt a sense of accomplishment, a fierce satisfaction at being the one to give it to her. But even as the first orgasm subsided, you didn’t stop. You knew her body, knew that with the right touches, you could coax more from her.

Your tongue remained on her clit, flicking gently through the aftershocks. Emily’s hips rolled, and you knew she was trying to pull away, to catch her breath, but you held her firm, keeping the pressure steady. It didn’t take much—just a few more strokes before she was gasping again, her body responding to your relentless pursuit of her pleasure.

Her second orgasm hit her like a surprise attack, stealing the breath from her lungs. She bucked against you, her pussy fluttering around your fingers. You groaned against her, the vibration of your voice sending another jolt through her.

Emily’s hands were in your hair now, her nails scraping at your scalp, holding you in place. You felt the tension in her thighs as she rode the waves of pleasure, her breath coming in panting gasps. You didn’t let up, your tongue and fingers working in tandem to milk every last drop of ecstasy from her trembling body.

As the second orgasm began to subside, you slowly pulled back, kissing your way up her body. You could feel her pulse beneath your lips, her chest heaving with each ragged breath. You looked into her eyes, searching for any sign of discomfort, but all you saw was a desperate hunger that mirrored your own.

Without a word, she rolled you over, her body straddling yours. Her hands found your face, pulling it closer until your mouths collided in a kiss that was as fiery as it was tender. She kissed you as if she were trying to consume you, her tongue delving into your mouth with an urgency that was almost desperate.

Emily’s hips began to move, grinding into yours with a rhythm that was both seductive and demanding. You could feel the heat of her core against yours, the wetness of her desire coating your skin. Your own need grew, your body responding instinctively to the pressure of hers.

Without breaking the kiss, you shifted, aligning your bodies so that your clits met. The sensation was electric, sending bolts of pleasure through your core. You moaned into her mouth, your legs locking together as you began to rock back and forth.

The wet sound of skin against skin grew louder, punctuating the air with each movement. Your hips rolled together in a sensual dance, the friction building between you. The pressure was exquisite, the feeling of her body against yours setting off sparks that threatened to ignite a wildfire.

You wrapped your arms around her, your hands finding purchase on her toned back as she ground into you. Your own hips met hers thrust for thrust, each movement bringing you closer to the edge. The scent of your combined arousal filled the room, a musky perfume that was intoxicating.

Her hips picked up speed, the friction between you growing more intense. You could feel the slickness of your desire as it coated your thighs, a testament to how badly you needed this release. Emily’s breath was hot against your neck, her teeth grazing your skin as she nipped and kissed her way down to your collarbone.

You both were so wet, the sound of your bodies sliding against each other filled the room. Your clits swollen and sensitive, the constant pressure sending waves of pleasure through your bodies. You wrapped your arms around her, pulling her closer, the heat of her breasts pressing into yours.

Emily’s hands slid down to your ass, gripping you firmly as she ground her hips into yours. The sensation was overwhelming, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through your body with every movement. Your own hips matched hers, the rhythm becoming more frenzied as you both chased the peak of your climax.

“You’re so wet for me, sweet girl,” she murmured against your neck, her voice a low growl of approval. The words sent a shiver of submission that you had desperately craved. You arched into her touch, your body begging for more.

Emily’s kiss grew more demanding, her tongue delving into your mouth as if she could taste your need. You could feel the tremble in her own body, the aftershocks of her recent orgasm still resonating through her. But she wasn’t done with you yet.

With a sudden shift, she pulled away, her eyes dark with intent. “Be a good girl and make me cum one more time,” she breathed, the words sending a new wave of lust through you. You nodded, eager to give her what she wanted, eager to feel her come apart in your arms again.

“I plan on getting my strap out and breeding you tonight, sweetheart,” Emily whispered in your ear, the promise of dominance in her voice sending a thrill through you. Your eyes widened at her words, the excitement of the turn in your intimate moment making your heart race.

With a sudden surge of need, your hips bucked against hers, your body desperately seeking the release that was just out of reach. Emily’s eyes lit up with approval, her grip on you tightening as she held you in place. “Looks like you want it as badly as I do,” she said with a smirk, her voice low and husky with desire.

You nodded, unable to form coherent words as you felt the pressure building again. Emily’s own hips began to rock, her movements more deliberate and forceful as she matched your rhythm. The feeling of her clit grinding against yours was heavenly, sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body. You could feel the heat from her core, the wetness of her desire, and it only made you want more.

The sound of her moans grew louder, filling the room. They were sweet and needy, urging you to give her what she craved. You responded in kind, your own sounds of pleasure mingling with hers. Each gasp, each whimper was a symphony of desire that spurred you onward.

Her hips rocked faster, the slickness of your arousal making it easier for her to glide against you. You could feel the tension coil tight in your stomach, your legs trembling with the effort to keep up. Your body was a live wire, ready to snap at any moment.

Emily’s moans grew louder, the sound of her pleasure pushing you closer and closer to your own release. Your own breath came in pants and gasps, your nails digging into the flesh of her back as you held on for dear life. You felt her get wetter, her movements growing more erratic as she approached climax.

“Cum for me, Emily, please,” you begged, the words spilling from your mouth like a prayer. The need to hear her fall apart, to feel her body convulse with pleasure was overwhelming. She threw her head back, her eyes squeezed shut, and you knew she was close.

With a few hard, desperate thrusts, you pushed against her, the friction between your bodies reaching a fever pitch. Emily’s hips stuttered, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. And then, she was there—her body tightening against yours, her cries filling the room as she shuddered with release.

The moment she came, you felt it—a rush of wetness that soaked the sheets beneath you. You couldn’t help but moan at the sensation, your own climax just a breath away. Emily’s eyes snapped open, and she stared down at you with a fierce hunger.

Then, she broke away, reaching for the bedside drawer. You watched as she pulled out a harness and a silicone dildo. The sight of it sent a thrill through you, a mix of excitement and trepidation. She looked into your eyes, her own alight with something primal.

“I’m going to fuck a baby into you,” Emily growls. It was a dark promise, a fantasy that sent a shiver down your spine. The words alone were enough to make your pussy throb with anticipation.

The harness was strapped around her hips, the dildo jutting out like an extension of her. She leaned over you, the tip brushing against your wetness, and you felt your body respond instinctively, your hips rising to meet it.

Emily took hold of your hips, her grip firm and commanding. You watched as she positioned the toy at your entrance. Then, with a single, powerful thrust, she plunged into your wet heat.

You cried out in pleasure, the feeling of fullness overwhelming you as she claimed you. Your eyes squeezed shut, and you couldn’t help but let your head fall back into the pillow, your body arching up to meet her. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated by your gasps and her growls of effort.

Emily’s eyes bore into yours, the intensity of her gaze making your heart race. “You’re mine,” she murmured, her voice low and possessive. “You’re going to carry my baby.”

The words hung in the air, coloured with desire and dominance. It was a heady mix, and you found yourself nodding, eager to submit to her every whim. The thought of being filled by her, of carrying a piece of her inside you, was intoxicating.

“Yes, Em,” you babbled out, your voice trembling with need. “I want it—please, take me, make me yours. I want to be filled with you, to carry your baby. Make me feel it, all of it. Don’t stop.”

Emily’s eyes blazed with desire, her pupils blown out. She leaned down, her breasts brushing against yours, and whispered, “You’re going to be so full, my love. Everyone will know you’re mine, that you’re carrying my child.”

With that, she began to move in earnest, setting a steady pace that had you whimpering. Each thrust filled you completely, the girth of the toy stretching your walls and hitting that spot inside that made your toes curl. Your hands clutched at her shoulders, your nails digging in as you tried to keep up with the sensations that were crashing over you like waves.

Her hips moved in a relentless rhythm, the dildo sliding in and out of you with ease. The room was filled with the sounds of your muffled cries and the slick sound of her movements. You could feel yourself building, your body responding to the eroticism of her words and actions.

Emily lifted one of your legs, changing the angle and hitting you deeper, harder. The sudden shift in sensation had you crying out, your hand flying to cover your mouth to keep the noise from escaping. Your eyes watered as she stared down at you, her expression one of pure determination.

Then, she grabbed your wrist, her grip surprisingly firm, and pulled your hand away from your mouth. "Don't you dare stifle those pretty little sounds," she demanded, a dark smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"I want the neighbours to hear how good I’m making you feel," Emily growled, the feral sound sending a shiver down your spine. She pulled out almost all the way before slamming back into you, the force of her thrust making the bed frame shake. Your moan was loud, echoing through the apartment, and you felt a thrill knowing that anyone close by could hear the unmistakable sounds of your passion.

Her hips picked up speed, the slap of her thighs against yours growing louder. Each thrust sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, and you found yourself letting go, moaning louder and louder, the sounds bouncing off the walls.

Emily’s grip on your hips tightened as she pulled you down onto her silicone cock, the friction building between your bodies. She was relentless, her movements powerful and possessive. You could feel yourself getting wetter, the sound of your slickness mingling with your cries of pleasure.

Her other hand found its way to your throat, not squeezing but rather holding you in place as she claimed you. The dominance was intoxicating, and you found yourself leaning into it, your body begging for more.

As Emily’s strokes grew more intense, so did her words, whispered into your ear like dark promises. "You’re going to carry my baby," she repeated, her voice a mix of a command and a desperate plea. "You’re going to be so full of me, so ripe with life."

The thought sent you spiralling, your body responding in kind. You felt your orgasm building, the pressure in your core tightening with each thrust. "Yes, Emily," you moaned, your voice breaking. "I want it—want to be filled with you, to carry your baby."

Her eyes lit up with triumph at your words, her movements growing even more frenzied. She leaned down, her teeth grazing your neck as she whispered, "You're going to cum for me, aren't you?" It was a question, but there was no doubt in her tone.

You nodded, unable to form words as the pleasure mounted, threatening to overwhelm you. Emily's grip on your throat tightened slightly, a silent command to look at her as she took you over the edge. Your eyes widened as your climax approached your body tightening around the silicone cock.

"Emily, please," you managed to choke out, the desperation in your voice clear. "I need to feel you cum in me."

Her eyes darkened at the words, and she leaned in closer, her breath hot against your skin. "You want it that badly?" she whispered, her hips grinding into you.

You could only nod, the anticipation of her release almost too much to bear. Emily’s eyes searched yours, a silent question before she leaned down and whispered, "You’re going to feel every drop of me filling you up, baby. You’re going to be so full."

Her words sent you over the edge. Your orgasm was intense, your vision swimming with stars as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. You could feel Emily’s own excitement in her tightened grip, her hips moving faster as she watched you come apart beneath her. It was as if your pleasure fuelled hers, her thrusts becoming more urgent, more demanding.

As your climax subsided, she leaned in to kiss you, her breath ragged and her eyes bright with desire. But she didn’t stop moving, the toy still buried deep inside you. The feeling of fullness remained, a delicious reminder of your shared fantasy.

Emily’s kisses grew more tender, her movements slowing to a gentle rocking that kept the pleasure simmering without letting it boil over again. Each thrust was deliberate, drawing out every sensation, making you feel cherished and owned. It was a tender domination that made you melt into the mattress beneath her.

With surprising grace, she shifted your positions so that you were both laying on your sides, the silicone cock still buried deep within you. Your legs tangled together, her hand still resting on your throat, but now with a gentle, soothing pressure that was a contrast to the intensity of moments ago. Her thumb brushed your jawline, turning your face towards her, her eyes searching yours.

Then, she leaned in and captured your lips in a slow, sensual kiss. It was a kiss filled with everything unsaid, everything felt but not voiced. Her tongue danced with yours, a dance that was both sweet and demanding.

The kiss lingered, slower now but just as intense, a way to ground yourselves after the chaos of the case. Emily’s hands slid over your back, holding you close, and you let yourself sink into her, feeling the tension in your body finally ease. The weight of everything—the long hours, the children’s faces, the endless cycle of chasing darkness—seemed to lift with each shared breath.

When the high broke, it was like coming up for air after being submerged for too long. Both of you stilled, breathless and spent, bodies still tangled together as the energy between you shifted into something gentler, softer. Emily rested her head on your shoulder, her arms wrapped tightly around your waist, as though letting go might bring the world crashing back in. Her fingers moved absently along your skin, a grounding motion more for her than for you.

You turned slightly to look at her, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. Her dark eyes met yours, no longer guarded. There was a softness in her expression she rarely let anyone see—a vulnerability reserved for you alone. It was a part of Emily she kept locked away, buried beneath layers of composure and strength, but here, in the quiet of your shared sanctuary, she let you see it.

“I needed that,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried the weight of her exhaustion. “I needed you.”

Your heart ached at the honesty in her words, and you reached out, running a hand along her arm. “I’m here,” you said simply but with conviction. “I’m always here, Emily.”

She sighed, her body sinking further against yours as though your words had given her permission to let go. “It’s just… too much sometimes,” she murmured, her voice cracking slightly. “The cases, the victims, the choices we have to make. I keep it together out there, but when it’s over, it feels like it’s all going to crush me.”

Your chest tightened at her admission. Emily rarely talked about the toll the job took on her—not with anyone else, not even with the team. But with you, she let the walls come down, piece by piece. You cupped her face gently, guiding her to meet your gaze.

“It doesn’t have to crush you,” you said, your tone soft but firm. “You don’t have to carry it alone. Let me help. Lean on me, Emily. Please.”

Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought she might push back, but then her face crumpled just slightly, and she nodded. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she whispered, her voice unsteady. “You’re the only one I can… let this out with.”

“You won’t have to find out,” you assured her, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you.”

Emily’s hand settled on your hip, her thumb brushing lazily against your skin. The tension that had held her body rigid for hours finally began to ebb. She exhaled slowly, her breath warm against your neck, as though releasing the weight she had carried all day.

For a long while, neither of you spoke, the room quiet except for the sound of your breathing. The case, the emotions, the burden of it all—it wasn’t gone, but it felt lighter now. You could feel it in the way her body relaxed against yours, the way her hand stopped fidgeting and simply rested on you, the way her breathing evened out.

You pulled her closer, holding her as tightly as she held you, grounding her in the present. “You’re safe,” you murmured softly. “We’re safe. Just us.”

Emily lifted her head slightly, her dark eyes meeting yours again. The gratitude in her expression was so raw, so unguarded, it made your breath catch. She leaned in and kissed you again—not out of passion, but something deeper. It was a kiss of trust, of love, of everything she couldn’t quite put into words but poured into you all the same.

When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against yours, her fingers tangling with yours. “Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice steadier now.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you replied, brushing your thumb over her knuckles. “This is what we do for each other. I’m here, Emily. I always will be.”

She smiled faintly, the first genuine smile you’d seen from her since the case had started. “I’m holding you to that.”

“You should,” you teased lightly, earning a soft laugh from her. It was quiet, but it was real, and it was everything.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other. No barriers, no walls, just the safety of knowing you didn’t have to face the world alone. And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

[starsenha]

[16] FIRST IMPRESSSIONS - care to test that theory

synopsis: riki was a big fan of your group Devilish, but when he met you for the first time, he made a very bad first impression and now you hated him. rumors started to spark saying how you hated each other and to calm the rumors, the company decided to make you two hosts a variety show together for two months. wc: 5,7k tw: neck kisses, petnames, semi-public sex, bits of dry humping, dom!riki x sub!fem!reader, fingering, bigdick!riki, degradation, unprotected sex (please wrap it up), kinda down bad!riki, breast play, creampie, slight aftercare a/n: hi my loves, sorry i was mia for a few days i was visiting my family hihi, but I'm back! so I'll take back the update days for first impressions and teacher's pet!

"You're gripping like a fucking emotional support animal," Jongseob teased, looking back at you as your hand clutched his sleeve tightly. 

The after-party was at the same location you had filmed in the previous episode, and the familiarity with it all just eased your nerves. You could hear your heart pounding in your chest, why were you so nervous? 

"Relax. It's just a party." 

"It's not just a party," you hissed under your breath. "Everyone's here, watching, talking. What if I make a fool out of myself? Or I-" 

"Stare too much at your co-mc?" Jongseob, interrupted, a smirk tugging at his lips and his eyebrow raised. 

You shot him a glare. "Don't start." 

As you made your way further into the room, your eyes scanned the room. And then you saw him. Riki was standing near a group of crew members, a drink in one hand and laughing at something someone said. He was dressed casually, but he still looked so hot. But then again, when didn't he look hot, you thought. 

His eyes locked on yours, and you could see them light up. he waved at you, a genuine smile spreading across his face. He actually looked happy to see you, and somehow, it made everything worse. 

You froze for a split second, feeling your heartbeat kick into overdrive. "Oh no," you muttered, gripping Jongseob's sleeve tighter. "Abort mission. Distract me or something." 

He chuckled. "Distract you? From what? You've been caught, he's looking right at you." 

"Exactly!" you hissed. "That's the problem. Do something." 

Jongseob leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a playful whisper. “You want me to shield you from the guy you’ve been awkwardly falling for during rehearsals? Not my circus, not my monkeys.”

“Seobie,” you warned, your tone sharp, though your cheeks were flushing. “I will ruin your life.”

“Okay, okay,” Jongseob said, holding his hands in mock surrender. "Let's get snacks or something. I’ll save you from the big, bad, ridiculously good-looking dancer.”

The thing is, it's not you were avoiding riki per say. But thing had definitely been a bit awkward between you two since that choreo. But then again, that was maybe only in your head. And judging by the way he waved at you a few minutes earlier, you could tell this wasn't awkward for him at all. 

Since that chore, you became hyper-aware of how hot it was. And it was a problem. You couldn't date, especially not one of the most popular kpop idols at the moment. So you couldn't be attracted to him. But the more you tried to block it, the more you actually thought about him. And that was a problem. He was a problem. 

Jongseob led you to the food table, your head closed as you bantered. You leaned against each other casually, laughing at a joke he made. From across the room, Riki's gaze flickered to you. His smile faltered ever so slightly as he watched Jongseob rest his hand on your shoulder while you leaned against him. 

"Who's the guy Yn brought?" one of the crew members near Riki asked. 

"Oh, that's Jongseob from P1Harmony. He's her friend," Riki replied casually, though his jaw tightened slightly. "They're pretty close." 

"Looks like it," the guy said with a chuckle. 

Riki took a sip of his drink, his eyes narrowing as he watched Jongseob playfully nudge your arm. Too close, he thought.

As you and Jongseob were grabbing a plate of snacks, you felt a presence behinf you.  Turning slightly, you found Riki standing there, his usual confident grin in place. 

"Hey," he said, his voice smooth. Oh no. "Nice to see you here." 

You blinked, feeling your heart slip a beat. "Oh, hey. You too," you tried to sound calm, but your voice wavered slightly. 

Your best friend, who was still standing close just in case, raised an eyebrow at the awkward interaction. "Riki, right? He said, extending a hand. "I’m Jongseob." 

“I know,” Riki said, shaking his hand with a firm grip. “You’re Yn’s friend, right?”

“Best friend,” Jongseob corrected, his tone playful but pointed. “We go way back.”

“Ah,” Riki replied, his smile tightening. “Nice. You two seem… close.”

You stepped in quickly, sensing the shift in tone. “Yeah, we are,” you said, laughing nervously. “Jongseob’s like a brother to me.”

“Brother,” Riki echoed, glancing at the way Jongseob casually leaned against you. “Right.”

As the three of you stood there, the tension became palpable. Riki’s gaze lingered on how you and Jongseob interacted—the easy laughs, the subtle touches, the way you seemed completely at ease with him. Must be nice, he thought. 

“So,” Riki said, leaning in slightly, his voice smooth but carrying an edge, “are you enjoying the party?”

“It’s nice,” you replied, avoiding his eyes. “Everyone seems really happy with how the show’s going.”

“They should be,” Riki said, his gaze steady on you. “You’ve been doing amazing. Especially with… our duet.”

Your face flushed, and you quickly looked away, pretending to adjust your plate. “Thanks. You too.”

“Yeah, that duet was something else,” Jongseob chimed in, clearly amusing by the awkwardness. “The chemistry was… thick.”

“Seob,” you hissed, elbowing him.

Riki’s lips quirked into a smirk. “Chemistry? I guess that’s one way to put it.”

———————————————

You and Jongseob stood in a small circle of crew members, casually chatting about the show and laughing at a few light-hearted jokes. You definitely had been more relaxed because of your best friend by your side, and you ere hontesly glad he came with. 

“I’m gonna grab something to drink,” you said to Jongseob, stepping away from the conversation.

Before you could leave, Jongseob grabbed your wrist gently but firmly, giving you a pointed look. “Don’t drink too much,” he said in a low, mock-serious voice, his lips twitching into a smirk.

You rolled your eyes, pulling your hand free. “I’m not you, Seobie. I can handle myself.”

“Sure, sure,” he teased, crossing his arms as he watched you go. “Just remember, I’m your ride home.”

You waved him off, muttering, “Whatever,” as you made your way to the bar.

From across the room, Riki caught the entire interaction. His eyes narrowed as he watched Jongseob’s hand linger on your wrist and the way you smiled as you rolled your eyes. The ease and familiarity between you gnawed at him, and before he could think twice, his feet were already carrying him toward the bar.

You leaned against the counter, waiting for the bartender to hand you a sparkling water. You drummed your fingers on the surface, lost in thought, when Riki appeared beside you, startling you slightly.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “I’ve been waiting to catch you alone.”

Your fingers stilled, and you glanced at him briefly before looking away, focusing intently on you drink that was placed in front of you. “Oh? Why’s that, Riki?”

Riki tilted his head, his gaze burning into you. “Why do you think?”

You tensed, refusing to meet his eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe because you enjoy interrupting my peace.”

“Or,” Riki said, stepping closer, his tone dripping with something unreadable, “maybe because I wanted to talk about what’s been going on.”

You finally turned to him, your expression guarded. “What’s ‘going on’ exactly?” you asked, your voice cool.

Riki raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a slight smirk. “You know what I’m talking about. Don’t play dumb.”

Riki glanced back toward where Jongseob was still standing, laughing with the crew members. “You and Jongseob,” he said, his voice tinged with something darker. “You’re… close.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the statement. “Of course we’re close. He’s my best friend.”

Riki’s jaw tightened, his gaze flickering back to you. “Does he always grab your wrist like that?”

Your eyes widened slightly before narrowing. “Are you seriously jealous right now?”

Riki shrugged, but his smirk was gone. “Should I be?”

“Of Jongseob?” You scoffed, crossing your arms. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Riki admitted, leaning in just enough to make your pulse race. “But I’ve noticed you haven’t been able to look me in the eyes since our last rehearsal. What’s that about?”

Your breath hitched, and you quickly glanced around the room. “Keep your voice down,” you hissed. “People might hear you.”

“So?” Riki replied, his voice soft but insistent. “What are they gonna hear? That we almost kissed? That you’ve been avoiding me ever since?”

Your face flushed, and you grabbed your drink, muttering, “Not here.”

“Where then?” Riki asked, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and challenge. “Lead the way.”

You led Riki through the quieter part of the studio lot, your heels clicking against the pavement as you brought them to the shadowed space behind the trailers. The air was cooler here, and the muffled sounds of the party faded into the background.

“Okay,” you said sharply. “Talk. What do you want to say?”

Riki leaned casually against the trailer, his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed but his gaze piercing. “You’re the one who wanted to talk,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “But you’re the one who hasn’t been able to look me in the eyes since… well, you know.”

You flushed, though you quickly masked it with a scoff. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Riki raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, really? So the avoiding me in rehearsals, the sudden ‘I need to leave’ moments, and the way you’re currently pretending I’m not standing right in front of you—that’s all just coincidence?”

“I’m not avoiding you,” you said defensively, though your voice wavered slightly.

“Uh-huh,” Riki said, pushing off the wall and taking a step closer to you. His tone turned teasing, his smirk widening. “You’re blushing, Yn.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks despite your denial.

“You are,” Riki countered, leaning slightly closer. “Fuck, it's cute.”

Your stomach flipped at his words, but you quickly rolled your eyes to cover your reaction. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you muttered. “It’s just… warm out here.”

Riki chuckled softly, his voice dropping a note. “Sure it is.”

Trying to regain control of the situation, you straightened your posture and met his gaze head-on, though the effort made your heart race. “Whatever you’re thinking, Riki, just stop. That almost kiss? It didn’t mean anything. Our chemistry is just because we’re great dancers. That’s it.”

“Is that what you really think?” Riki asked, his tone amused but curious.

“It’s the truth,” you said firmly, though the words felt weak even to your own ears.

Riki smirked, taking another step closer until the space between you was almost nonexistent. “Care to test that little theory?”

You blinked, your breath hitching slightly as you instinctively stepped back, only to feel the cool surface of the trailer against your spine. “Riki,” you said, your voice wavering.

He tilted his head, his eyes glinting with mischief as he reached out to gently lift your chin with his fingers, forcing you to look at him. The heat of his touch sent a jolt through you, and your heart pounded in your chest.

“Admit it,” he said softly, his smirk widening. “There’s something here.”

“There’s nothing here,” you said quickly, though the slight tremble in your voice betrayed you. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Riki murmured, leaning in just enough that his breath brushed against your cheek. “Then why are you so nervous?”

“I’m not—” you started, but the words got caught in your throat as his lips quirked into a knowing smile. “What are you doing?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper as Riki leaned even closer, his face mere inches from yours.

“Just testing something,” he whispered, his voice low and husky, sending shivers down your spine.

Before you could respond, his lips brushed against yours softly, tentatively, as if giving you the chance to pull away. But you didn’t. Instead, you froze, your breath hitching as the heat pooled low in your belly, overwhelming every other thought.

Riki took the lack of resistance as permission, deepening the kiss slowly. His lips moved against yours, slow and sensual. He brought his other hand up to cup your cheek, tilting your face slightly as he pressed closer, his body heat radiating against her own.

Your hands, which had been pressed against the trailer behind you, hesitated before instinctively grabbing the front of his shirt for balance. Your mind screamed at you to stop, to push him away, but your body betrayed you, leaning into the kiss instead.

Riki pulled back slightly, just enough to whisper against your lips, “Still think it doesn’t mean anything?”

Your heart raced. His voice was soft and teasing, but the look in his eyes was anything but. You could feel the heat radiating from his body.

“Shut up,” you muttered, grabbing the collar of his shirt and yanking him down into a kiss.

This time, there was no hesitation. The kiss was rough, almost desperate, as if you had both been holding back for far too long. Riki froze for a split second, surprised before he let out a low growl and kissed you back with even more intensity.

His hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer as he pressed you firmly against the wall of the trailer. You gasped against his lips, your grip tightening on his shirt as his body pressed into yours.

Riki tilted your chin slightly to deepen the kiss, his thumb brushing against your jaw. “So fucking stubborn,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and breathless.

“Shut up,” you whispered again, though your voice trembled with emotion.

Riki smirked against your mouth, clearly enjoying your loss of composure. His hands slid to your hips, gripping them tightly as he kissed you harder, rougher. He nipped at your lower lip, earning a soft gasp from you that sent a jolt of satisfaction through him.

Without breaking the kiss, Riki reached behind you, fumbling for the handle of the trailer door. The door creaked open, and he guided you inside, his lips never leaving yours. You stumbled slightly, but Riki’s hands were firm on your waist, steadying you as you moved further into the dimly lit space.

The door swung shut behind you with a soft click, isolating you from the noise of the party outside. Your back hit the wall of the trailer, and Riki leaned into you, his hands braced on either side of your head. His lips traveled down to your jawline, pressing rough, open-mouthed kisses along your skin.

“Riki,” you whispered, your voice shaky but urgent, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“You’re driving me fucking crazy,” he muttered against your neck, his voice low and gravelly.

His hands slid down your sides, settling on your waist as he pulled you flush against him. You let out a soft whimper, your body responding instinctively to the way his hands gripped you, the way his lips moved against your skin. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling slightly, which only spurred him on. 

Without a word, Riki’s hands slid to your thighs. In one swift motion, he lifted you effortlessly and set you on the small table behind you. Your breath hitched as your back met the cool surface, contrasting sharply with the heat radiating between you.

“You’re so easy to handle,” Riki murmured against your lips, his voice low and teasing. “Like putty in my hands.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you tried to glare at him, but your resolve crumbled when his hands gripped your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the table. “Shut up,” you muttered, you voice breathless.

“Shut up?” Riki repeated with a smirk, pulling back just enough to look at you. His dark eyes glinted with a mix of amusement and desire. “Is that all the words you know now, princess?”

Your heart skipped a beat at the pet name, and you hated how much it affected you. “Don’t call me that,” you said weakly, your hands clutching at the front of his shirt.

“Why not?” he teased, his lips brushing yours as he spoke. “You look like you’re enjoying yourself. Aren’t you, baby?”

Your breath hitched again, and you felt a whine escape your throat before she could stop it. Riki stilled for a moment, his smirk growing into a full grin. “Oh,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “You’re needy, aren’t you?”

“Riki,” you said, your voice a mix of frustration and desire, as you tried to pull him back into another kiss.

But Riki was having none of it. He pulled back slightly, just enough to make you whine again, his hands still gripping your thighs firmly. “Say it,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Say you like it when I call you that.”

You bit your lip, your head spinning as you tried to regain some semblance of control. “I’m not—”

“You’re not what?” Riki interrupted, leaning in so his lips were just a breath away from yours. “Not enjoying this? Because you’re making it pretty obvious, princess.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and despite yourself, she let out a small, needy moan. His hands tightened on your thighs, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was rougher, more consuming than before. You melted against him, your fingers clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“You’re so cute when you’re like this,” Riki murmured against your lips, his tone dripping with amusement. “Like I can do whatever I want with you.”

“Riki,” you said again, your voice softer now, almost pleading.

“What is it, baby?” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear as he spoke. “Tell me what you want.”

Your face burned, your mind a haze of want and frustration. “Stop talking,” you muttered, pulling him back into another desperate kiss.

Riki chuckled against your lips, but he obliged, letting his actions speak louder than words. His hands slid up your sides, his touch firm yet teasing as if he was determined to make you fall apart completely. You felt yourself giving in entirely, your earlier resolve crumbling.

Riki pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours as you both caught your breath. “Admit it,” he said, his voice low and teasing. "Just tell me you want me as much as I want you right now."

You didn’t respond, but the way your fingers tightened in his shirt and the way your breath hitched told him everything he needed to know.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your lips, and the words sent another shiver down her spine.

You were so overwhelmed. You clung to him as if you needed that to stay grounded. Your head tilted back slightly when his lips trailed down to your jawline once again. You moaned, and he smirked against your skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat. You shivered, your grip tightening on him as his teeth grazed your skin. He bit down lightly, enough to make you gasp but not enough to leave a mark.

“Careful,” you managed to say, though your voice was breathless and shaky. “Don’t leave—”

“I know,” Riki interrupted, his lips brushing against the spot he’d just bitten. “Wouldn’t want anyone else knowing what I’ve done to you.” He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, his smirk widening as he saw your flushed face and half-lidded eyes. “Though, honestly? I wouldn’t mind.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, trying to glare at him, but it lacked any real conviction.

Riki chuckled, his hands sliding to her waist as he leaned closer again. “You keep saying that, but I don’t think you actually want me to.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat as his lips found your neck again, this time pressing a kiss just beneath your ear. Your head tilted instinctively, and you felt you body betray you, leaning into his touch.

“That’s what I thought,” Riki murmured against your skin. “You like this too much to want me to stop.”

“You’re so full of yourself,” You managed to say, though your voice trembled.

“Maybe,” he replied, his tone playful but tinged with something darker. “But I’m not wrong, am I?” His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer to the edge of the table, flush against him. “Look at you. You’re putty in my hands.”

Your face burned at his words, and you tried to find something—anything—to say that would give you back even a shred of control.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he said, his voice softer now, though the teasing lilt remained. “Especially like this.”

Your breath hitched, and you hated how much your body reacted to his words. “Stop saying things like that,” you said weakly, turning your face away to avoid his gaze.

Riki gently cupped your chin, tilting your face back toward him. “Why?” he asked, his tone light but challenging. “Does it make you nervous? Or…” He leaned in slightly, his lips just a breath away from yours. “Do you like it too much, perhaps?”

You swallowed hard, your heart racing as you struggled to keep your composure. “I hate you.”

“Sure,” Riki said, his smirk widening. “Keep telling yourself that, even if we both know it's not true.”

You didn’t respond—you couldn’t. Your mind was a whirlwind of emotions, and the way his hands gripped your waist and the heat of his breath against your skin made it impossible to think clearly.

“You’re so quiet now,” Riki teased, brushing his lips against yours lightly, barely a touch. “Where’s all that fire from earlier? Hm?”

You bit your lip, trying to suppress the whine that threatened to escape your throat. Your body betrayed you again, leaning into him, and you felt the heat pooling low in your belly grow even stronger.

“Look at you,” Riki murmured, his voice low and filled with a mix of amusement and desire. “So needy. And I haven't even touched you yet."

You crashed your lips against his, your resolve crumbling completely. Fuck it. He let out a low growl, kissing you back. His hand find your lower back and he pushed your hips flushed against his. You could feel how hard he was underneath his jeans, and that alone made you whimpered.

You sighed contently, your hands tangling in his hair. He forced his tongue your mouth, tangling yours with his as his hand kneaded at your thigh. He tentatively bucked his hips against yours and you let out a moan. He smirked and did it again, eventually starting to grind his clothes dick against you.

His other hand gripped your hair, tilting your head back so he could nip and kiss at your neck while he continued to ground against you, rock hard. "So perfect," he whispered against your skin.

"Just fuck me already," you whined, surprising even yourself. What just took over you for you to say something like that to your co-mc, in the fucking trailer?

But to your surprise, Riki groaned against your skin, his hand immediately groped your clothed cunt as his lips went against your ear. "Fuck, so needy. Your lucky we don't have much time, or I'd ruin that pretty little mouth of yours with my cock."

You moaned at that, grinding shamelessly against his hand. Riki chuckled and quickly undid your jeans buttons and hooked his gingers in your waistband, yanking down your pants and underwear all at once. He parted your fold with his pointed finger, humming appreciatively.

"You're drenched, baby," he whispered against your ear. Then suddenly, wasting no time, he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them up. You yelped. "I know, I know. But I have to work you open before you can take my cock, and we don't have time."

You moaned as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. You bit your lip hard, knowing you could let any loud sounds out, but the way his long fingers pumped in and out felt so good you almost moaned louder.

He could feel you getting even wetter around his fingers, but he knew it wasn't enough. He added a third finger, knuckles deep, hitting your sweet spot over and over.

"Oh, fuck," you moaned, tears prickling at your eyes from pleasure as your gripped the table so hard your knuckles were turning white.

He kept scissoring you open, hitting deep thrust with his fingers, his thumb presing against your clit, rubbing circled around it. Your vision started to blur. "Fuck, look at you baby. Taking my fingers so well."

You bucked your hips against his hand, your walls already clenching around his fingers. His fingers stilled for a moment, feeling your walls clamp down on his fingers, and he could only think about how good you'll feel around his cock. "God," He muttered before leaning close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered roughly, "Already so desperate for my cock, aren't you?"

You had no shame left, and you don't know what happened between earlier and now, but your mind was fuzzy and dizzy. You just nodded desperately, bucking your hips again to make him move.

He chuckled lowly, and pulled his fingers out abruptly. He couldn't deny his throbbing cock in his pants any longer, or the zipper might rip. You whimpered at the loss of contact, your skin covered with sweat. He immediately unbuckled his belt and pulled down his pants and boxers in one swift motion. "Please, tell me you're on the pill."

You nodded and he exhaled, "Thank God," he muttered, grabbing your thighs and opening them further, positioning himself between your legs. You both hissed when he pushed the head inside you. His eyes fluttered shut, and he took a deep breath. You felt so good, he thought he could almost come right here and there.

He pushed inside, inch by inch, and you felt every vein of his shaft. Your head was thrown back in pleasure, and you bit your lip, your eyes rolling back. after felt like forever, he bottomed out. he had to brace himself, his hands on either side of your hips on the table, as his lips placed soft kisses to your cleavage.

He gave you a bit of time to adjust to his size, but when you put your hand on his shoulder, he lifted his head to look at you. Your lips were swollen and red, your hair disheveled and your cheeks flushed, and it was the most beautiful and hottest sight he's ever seen. You nodded slowly, informing him you were ready.

He let his instincts take control then. He grabbed your hip, hard enough to leave marks, before pulling out almost all the way and thrusting back hard. You had to muffle your moans with your hand as he set a ruthless pace, his thrusts hard and fast. "Fuck, you're so tight,"

With his hard rhythm, your breath was bouncing underneath his shirt. He quickly put it off your body alongside his shirt and jacket, throwing them carelessly on the floor. It was so risky, but you were both so gone you didn't care anymore. he squeezed and pinched your nipples as he continued to pound into you. "Look at those perfect tits, damn."

You were crying out into your hand, and the sight almost broke him. He wrapped his arms around your thighs, hooking them over his elbow and pulled one of your leg up so he could go deeper, the new angle making you see stars, eyes rolling back.

He leaned so he could bite your neck, still careful not to leave any marks, because one he knew you'd kill him, though you were so gone right now he knew he could do whatever he wanted. and second, because your stylist and manager would probably kill you, and he couldn't let you get in troubles because of him.

Your walls tighten around him, gripping him like a vice and he cursed under his breath. "Shit, I'm gonna come if you keep squeezing me like that," he said breathlessly.

You could only moan against your mouth at his words, your mind filled with pleasure and already gone. He replaced your hand with his, clamping it down on your mouth, as he smirked when you moaned against his mouth. His thrust became erratic, his free hand digging into your hip. "That's right, baby," he whispered in your ear. "Can't even think straight right now, can you?"

Your brain was getting fuzzy as your walls clenched around him so hard he could hardly move. You looked at him, eyes glossy with tears. He cursed loudly and his thrust became uncoordinated.

You came hard around him, your face contorted in pleasure as you let out a broken moan. Your eyes rolled back, your back arching, and drooling against his hand, this was the most beautiful sight he's ever witnessed. The look of pure bliss on your face was one he would never forget and would engrave in his memory forever.

He burried his face in the crook of your neck, muffling his own groans and he felt tipping closer over the edge. He was gonna pull out, but your legs wrapped against his waist. He looked into your eyes and when you nodded, he came inside you with a low moan.

You were both panting, and he was still burried inside you. The trailer was silent except for your heavy breathing. You leaned back against the table, your cheeks flushed, your chest rising and falling rapidly. Riki stood in front of you, his hands resting on the edge of the table on either side of your hips, trapping her in place. His hair was disheveled, and his skin flushed and sweaty.

You both stared at each other for a moment, the weight of what had just happened settling between you. Your lips were still slightly swollen, your eyes wide and filled with a mix of emotions—confusion, panic, and something else you couldn’t quite place.

Riki, on the other hand, looked more composed. He straightened up slightly, carefully pulling out, running a hand through his hair as he tried to catch his breath. “You okay?” he asked softly, his voice low and filled with concern.

You nodded quickly, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. I’m fine,” she said, though your voice wavered slightly.

“Here,” Riki said, grabbing a tissue from a nearby box and cleaning you up before passing you your disheveled clothes. He was so gentle when he cleaned you up, and he also cleaned the table since some of the mix of both of your cum fell onto it.

You then both got dressed silently. When you were both dressed, Riki grabbed another tissue and stepped closer, his fingers brushing against your chin as he gently wiped a smudge of makeup from your cheek. “Hold still,” he murmured, his tone softer than before.

You froze under his touch, your heart pounding again—not from what had just happened, but from the tenderness in his gesture. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Riki interrupted, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment before he focused on the task at hand. “You look… shaken up. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I said I’m fine,” you replied quickly, though your cheeks burned under his gaze.

Riki stepped back slightly, giving you space as he nodded. “Okay. But if you’re not… you can tell me.”

You glanced at him briefly, your chest tightening at the sincerity in his voice. “I know,” she said softly.

As he leaned against the table, clearly trying to find the right words to say, your phone buzzed loudly on the counter where you'd left it earlier. The sudden sound made both of you jump slightly.

You grabbed it quickly, your fingers fumbling as you unlocked the screen. Your heart sank when you saw the text from Jongseob.

[Jongseob] I don't know where the fuck are you, but I have to go home. Early photoshoot tomorrow. Your manager's on his way to pick you up. Call me when you can.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, your eyes widening as you quickly typed a response.

Riki tilted his head, watching you with a mix of curiosity and concern. “What is it?”

“It’s Jongseob,” you said, your voice clipped. You shoved your phone into your pocket and straightened your shirt hastily. “He left already. I need to go.”

“Wait,” Riki said, stepping in front of you to block your path. “Can we… talk about this first?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you replied quickly, your tone sharper than you intended. You avoided his gaze as you grabbed your bag from the chair nearby.

“Nothing to talk about?” Riki repeated, his tone incredulous. “Yn, we just—”

“I know,” you cut him off, your voice quieter now, though the urgency was still there. “It was a mistake, and it can't happen again. I'll...I'll see you later.”

Before Riki could say another word, you brushed past him and slipped out of the trailer, leaving him standing alone in the dimly lit space. The door clicked shut behind you, and the silence that followed was deafening.

He let out a long breath, raking a hand through his hair as he leaned back against the table. His mind raced with everything that had just happened, and the way you had left so abruptly only added to the confusion swirling in his chest.

“Of course she’d run,” he muttered to himself, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he stared at the closed door. But the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

He grabbed a tissue from the box and wiped his hands absently, his gaze unfocused. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between you—something he wasn’t sure could ever go back to the way it was.

Outside the trailer, you leaned against it, trying to catch your breath as you could hardly feel your legs. "What the hell just happened?" you whispered to yourself.

previous / m.list / next

TAGLIST: @pkjay @d-dilemma @heartheejake @lunaritex @dreeki @inishij @rikirritated @whoiss4m @sleepyxxhead @aanniikkaa @right-person-wrong-time @aespaqq @starry-eyed-bimbo @nerdywitchcrown @yuniesluv @lovestruck-sky @ariluvssssss100 @rei4sunoo @wildtigerlili @jakef3ver @seungminsapuppy @kittsnewera @regalfox @rairaiblog @pairinnn

[keerysfreckles]

keerysfreckles masterlist !

(in no paticular order)

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱

requests are open!!!

connor bedard

truth is

quinn hughes

from the start

max verstappen

william eklund

you're gonna go far

newsies (smau)

powerless

coming of age

so american (smau)

enough for you

the things i do (drabble)

oscar piastri

high definition (smau)

she's american (smau)

how do i tell you?

decode (summer camp au)

angel eyes (smau)

lando norris

please please please (smau)

sparks fly

just love

lay all your love on me

loveless

cheer up baby

happier

all i've ever known

no shame

logan sargeant

lacy, oh lacy

charles leclerc

espresso (smau)

ollie bearman

stick season (smau)

cedric diggory

apple pie

peter parker

touchy feely fool (tasm)

pictures (tasm)

his neighbor

secret (tasm)

lucky people (smau)

your kiss

promise

saving you

comfort

conrad fisher

getaway car

cam cameron

august

luke castellan

cole drabble

mamma mia

daylight

cookies

hope ur ok

not-so-secret

burn

new years kiss

jealousy

brutal

not strong enough

rosy

teenage dream

touchy!luke drabble

pretty isn't pretty

bummerland

all my love

concerned

someone gets hurt

short luke blurb

better now

the name of the game

slump

joe keery

christmas kisses

christmas for three

married!joe drabble

steve harrington

superglue

falling in

homesick

breaking the silence

reunions

time after time

bucky barnes

oh god

[jinwoosbabyboo]

Caleb's alive?! What's going on Nika. Someone fill me in on the storyline 😔

Caleb is back after a year of being gone. He's also no longer just a Deepspace Pilot for the DAA he's a Farspace Colonel

MC infiltrates an island in the sky that's known as "Sky Haven" where the DAA is basically the government they run everything up there. MC went there posing as a scout/rookie to investigate an explosion that happened that seemed similar to what happened to her house.

She gets caught (of course) and the colonel (Caleb) takes her to be interrogated and pretty much covers for her during it to get her off the hook so he becomes his "Adjutant" which is like the colonel's right hand. This is so no one in lower ranks and other soldiers won't question her.

While she's in Sky Haven she goes to visit one of the victims who's in the hospital – Mia. Mia is I believe 7 years old and MC runs into Zayne while she's there because this man is in every hospital and medical facility known to man. Mia is a little messed up but she's in a stable condition when MC visits her.

Mia asks if they've found her brother Kevi and unfortunately he's still missing. Mia then gives MC a plushie that has a recording on it of Mia and her brother playing hide n seek and he's hiding in the "secret base". With this information MC goes back to the site where their house is and plays this recording and gets Kevi to come out. He was hiding in some kind of time rift because he has a piece of the "Spatium Aether Core" and the DAA wants to get their hands on this. Mia and Kevi's parents told them to not go with the Farspace soldiers because they can't be trusted so thats why Kevi stayed hidden.

Kevi is in need of medical help though because he's covered in black crystals that will eventually turn him into a monster. MC tells him to stay hidden and conspires with Zayne on how to get him back to Linkon to keep him safe. MC says she'll bring Kevi to him later that night so they can get him out of there. Caleb is a little cray cray though there's some bolts loose in that head.

He catches MC trying to sneak out and he's like "here's some pills to keep you from getting more sick" or something like that I already forgot what he said but he lied about what the pills actually were and since she trusts him (like a dumbass) she takes the pills and lays down to wait for him to leave so she can sneak out after he leaves. (She was caught in the rain the day before this is where we met viper who tried to kill MC and Caleb saved her and threatened Viper to never touch her again also apparently Viper is some kind of science experiment idrk wtf he's supposed to be he's annoying)

He drugged her with sleeping pills.

So she wakes up the next day and finds out the Farspace soldiers found Kevi and have the Spatium Core fragment now. Mia "suddenly" died and her funeral is swiftly taken care of. Kevi is given to "The professor" no we don't know who this man is he's a mysterious character.

MC notices something seems off with Kevi he's not that sad over his sisters death. MC brings these concerns to Caleb and he's basically like "He's a kid they get over stuff faster but i'm here for you MC im always here for you" and damn near shrugs it off like bro thats not regular wtf. Kevi is fixed up crystals removed and has some kind of chip put in his head which controls his mind now. (MC wasn't supposed to know about the chip, but she found out because she secretly visited Kevi and he like damn near started short circuiting)

The DAA is doing some sketchy stuff though. People who've lived in Sky Haven said the farspace soldiers were rarely ever on the ground this long before. It's a recent event that they've started deploying so may soldiers on the ground like this. They've been doing what's known as "Clean Ups" at night. They're killing and disposing of everyone who is turning into monsters. MC found this out because she snuck out (After Caleb locked her in her room lol) to see what they were doing and she injured her knee in the process.

This entire time Caleb is putting on this nice caring front to keep MC calm and safe. If he had it his way he'd lock her up in his home and put a bell on her ass so she can't escape. Caleb is what people thought Sylus would be. Full yandere and MC still trusts him because he's a childhood friend.

Edit: MC is willingly staying with Caleb because she wants to complete her mission and she missed him.

If I missed anything please comment guys im not going back to read through that whole story again that shit was long as hell lowkey.

[theshitpostcalligrapher]

ASKBOX IS OPEN REQUESTS ARE OPEN HERE ARE THE RULES

ground rules:

1) Funny- the request needs to be humorous, memes usually the most popular but dnd in jokes and other shitpostery is welcome. i abide by the MBMBAM NO BUMMERS rule - there are plenty of sad/deep/beautiful calligraphers out there who’d be happy to work with yall, but this isn’t that sort of channel

2) Length - aim for no more than 75 characters a request, my cue cards are only so big so I can only fit so much on each one and still not look like garbage. There is a little leeway but if you send me smth with like 120 characters it aint getting written

3) Amount of Requests - I am trying to be fair but i am one person running almost the ENTIRE thing, logistics, tech, etc, I have twitch mods and a roommate for retrieving things and that's it. In order to be fair, please restrict yourselves to 3 requests per person to let everyone have a shot, if you send in more i will ctrl-f your username and pick my favourites

4) Content - I will not do anything I consider under the umbrella of general assholery - this includes racial slurs, edgelord bullshit, exclusionist jackassery etc. Please be kind to each other. Please let me know if I’ve taken a request that is some incredibly obscure piece of assholery, someone once tried to slip a really obscure antisemetic piece of slang by me once

5) Repeats - I keyword tag EVERY SINGLE piece i’ve ever done on this blog, if you think I might have written smth already but aren’t sure, the /search/[keyword] is your friend, check if i’ve done your request before

the askbox is theshitpostcalligrapher.tumblr.com/ask , not a dm or submission to the blog. I’ll close submissions too so people don’t get the boxes confused. DM me for any actual clarifications, kind words, etc so they don’t get swallowed up by the behemoth of my askbox for months, and if you want to give me live encouragement the twitch link is right there, and is the ideal way to inquire more about any of the day's rules.

If you want to jump the ENTIRE queue and get your card done immediately, there are ways to donate on the twitch stream to get your request done with an ink of your choice. You can still submit 3 free requests in addition to what you pay for.

I’ll be streaming the entire time the askbox is open on twitch @ theshitpostcalligrapher, trying to get as many of these done today as possible live. Once 10PM EST hits, the askbox will close but if you get your request into the askbox by then, it will be done eventually as I always have 4 cards up per day.

Here’s the link to my twitch, we’ll start a little after 3 o’clock.

Here is a direct donation link to my streamlabs, it works like a ko-fi but I’ve got it set to give me alerts on my twitch so I can see and thank you straightaway for supporting my takeout order

I've planned on a few donation goals this time! They help pay for all the hours I put in and the material costs. Every time we hit a goal, I'll refresh it to 0 and math out whatever overlap to add to the new goal

$20 > Time For Tea! I make a sparkly, food safe glittery tea that looks like ink to enjoy with yall on stream

$30 > Jackbox Break! My Discord VC and potentially chat plays a few games

$40 > Takeout O'clock: It is time to order a food, Mia! Polls will probably be involved for food options

$200 (I am fairly sure we won't get this one) > I bought all the requisite items to bleach my hair to prep for a dye. Let's do this shit LIVE ON AIR BAYBEE

Also of Note: I will be moving house sometime in the next week and a half, which means I will be RECYCLING ALL OF THE CARDS I'VE WRITTEN IN THE PAST TWO AND A HALF YEARS (save for the ones folks pay for on stream, those are earmarked to be mailed out anyways) so if you've gotten something written by me from september 2021 to january 2024 or so, please remember that there is an an etsy shop where you can snag any card from the blog for a few dollars. dm the shop if you'd like to buy a bundle of randoms, I WILL give you a sale about it

[affableramen]

for the “🌌” user

fem reader x tartaglia, elements of black humour and angst

i’m sorry that you had to wait over a month, but the result is worth it

***

‘…couldn't have just gone, it…’ Pulcinella’s words, barely whispers, are interrupted by the other Harbinger.

‘Tartaglia. He’s always been reckless. Let the boy play, he for sure will make out alive. Unlike Captain, though…’ he chuckles darkly, extending his hand in a dismissive, almost degrading way. There is no deep concern or sorrow heard in his voice, unlike it should be for someone who lost not only one, but two of his comrades.

‘If that was an attempted joke then you better shut it, Regrator’, the other, feminine but deep and penetrating voice is heard from the gloomy corner of the room, however it becomes much closer as she continues speaking. ‘We’ve had enough of your predictions for now.’

A girl with shoulder length ashy hair and a crown seated on a huge robot’s hand looks most unimpressed by the occurred problem.

‘It is his fault he didn't watch the ginger in time. He was trusted the boy and lost him in process. I still don't understand how She could make you the Ninth.’ Her deep azure eyes are cold, herself reminding a mechanical creature.

‘Oh, please, Marionette, I was just trying to encourage you all to work. If we are all tensed up we won’t ever see the end of our duties. Besides–’

Upon eyeing you enter the room, however, he abruptly stops.

‘Ah. We have a little eavesdropper right here.’

Professionally ignoring the most unlikeable Harbinger you step to Pulcinella and lean to him.

‘Where’s Tartaglia? I haven't got a single letter since he arrived in Natlan.’

Pulcinella’s face, dimly lit, remains stoic, but a slight layer of sadness is persistent in his amber eyes.

‘He is MIA. For now. But we are actively seeking contact with him.’ He knows exactly how worried you find yourself so, as if to encourage he adds in a less formal, much softer tone: ‘You shall not worry, for we’re doing everything possible. And he is a good warrior, don't you forget that.’

‘A good warrior who also attracts troubles and takes unnecessary risks’, the Regrator, still not having enough fill of his absurd jokes, pours himself more of red wine and gulps it quietly. His words only make you more agitated but you are not yet ready to give up on the ginger, and apparently, endure his disrespectful jokes.

‘He is your friend, why would you talk about him this way?’ You encounter him, your words leave no room for doubt. Feeling how assertive and close for any negative suggestions you are, the Regrator himself prepares to bite back with words.

‘Smart, are we?’ He looks around at everyone, and all remaining Harbingers (except for Pierro who is not there) stare at him, expecting a candid answer.

‘Now when they all stare daggers at you, you have no choice but to answer truthfully’, you say, your eyes unusually cold, as if you are speaking not the finances minister but some kind of rat or a mole.

Pantalone takes in all the predatory gazes aimed rightfully upon him and finally looks down at you. Even his tall height is of no use right now when he is cornered by not a “mere little girl” but a whole team of strong, deadly Harbingers.

‘Indeed he is, but I do not possess information where he could currently be. I never signed up for babysitting, you know. If the oh-so-might Tartaglia could not save himself a trouble, there is no use for me to even interfere’, he turns away, putting the half empty glass on the desk. He adjusts his long mantle abruptly and prepares to leave, certainly uncomfortable under the penetrating gazes of his Harbingers. ‘He will be found, that is if he’s alive, of course.’

‘One day, I’ll have your tongue on a spike’, you say right into his mouth. This harbinger is not used to receiving threats from those below him so he looks severely insulted. Arlecchino’s gaze shifts to one of respect, and Pulcinella giggles under his moustache.

After enduring a moment of pure embarrassment Pantalone laughs obscenely, leaving the headquarters to go about his business.

And once he leaves, you pull your hand into your pocket and take a tiny trinket Tartaglia left to you – something small, but precious to his heart, that he allowed himself gifting only to you. A charm bracelet with “healing stones” that were supposed to keep your body and mind in check.

this is the end of part 1. this fic will consist of several parts.

[blondgirls-world]

57 Reasons

TW: Meanspo

01. You will be FAT if you eat today, just put it off one more day.

02. You don't NEED food.

03. Fat people can't fit everywhere.

04. Guys will be able to pick you up without struggling.

05. You'll be able to run faster without all that extra weight holding you back.

06. People will remember you as "the beautiful thin one".

07. If someone has to describe you, they'll say "oh she weighs like 90, 100 lbs".

08. Guys will want to get to know you, not laugh at you and walk away.

09. Starving is an example of excellent willpower.

10. You will be able to see your beautiful, beautiful bones.

11. Bones are clean and pure. Fat is dirty and hangs on your bones like a parasite.

12. If you eat then you'll look like those disgusting, fat, ghetto and trailer-trash hookers on Jerry Springer.

13. The models that everyone claims are beautiful, the spitting image of perfection, are any of them fat? NO!

14. Too many people in the world are obese.

15. People who eat are selfish and unrealistic.

16. Only fat people are attracted to fat people. Do you want pigs to like you because you are one of them.

17. Anyone can have "inner beauty" but few can earn real beauty, inside as well as out.

18. You'll be able to move as quietly and skillfully as a spider.

19. Only thin people are graceful.

20. If you slap a fat person you can see a shockwave ripple over their skin. That's disgusting.

21. Do you want people to say "for gods sake get off me you're crushing me!!!" or "you are sooo light" ???

22. Underweight aka perfect body.

23. Ballerina? or beanbag?

24. I want to be light enough so a helium balloon could lift me and carry me to the clouds.

25. I want to walk in the snow and leave no footprints.

26. Starve off the parts you don't need. They're ugly and they drag you down.

27. Nothing cant be fixed with hunger and weight loss.

28. Saying "no thanks" to food is saying "yes please" to THIN!!!

29. Fat people are so huge, yet people look away from them as if they don't exist.

30. The only time people do notice a fat person is when they get in the way of that beautiful thin girl walking by (ok that sounds really horrible i know.)

31. Have you ever seen a person NOT notice a walking skeleton.

32. Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.

33. Is food more important that happiness in life? I think not!

34. Eating is conforming to everyone else's expectations.

35. When you start to get dizzy and weak you're almost there.

36. Hunger is your friend and it won't betray you like food.

37. Food is mean and sneaky. It tricks you into eating it and it works on you from the inside out making you fat, bloated, ugly and unhappy.

38. Think of anorexia as your secret weapon.

39. If you can name one reason to be fat, I'll name a million and one to be thin.

40. Thin people look good in ANY kind of clothes.

41. Food rots your teeth.

42. Puffy cheeks, double chins and thick ankles-- aren't attractive.

43. Fatty areas stretch and sag as you get older.

44. Ever seen the arms of a fat person wave hello or goodbye?

45. Eating little to nothing saves you money!

46. The average (middle class) American wastes OVER $8,000 a year on FOOD ALONE...it goes in one end and out the other. That sure is a lot of fat! No wonder so many Americans are obese and overweight!

47. Fat people make their country look bad.

48. Big people sweat more and they smell bad.

49. Fat people die earlier.

50. You'll be the envy of all the other girls.

51. All of the guys will want you.

52. You're less likely to get food poisoning.

53. You won't be exposed to all the chemicals and pesticides they put in food today.

54. You won't get sweaty on hot days.

55. The word fat will only apply to you in a sarcastic way.

56. No one wants to see a fat person dance.

57. Beauty Queen? or Dairy Queen?

-Fading Obsession: Pro Ana Mia Website plus Forum (fadingobsessions.com)

[evergreenlake]

And Fate was on His Side

Chapter 3

1.5k words

MDNI 18+

tw: mentions of terrorists, tiny bits of angst, and some medical inaccuracies

an: I'm so sorry this is late, winter is really kicking my butt lol. But anyway, I wanted to get this out to you as soon as I could so it may not be edited well. But I did go thru and reread it and let Grammarly have a go at it lol. But if you guys see any mistakes please let me know

series masterlist

previous chapter next chapter

Sighing, he listened to Kate droning on about what had happened at the mall that night. Price watches her impatiently, he wants this over with to figure out where the woman he loves and their children are. He knows that they are at a hospital but not which one. Simon looks over at his Capitan a little worried as the tapping from his leg becomes louder. He glanced up at the woman in front of the room. She glanced between him and the man who wasn't paying attention and she nodded. Closing her laptop, the woman clears her throat. " Okay, we will finish this later. Get some rest, don't be late."

Most of the people in the meeting room leave, but the team of four stays, and Kate stays. The three men look towards their captain as Kate reopens her laptop. " I can try to find what hospital she'll be at. Then we can head that way." Price looks at her, his eyes shining a little as he nods before whispering a small thanks.

The boy's leg was bouncing just like his father's as he and his sister sat in the waiting room. Mia was holding onto his arm and sniffling a little. They were told to wait there as they took their mother back. Apparently, they had to take her back into surgery. Danny didn't know how long they would have to stay there, so he called his grandma. Now they were just waiting on her and an update on their mother.

When he heard Mia clear her throat a little, he looked down at her. She was just watching the doors as she whispered. " Did you hear what mom said to that man? She said their yours… was she talking about us?" Daniel furrows his brow a little as he sighs and looks away. " I don't know, with how close they were being probably. But, I don't want to assume. Especially if we've never seen him before. " Mia nodded a little before she was whispering again." But did you see how close they were acting tho? They know each other. You even look like him a little Danny. What if he is our dad? " Danny's jaw tenses a little. "Then I'll give him a piece of my mind. I know what Mom told us when she finally caved in. But still couldn't he have gotten her number or something. " Danny looks away as Mia smiles a little.

The teenage girl shakes her head before she lets it rest on her brother's shoulder. She had started dozing off a little but jumped some as her brother sat forward. She sits up some and looks over at him confused. He was glaring towards the door a little, she slowly turned towards the door and gasped a little. It was the group of men who saved them, and a woman she didn't recognize. The one leading the group was the one who acted very close to their mom. The twins watched him a little warily.

But their attention is taken by someone hurrying past the group. They both started to smile as they realized it was their grandma. She walks over to them and takes both of them into her arms. She didn't care if she got the blood from their hands on her.

" Oh you two I'm sorry I wasn't faster. Has there been any news on your mom?" Her voice was a little shakey as she looked over her grandchildren. She had to stay strong for them, even tho it was her daughter back in surgery. Danny quickly got up so the woman could sit between the kids.

They all just sat there quietly for a second as Mia almost immediately attached herself to her grandmother. The group who had walked in before the older woman looked at the trio. Price takes in a deep breath, looking behind him. " Go find somewhere else to sit. Don't wanna overwhelm them." The four nodded and headed to the other side of the lobby as the man slowly made his way to his children and their grandma.

Daniel watches the man a little skeptically as his sister lifts her head. Mary watched her grandchildren a little confused before she too looked over at Price. The man looked a little nervous as he hesitantly stood in front of them. He smiles at them as Mary raises her eyebrows already clocking the similarities between the man and her grandson.

Price opens his mouth to say something, but a nurse comes from behind the double doors. The twins jump to their feet looking at him. The man who worked on their mother walked over to them. " Good news, your mother is okay. We have her back in a room right now. She's still sleeping off the anesthesia though." All four of the people around the doctor let out a sigh of relief. The doctor gives them an even bigger smile.

" We successfully pulled the bullet out, tho it did hit some important parts of her shoulder. It was fractured a little from the force of the bullet. But it also hit her brachial plexus and the subclavian artery. Even though she lost a lot of blood we were able to repair them both before anything worse could happen." The twins looked at each other and Mia was tearing up some as Mary stood up. " So what does this mean?" The doctor nodded as he looked at each person. " She'll have some recovery time, and she will be using a sling. Thought her brachial plexus may recover faster than the fracture. She'll have to put off physical therapy until she's cleared to use her shoulder."

They all nodded a little as Price cleared his throat. " Are her kids allowed to go back and see her?" The doctor nods a little eagerly as he glances down at the teenagers. " yeah they can go ahead and come on back. There's a limit of 3 visitors for now until she wakes up." The twins immediately looked towards their grandmother before she nodded at them. " Go ahead and go on back. I'll meet you two back there." The twins nodded and before the doctor left he had let the woman know that her daughter was in room 210.

Once the twins are out of sight the older woman turns towards Price and points her finger against his chest. " What are you doing here? Does my daughter know you here?" The woman started glaring at him and Price's eyes widened as he gulped some. He wasn't expecting the older woman to act like this. He lets out a small sigh. " She told me that those two are mine. So I'm here for them, and I'm here for the woman I'll be marrying in the future."

Mary's eyes widened a little, she was quiet for a few seconds before she was laughing. " Oh boy, you think she's gonna marry you after you left her alone that morning? I mean I hope my daughter holds a grudge against you for that." She gives him a small smile before she hits his shoulder at his suddenly downcast look. " Don't worry, she doesn't hate you over that. She's secretly been hoping you pop up somewhere. Sadly, a terrorist attack had to be the reason you two reunited."

Price looked at her a little surprised before he nodded a little. " I knew she was American but I was secretly hoping she stayed across the pond. Was a little selfish of me, but I didn't get the chance to get her number."

Mary nodded softly as she looked to the side. " After she had the twins, she wanted to come back over. She thought if she came back she could just run into you again at that pub."

John laughs a little before he nods. " If she had come over when I was on leave, we may have run into each other. But that's in the past. I'm just glad I found 'em" Mary started smiling a little more.

She squeezes his arm before taking a step toward the direction the twins had gone " Well don't worry, I'm sure she'll want to talk to you about everything. Hopefully, you get to stay in town for a little while." John just nodded as he watched her. The woman gave him one more smile before waking off.

When the woman was out of sight John sighed and frowned a little. He scratched at his head worried, he didn't know how long they were staying. The man then turned around and walked back to the little group that had come with them.

Sadly when he got over there the atmosphere was tense. The boys had varying worried, or angry looks on their faces. Kate slowly stood up as he stood in front of them. She licks her lips slowly before clearing her throat.

"We've got bad, news John.." He looks at all four of them. Gaz looked away awkwardly, as Johnny looked downright mad. But Ghost was just silent, a faraway look in his eyes.

Kate takes a step towards John as he clenches his hands. " Well outright with it then! What is it?" Kate sighs as suddenly Ghost says " They were after them… The group was after your kids and their mum"

Taglist:

@miss-vanta-likes-to-write

@galactict3a

@fruitymoonbeams-blog

@spongelistener

@wizzdot

@beebeechaos

@eatingtheworldsoffanfiction

@royalty-cashinout

[unofficialsapphire]

CRAZY IN LOVE

KURAPIKA X READER X FEITAN

Disclaimer: Photo not mine. Reference of Photo Above

"Faster, Faster" You pushed yourself to go over your limit as you try to find where could possibly the chain user and the spider number two would duel.

Your heart beating fast as you try to pushed aside the worst case scenario, the thought of one of them getting hurt or worst dying is a nightmare.

You and Kurapika became friends when you and him joined the hunter exam and met him there. Through him, you heard about the Phantom troupe and how they massacre the Kurta Clan just for their Scarlet Eyes. They were cruel! Inhumane is understatement.

You could understand where his hatred is coming from and how you couldn't stop him going on his own so you and friends are always left worried whenever he goes MIA as you knew he's out there trying to hunt them down.

Out of your curiosity, you hunted some spider down, just to spy on them, observe what they were up to, what were they weaknesses but it all backfire when you fell for a certain member of Phantom Troupe, the number two. You tried to supressed it, you really did, you kept reminding yourself for what they have done but all your logic was gone. Feitan had already captured your heart and you're falling for him fast and hard 

So when you arrived to the scene, it was your worst nightmare. Both of them were beat up, clothes are torn up, all bloody and messy but Kurapika has his chain already tied to Feitan. 

 "No" You gasped. "FEITAN" You blurted out in horror, heart is pounding, ears are ringing. You captured their attention, looking up to where you are standing, hair is all over, you look quite a mess from running all over the place trying to find them, but to them, you still look pretty in their eyes. 

 Kurapika: Y/n?!  What are you doing out here?! 

Kurapika look at you in shock, You weren't supposed to be here.

He cut contact so he could at least protect y'all from getting involved with his own battle, the possibly of you getting hurt crossed his mind. No, he wouldn't allow that so he cut contact from you and the rest of the gang. So why are you here?

He tighten the chain around Feitan, making sure he wouldn't be able to escape and take you as his hostage which resulted to Feitan coughing up blood and you start panicking panicking.

Feitan, on the other hand didn't want to you to see him in this state. You always see him as strong, unbreakable, never losing to a battle and yet he got tied by a chain user, he was unable to use his nen to break free.

"Y/n! Go! Not your fight" Feitan managed to spit those words out, his eyebrows knitted together as he struggle to breathe out.

"NO!" You were hysterical. You look at Kurapika with pleading eyes, "Please let Feitan go"

Kurapika stood still, looking between you two. He couldn't believe it. 

"You two know each other?" He already knew the answer but he still wanted to hear from you.

 You nodded, tears welled up in your eyes "please let him go" you begged him.  This wasn't you, if this is few years ago, you would have flat out laughing if someone told you that you'd fall inlove with a spider, number two in fact and begged to save them.

 Kurapika couldn't believe you would ask him to do such a thing, out of all people that he trusted, he thought you'd understand his hatred to Phantom Troupes, but now, you're here asking him to let a Spider go that he took a while to hunt down as if you forgot what they did for a living.

"He's a Spider Y/n!" He spat out, looking at you as if you lost it. 

"No No" you shook your head "He's actually nic---" you try to bargain but Kurapika cut you off, eyes glowing into Scarlet Red.

"Nice?" Kurapika laughed sarcastically. "Did you forget what do they do for a living?! Did you forget what they did to us? They killed the Kurta Clan just for our eyes! OUR EYES! That's not anything near nice!" He harshly pulled the chain making Feitan to wobble slightly. 

Despite Kurapika having an upper hand, Feitan expression remained strong, something you hold on that he can survive this. 

Feitan is after all the Phantom Troupe's interrogator, proficient in art of torture. So you know this gonna be a child play for him but you couldn't help but interfere.

"Y/n, Go!" Feitan ordered you but being the stubborn you are, you shook your head.

"I'll stay! No, I can't leave you alone here" you rebutted, determined to leave the place with Feitan being safe with no regrets.

"Y/n!" Feitan voiced was laced with venom, he's not fucking around, he didn't want you involving yourself and getting hurt in the process, specially for him.

You stand on your ground "I love you okay!" you blurted out.

Feitan and Kurapika's eyes widen at your confession, You looked away from Feitan's gaze, turning to face Kurapika.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Kurapika angrily spat out.

Three hearts beating fast.

Your heart is pounding as you finally get that off your chest. Something you tried to suppressed and deny but it's time to admit, now or never.

One heart doesn't understand what's he's feeling at the moment but he feels mad for dragging herself to protect him, no she shouldn't be risking herself for someone like him, he's not weak! he's a spider! 

The other heart is breaking. He was so angry and yet broken as the girl that he cares deeply, the one who thought to be right besides him, the one whom he trusted, just fell in love with the one who's very involved in wiping his clan off.

He felt betrayed

You stare at Kurapika, slowly activating your nen, ready for action.

"Kurapika, You're maybe you're right. I'm out of my mind, crazy in love" Kurapika felt weak, feeling his knees buckled.

When you arrived, he thought you were there for him but no, you weren't here to be his side, You didn't come here to back him up. No, You were here for Feitan, not him. 

-----

Okay.. Who would have thought I be writing a HxH Fic?!!!

[waywardcrow]

Timeless.

Summary: 1943. 1975. 2024. Three different decades, three different lives, three different times your life and Bucky's interwined; he lost you twice, will he do it again?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader.

TW: It can change each chapter but themes of Bucky as soldier and as the Winter Soldier in general, some stalker behaviour but with good intentions?, flashbacks and a not so good writing style by me, lots of feels, one awful boss, one jerk that almost gets reader in an accident, mentions of headaches, past reader is mentioned to be named Beth but that changes for 2024 version of her so I nicknamed her Ace, this will be a +18 story so minors dni, as always please remember english is not my first language so if I make a mistake or forget something let me know.

Pictures from pinterest and graphic and dividers by the amazing @ firefly-graphics so all credits to the creators.

Your head was aching like never before and that was your life now; annoying pain, annoying boss who was a fucking brat with a trust fund who never heard the word “no” as a kid and that now acted like she was entitled to make your life miserable.

It wasn’t like you were and idiot who believed a job like this will be easy, as a born and raised new yorker who watched The devil wears Prada too many times you were aware of what will come your way as PA of the editor of one of the best magazines in the country but your issuess were beyond that, it was easy to handle a bully if you are getting something in exchange besides a check that barely paid your rent.

This job was suppossed to be your opportunity and Mia Alexander was beating up your expectations. With a sigh you picked the coffee and make your way back to the office, it was so stupid that you have to walk three blocks in the pouring rain just to get her stupid cold brew from the stupid pretencious coffee shop that always made you feel like you were back in high school. Always the outsider in a world ruled by assholes, just like the one who pushed you too hard while waiting to cross the street. For an idiotic reason, your first thought was that you will have to go back for another cold brew when the one in your hand hit you and then the pavement, not the bike coming your way.

It happened too fast for you to understand it, the asshole pushing you towards the traffic, your annyoance, the stranger who hold you back in the blink of an eye, the pain in your head stopping and then you were standing at a safe distance to the cars, with your umbrella tossed in the pavement and absolutely no idea of what had happened.

Alexander yelled at you for your aspect when you came back late with her first coffee all over your dull clothes and the second one not good enough apparently, the best you could do was bite your tongue and not tell her to fuck off. This job was everything you had.

“What the fuck happened to you, babe?” Harper didin’t care about Mia but that was because she couldn’t get her fired being her sister and everything, you were a different story.

“Your evil sister doing her usual shit” was your only response, Harper was completely different to Mia and if you tried to tell her about the incident she will drove you herself to ER. She followed you to the bathroom, your blouse was so stained it couldn’t be saved and still you wanted to do something to don’t cry.

Harper pursed her perfect red lips, it didn’t matter how many times she tried to help you, Mia was their mother’s favorite and will never do anything against her; the best she could do for you was to get you out of that clothes.

“Take that off, I’m bringing you something and don’t argue” Harper disappeared before you could try and came back with a pretty blouse with a V line and a small waist that will rock with your boring blue jeans.

“I can’t wear that” you refused still covered in coffee.

“Why? I have seen you wear more skimpy stuff when we go out” someone walked in the bathroom and shot you an intrigued look when she saw Harper undressing you.

“You know why” your dumb boss didn’t like that the person walking three steps behind her attracted the attention so you were expected to wear boring clothes in order to not be noticed by anyone.

“I’m telling you, one of this days I’m going to punch her in the face and I will not give a fuck if I get cut out…” your hand in her mouth stopped her to finish her sentence “back off, Ace” her nickname make you roll your eyes “you know I’m right.”

She was but your life was a constant reminder that no matter how right you were, you had no other option but to do as you were told if you wanted to pay the bills and help your parents, you stopped wishing for a way out long ago, this was your life.

Bucky went back to the tower that night after making sure you were home safe first, Sam tried to call him back but he ignored his phone and jumped in the shower, the hot water barely easing the tension in his muscles. He could have lost you that afternoon.

The super soldier still wanted to chase the idiot who nearly get you killed but Bucky wouldn’t be able to hold back if he saw him again, that’s why he asked Sam to take care of it without giving a good explanation beyond what had happened: a jerk pushed a by-stander to the traffic and didn’t give a shit about it. Bucky had to act like you were nothing to him, just another civilian he could help. He was liar, a murderer, a destroyer of lives but that lie, insignificant and not even believable, left his chest aching. You were everything; you always were from the moment he set his eyes on you that night in 1943.

Bucky expected more from his last night home before going to war, his date was nice but Connie will never think twice about him once he was gone and in all honesty, he wouldn’t do it too. Maybe it was the fact that Steve insisted in being enlisted that left him so uneasy, maybe the thought of leaving his family behind when his ma and his sisters already lose too much or maybe it was everything mixed with his fears.

Opposite to Steve, he never wanted to go to the war, it was what left them without a father, what left his mom without a husband, Bucky swore he will never abandon his family to fight and die alone in someone else’s land but his country didn’t care about his promises and his fears and demanded his blood and sacrifice anyway.

He tried to don’t let his family see this, not even Steve but Rebecca could see it, only three years of difference between them made them close to know each other well. She was there when Bucky got the letter informing him about being drafted, she held him while he cried like a little kid and swore to don’t say a word to the others, Rebecca woke up early the morning of his mandatory training to make him breakfast and give him a hug before their ma could do the same.

Bucky didn’t want to leave her in charge, she was his little sister, his responsibility but he was sure Rebeca will do it.

The way back after leaving Connie and her friend home was silent, Steve probably was back in their apartment after being rejected again, Bucky promised himself to be reasonable with his best friend later but after he spent one more night with his family.

In the porch stairs there were two girls whistling a short melody, he could see them from the distance, one was Rebecca but he didn’t knew who was the other one, her hair pinned up perfectly giving him a good view of one perfect neck and three moles aligned like a little constellation.

When he got close enough, Rebeca spotted him and she broke a smile.

“Bucky! You are here!” His sister got up, holding him in her embrace. After all those years he could swear he still remembered her scent: homemade cookies and lilacs. “You are early” she said, giving him a suspicious look.

Before she could say more, he interrupted “Who’s your friend, Becca?”

You shot him a funny glance, like you knew what he was doing and follow his sister after fixing your skirt.

“I’m Beth, nice to meet you” You and Rebecca were being friends for more of a year but you never met her brother, Rebeca tried to set you both up but he insisted in not dating anyone as young as her sister, didn’t seem right but that was before he got a chance to actually know you.

He knew a lot of beautiful girls; he probably dated a good number of them in the last years but you were more than your pretty eyes or your perfect lips, he never felt like his whole world stopped with any of them the way he felt it with you.

“Beth” Bucky repeated, his tongue tasting sweet with the echo of your name in his mouth. A charming smile made its way to his lips and you blushed under the intensity of his eyes. Everybody talked about Rebecca’s brother, such a ladies man, a respectful one but a ladies man anyways and you were raised better than to be one of those dames who let men sweep them off their feet.

“I should go back home, Becca” you said giving your friend a quick hug and a nod to her brother.

“Let Bucky walk you home Beth, is late and your mother will not be happy if she knows you went alone” oh Rebecca was good, Bucky could see the spark in her eyes, identical to his, and he could hear her future constant reminders from now on about how she told him so, she was always right about him and Beth.

“I don’t want to impose” was all the girl could say and Bucky took that as his chance.

“Please, allow me to escort you home safe, miss” he used his best smile and extended his arm like a gentleman “it will be an honor.”

For a heartbeat, he could see your intention to roll your eyes but you agreed and took his arm, Rebeca didn’t do a good job at hiding her smile saying her goodbyes before going back to the house to tell Winnifred everything.

And that was the only time he could be close to you before he lose everything he was once.

Next chapter >>>

Please let me know what you think! Thanks 🩵.

[thelastofhyde]

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

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 15k

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

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

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

The mirror is not clean enough to see yourself.

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

It’s something new to fidget with.

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

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

If you do, you’ll blame him.

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

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

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

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

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

You were careful all night to never speak of him.

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

And then it happened.

You didn’t say his name, no.

Not aloud.

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

But it was enough to make you want to leave.

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

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

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

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

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

There were usually three of them.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t have an answer.

You didn’t get to give an answer.

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

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

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

Javier Peña was none of that.

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

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

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

It was like, nothing.

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

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

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

That was never part of the plan.

Neither was skipping dinner, though.

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

His hair, freshly cut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you stumble to the elevator.

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

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

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

“Déjame. (Let me.)”

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

He catches you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m glad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thud against the nightstand.

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

The undressing is gentle and so unlike his usual impatience.

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

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

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

He looks like he wants to.

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

Against your forehead, lips that linger.

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

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

Vermont, ‘98.

That’s where it all began.

Your dad, turning fifty.

Javi just hit forty.

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

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

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

Wrong.

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

Textbooks on the table, glasses on your face.

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

Peaceful and quaint, until it wasn’t.

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

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

You put your head down, breathed more subtly.

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

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

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

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

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

Inching towards the exit, footsteps light as a feather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not in the mood.”

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

“I have an early flight.”

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

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

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

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

“I ain’t done talkin’ to you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t remember which direction you turned.

“Quit running, you bitch!”

He was still following, how was he still following?

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

He was getting faster. Maybe you were getting slower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thumb swiped over your palm.

Your mouth winced, your arm pulled back.

He held you in place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was instinctual, no thought placed behind his action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took you back to his own cabin instead.

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

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

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

Late june brings nothing but gloom.

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

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

Tonight, you’re appeasing them.

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

Truth be told, you don’t want to go.

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

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

In the mirror, it’s still lopsided.

The clock sits at eight forty-seven.

They’re 2 minutes late.

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

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

Dive back in, search again.

An empty tube of lipbalm.

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

A broken earring.

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

Bile burns the back of your throat.

He opens on the fifth knock.

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

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

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

The air’s uncomfortably quiet.

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

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

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

The silence returns.

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

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

You notice his bedroom door is shut.

It’s never been shut before.

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

He blinks, slowly.

It’s hard to tell if it’s from guilt.

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

He doesn’t answer.

You keep talking.

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

“This needs to stop.”

You don’t have to question it.

You do, anyway.

“What?”

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

“I don’t underst-”

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

He’s stern.

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

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

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

Everything, you want to tell him.

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

“I just thought-”

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

I know, you mouth.

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

When he calls to make sure you got home safe.

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

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

Javier Peña is not your boyfriend.

So why does he act like it?

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

Kid.

That makes you angry.

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

“Don’t call me kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, the back-and-forth stops.

Silence.

You take the lead.

“So, what? That’s it just... over?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too late, you want to say.

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

“Corazón, I’m so sor-”

The car honks, again.

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

Another honk.

You never make it to the line dance.

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

Love’s a verb And not a bandage

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

A promise of casual, turned into something fragile.

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

All you remember is a pounding at your front door.

1 am. Too late to be causing ruckus.

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

Pause.

This could be anyone, anything.

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

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

You let him invade your senses.

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

You pull back. He follows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, you do trip over them.

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

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

The gold of his skin shines brighter.

The red on his skin appears darker.

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

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

Later with Javi never seems to come.

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

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

‘I’ll get these back to you later.’

He’d never made you that dinner.

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

You’d never gotten those panties back.

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

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

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

Distractions are not welcomed, your patient needs tending to.

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

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

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

It does the trick, unlocks his tongue.

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

He hisses.

You’re pressing too hard on his fragile lip.

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

A splotch of red stains your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

Javi sighs, gives in.

He always gives in, to you, eventually.

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

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

He doesn’t need to.

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

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

He’s rambling.

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

You listen closely, swallow up every morsel he offers.

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

He chokes.

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

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

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

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

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

He nods.

“Did you help her?”

Another nod.

“Did you get her someplace safe?”

This time, a reply.

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

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

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

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

“What more could you have done?”

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

You whine out his name.

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

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

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

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

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

The words catch in your throat.

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

But mostly because he kisses you.

Desperate, hungry. Groaning into your willing mouth.

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

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

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

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

When Javi fucks you, he fucks with purpose.

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

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

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

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

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

When did Javier Peña stop wanting you?

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

By July, things change.

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

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

Boredom leads to hobbies.

At first, you try pottery.

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

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

You hate it, running.

You sweat, you ache, you exhaust.

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

The heartache.

The headache.

The agent.

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

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

The pink shirt still lives on one of your hangers.

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

Not right now.

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

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

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

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

Today, however, it’s more challenging.

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

You have to come, kiddo.

The phone-call still echos through your thoughts.

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

You’d wanted a better explanation than that.

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

You had no plans.

Bring your friends then! The more the merrier!

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

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

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

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

He said it, like that would persuade you.

Keep asking about ya, the whole lot of them.

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

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

You’d hung up.

Immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

Until you come to a screeching halt.

Double over.

Place your hands on your knees.

Dry heave.

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

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

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

You’ll have to see him.

Spend time near him.

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

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

For not quitting the force.

For being your dad’s friend.

For not wanting you the same you wanted him.

Want him.

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

You’re usually more careful.

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

You pick your pace back up.

Manage only a handful-or-two steps.

Your feet fly out in front of you.

Land ass-first on the gravel below.

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

You groan and prepare to get back on your feet.

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

Big mistake.

The hand tugs you.

You glance up.

And meet the eyes of Javier Peña.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You come up empty handed.

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

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

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

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

Wedding attire, a post-party glow.

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

Had he smiled, then?

Had he even been there?

Or was he merely a product of martinis and negronnis-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I- What?” Confussion.

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

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

Adjusts your piercing, swipes his thumb over your cheek.

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

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

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

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

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

Or both.

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

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

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

Your father’s voice.

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

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

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

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

Maybe it’s sadness you see.

There’s definitely remorse.

Guilt, too.

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

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

But none of that matter, anymore.

You’re already walking away.

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

He calls out your name, loudly.

Attracts the nosy eyes of people around.

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

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

He reaches out for your hand.

And quickly gives up on the thought of holding it.

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

He knows the answer.

You still give him it, “yes.”

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

You feel his eyes on you.

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

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

You’re laughing but it’s mostly fake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not her fault. You know.

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

Your dad is.

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

Even from here, you can hear him bragging.

So then Peña’s on his ass.

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

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

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

He’s exaggerating.

The guy was barely going 5 miles an hour!

He stepped out the vehicle at his own will.

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

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

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

If you step inside the frame, it cracks.

Shatters.

And maybe he knows that.

Knew it all along.

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

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

The feeling lasts all but four seconds.

“Kiddo!”

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

It takes a moment, but you wave.

“Come over ‘ere!”

Not the response you were hoping for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not a sight you want to see.

It fills you with dread.

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

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

“London.”

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

All eyes snap to him.

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

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

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

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

That peaks your interest.

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

“Really?”

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

With Javi, friends could mean anything.

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

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

So it’s best you don’t inquire on it.

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

“Mr... Bond?”

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

You can practically hear it, in his voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His lips press against your hairline before speaking again.

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

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

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

It’s too late though.

You’re already snoring against his skin.

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

For a minute, it feels like she knows.

She knows why Javi knows.

You should be panicking.

Both of you should.

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

But you aren’t. Neither of you are.

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

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

Your dad gives an unceremonious oh.

Your mom rolls her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pulls her close, kisses her shoulder.

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

Open, celebrated, acknowledged.

Not secretive, dirty, scandalous.

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

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

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

Your heart drops.

Javi’s seems to do the same.

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

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

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

But I’m actually bloody Motherfucking batshit crazy

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

You’ve lived plenty of such moments.

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

And all because you heard his voice.

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

He’s facing a woman.

She’s pretty.

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

And a well-rounded belly.

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

You’ve never seen her before.

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

She’s a total stranger, to you.

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

A very pregnant, non-stranger.

“We gotta get this kid some better taste.”

His hand rests on her bump.

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

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

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

You won’t let it fester.

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

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

Was she the reason things between you and him ended?

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

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

Surely, he couldn’t have.

But, then, why couldn’t he have?

You were never exclusive.

You were never anything.

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

Your heart’s palpitating.

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

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

Because, how could he do this to you?

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

Love you so deeply and leave you so easily?

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

“He’s a real kicker, ain’t he?”

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

But, no, it’s too distant. Too far.

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

He’s handsome, in the typical sense.

Blonde haired, a nice smile.

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

“He?” It’s Javi who echoes.

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

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

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

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

The bile in your throat burns more than ever before.

The misplaced anger bleeds into sadness, shame, embarrassment.

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

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

Friends his own age.

Worlds apart, yet nothing but a shelf between you.

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

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

The little girl perks right up at that.

Eyes widened, head off her father’s shoulder.

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

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

“Quit lying to my kid, Peña.”

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

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

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

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

Your breathing stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flicker up to the shelf and-

He’s no longer standing on the other side.

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

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

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

You wake up early.

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

Making the most out of your time upon foreign land.

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

The truth lies in that you can not sleep.

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

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

A quarter past six.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your ringtone is the culprit.

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

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

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

“Corazón.”

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

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

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

Sadness that it sounds so broken down the line.

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

“I’m here,” it’s only a whisper.

It’s enough to shut him up.

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

“You’re in London,” he states.

“I am,” you affirm.

He hums, sips something.

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

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

“Yeah,” you spare him the details.

The truth.

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

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

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

You sure felt alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For answers, for clarity, for closure

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

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

Even then, it kills you to do so.

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

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

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

“What answer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The image doesn’t quite form.

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

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

Refuge he’s willing to share with you.

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

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

“Promise me you’ll go, corazón.”

Your reply is instant, “I promise.”

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

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

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

“How you feeling, kiddo?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of them have, really.

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

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

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

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

“You’re literally in my room!”

“Which is literally in my house!”

Downstairs, your mother yells something unintelligible.

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

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

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

Tupperware, clasped in his hand.

The contents are hard to decipher.

Luckily, your father spots you eyeing it.

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

Your stomach growls, hungry and unfed.

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

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

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

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

Immediately, you spot chicken.

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

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

Your father continues, practically talking to himself.

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

“Cazuela de ave.”

A change into warmer, drier clothes.

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

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

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

And that fact is partly what warms your insides.

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

Objectively, you think, he’s gorgeous.

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

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

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

The scent alone is enough to have you salivating. 

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

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

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

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

A real date.

Only, this isn’t even a fake date.

You guys don’t do that.

“It’s- It was my mom’s recipe.”

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

He’s never mentioned his mother.

Or much about his family, really.

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

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

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

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

Open.

His eyes, his mind, his heart.

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

“Was she a good cook?”

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

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

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

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

It’s disturbingly beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know what to say.

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

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

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

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

Both of you settle back in your seats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She would have liked you.”

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

They’re as open as before.

“Really?”

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

“Kiddo?”

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

“Hmm?” 

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

“I’m- Yeah, just tired, s’all.”

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

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

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 82

Part 1 Part 81

All Eddie wants to do is cling to his people and not let go. He wants to latch onto Steve, to Uncle Wayne, to Will, but Steve’s not Steve, and Wayne’s off with Mama Byers trying to get Owens to tell them what’s going on. So he sits, holding Will’s hand and does the thing he’s worst at: he waits. 

He’s been pulling both their tethers to himself rhythmically, can’t help but make sure they’re both still there, even with the visual cues right in front of him. Will pulls back, each time with the same desperation. Steve doesn’t react at all. 

He’s been staring at the door everyone walked through since it clicked shut and locked. 

There’s still no fucking clock, but he could count the minutes by the blinking of Steve’s eyes, if only he could look at him. 

Will’s curling further and further into Eddie, almost in his lap save for the bar separating their conjoined hospital chairs. It’s a move reminiscent of a much smaller child, but Eddie can’t blame him. There’s not much less to cling to. 

His Mom’s off kicking ass, friends MIA out still living in the Right-Side-Up, and Steve’s staring at the door. 

Eddie’s it, the last man standing. 

So he sits, and waits, and clings right back.

Steve’s voice breaks up the quiet like a shot to the head. 

“Something’s wrong.”

The last time Steve had said that, Hopper was buried six feet deep. The words hit with a jolt. Eddie and Will both sit, bolt-upright, finally looking Steve’s way.

“What?” Eddie demands, reaching out his hand toward Steve before settling it back down on his own knee and clenching down. 

“I saw something.”

“You mean like with Chief Hopper?” Will asks. 

Steve’s not looking at them, he’s still staring at the fucking door like neither of them had spoken at all. What if it is like Hop, and someone else has found themselves in a deep grave, unable to dig their way out?

“The shadows,” Steve says absently. “I think I know how to stop him.”

Unable to sit still anymore, Eddie drops from his chair, knees rioting against him as they smack into the linoleum. He knee-walks over to Steve, dignity lost somewhere in a hole in the dirt, and grabs Steve’s hand. 

The skin turns pink immediately, painful and inflamed. Eddie doesn’t let go, reaches up up up to turn Steve’s cheek with his free hand, forcing Steve to finally look at him.

His cheek looks pink, like he’d been slapped when Eddie drops his hand, but his gaze burns hotter still. The thing that isn’t Steve looks down at Eddie like he’s nothing at all. 

“How, Stevie?” Eddie begs, shuffling forward to get closer. “How do we stop him?”

Steve just watches. 

“Sweetheart, please.”

Will gasps. Steve stares. Eddie’s crumbling in his foundation, made dust when Steve turns away to peer at the door. 

It’s silent again. 

Eddie can’t get up, can’t turn away, can’t look at whatever face Will’s making as he gets up from his chair to put his palm on the back of Eddie’s shoulder, gentle like he’s fragile. 

Steve’s still staring at the door when it opens. Eddie doesn’t turn at its click, doesn’t do anything at all until Uncle Wayne calls, “kid?” quietly.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he turns his face up to Uncle Wayne’s call like a sunflower to the last bits of dying light and Wayne brushes the tears off his cheeks. “What happened?”

Eddie’s eyes drift back to Steve, who’s staring fixedly at Dr. Owens. “Stevie, he…” Eddie realizes he doesn’t know what to say, how to explain the way Steve’s vacant, flickering, empty. 

He doesn’t have to. Even like this, Steve’s drawing attention away from Eddie’s weakness, sheltering him from words he doesn’t know how to say. 

“The shadows,” Steve says, same words, same cadence, same vacancy, “I think I know how to stop him.” He’s like a stock character with a limited amount of dialogue options, stuck repeating the same lines over and over until someone engages in the right way. 

A pit sinks into Eddie’s stomach as he watches not-Steve act like he wanted to help. But all he could feel from their bond is cold, cold, cold. 

Part 83

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @1-8oo-wtfbro @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso @best-selling-show @v3lv3tf0x @bookworm0690 @paintsplatteredandimperfect @wonderland-girl143-blog @nerdsconquerall @sharingisntkaren @canmargesimpson @bananahoneycomb

[neptunesyellowsands]

The Royal Library of Camelot

Hey folks!

I know I've been MIA on the books the last few days, but there was background stuff going on! I was able to get into contact with someone on Tumblr who had all the scans of all the books (!!) but needed formatting/tech help getting them out there, and someone else on X who had already started a project to host the scans on the web but didn't have all the books. I'm thrilled to have been the pdf-whizz middle man in this scenario!

SO, drumroll please...

The Royal Library of Camelot is officially live and fully stocked!

Have a gander and download everything you like. These pdf's are smaller in size (I learned a lot) so, even if you grabbed all of the ones I posted before, you might want to replace them with these to save space on your computers. And if I were you, I would download everything - you never know with the internet!

Kudos, kudos, and more kudos go to sorcvry for making all of this easily available (and gorgeous - they drew that background, y'all!) They are also investigating creating epub versions of everything. Many thanks to @merthurogies for putting me in contact with them!!

And kudos to @sugar-coated-prat-dragon for painstakingly scanning everything in! Also, they have some incredible topic-based guides on the books, answering questions and looking up little details that aren't found anywhere else. And if you need any of the pages in photograph format, you can find links to their original scans on the Tumblr.

I'm working on getting together more info for the Library, like magazines, interviews, and guides to all the official Merlin video games and how you can still access them. If you have any ideas, feel free to reach out.

And finally, for anyone who doesn't know what I'm talking about, here is the Merlin Wiki entry that goes over all the books. Thanks for following along, and as always...

Read your hearts out!

[muddy-water-1997]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗

𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗. 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢! 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎

𝙸𝚝𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝙰𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚊, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚢- 𝙹𝚈𝙿 𝙴𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢 𝙺𝚒𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎.

𝚃𝚆: 𝙹𝚈𝙿 (𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢), 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚝, 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚘. 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 2.6𝚔 3𝚁𝙰𝙲𝙷𝙰 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 ~ 𝙱𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 ~ 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚘 ~ 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎

"...But, Dad! Mia and Kat are going backpacking in Australia! We've planned everything down to the last detail. This is my final summer of freedom before I have to face the real world and do something with my degree. Please, please let me go with them!"

You could feel the desperation rising within you, fighting to keep your voice steady and your dignity intact. If you weren't holding on so tightly to the last of your composure, you'd drop to your knees, hands clasped, pleading with every ounce of your being for your dad to relent. You had been saving up all year for this trip, meticulously planning it with your friends. This was supposed to be your ultimate adventure, your last carefree summer before the corporate grind pulled you into its relentless grasp.

"I promised your uncle you'd intern with him this summer," your dad countered, exasperation evident in his tone. "Do you know how many people would kill for this opportunity?"

He wasn't wrong. An internship at JYPE was a golden ticket, especially for someone passionate about K-Pop. Your dream of producing and writing music made this opportunity seem perfect. But being the niece of someone as prominent as JY Park had dulled the allure. To you, it was a business, not the glamorous world others saw. Numbers, idols, money – that was the reality.

"I don’t want to produce K-Pop," you argued, trying not to sound bad-tempered. "I want to forge my path, create my music, not get trapped in a massive conglomerate that treats its idols poorly." You had barely interacted with your uncle, only seeing him a handful of times during holidays, but his media persona had shaped your opinion.

"You’re staying with your Uncle Park, Y/N. End of discussion." Your father's tone was final, the conversation over before it began.

You had argued relentlessly for the past couple of months, but now here you were, on a plane—and it wasn't headed for Australia as you had hoped. Instead, you were in business class on a direct flight to Seoul, Korea. Bitterness towards your uncle simmered within you, but even you had to admit, business class was a pretty persuasive gesture.

You didn’t grow up wealthy like your uncle's side of the family. You worked hard, enduring stupidly long hours while studying, watching your cousins flaunt their carefree lifestyles on social media, oblivious to the meaning of hard work. It was infuriating. Your disdain for idols might have stemmed from this stark contrast or perhaps the knowledge that while idols worked incredibly hard to get where they were, many acted entitled and aloof. None had ever been pleasant to you—at least, not until they learned who your uncle was. Then, suddenly, you were the most fascinating person in the room. The hypocrisy was maddening.

As the plane soared through the sky, you couldn't help but reflect on the irony of it all. Your friends were probably already packing for their grand adventure in Australia while you were whisked away to a world you wanted no part of. This internship at JYPE was supposed to be a dream opportunity, but it felt like a gilded cage to you. Your uncle and his family represented everything you despised: privilege without effort, glamour without substance.

Either way, with headphones in and complimentary champagne, you might as well embrace this life while no one is watching.

Landing in Korea for the first time since you were little felt surreal. As you navigated the bustling airport, dragging your suitcases behind you, you scanned the sea of drivers holding signs. It wasn’t long before you spotted a tall man in a cap and a JYPE-branded suit holding a sign with your name in both English and Hangul. If anything could cause a scene, it was this. You pulled your cap lower over your eyes, praying no one would cause a scene at the sight of a JYPE driver.

The driver kindly loaded your bags into the back of the car, and you awkwardly thanked him with your limited Korean before climbing into the back seat.

"Your uncle has asked me to bring you to the building," the driver informed you as he started the car. Of course, your uncle would put you straight to work. There was no escape from this.

You pulled your phone out of your handbag, quickly texted your dad that you had landed safely, and checked in on Mia and Kat. They were just boarding their flight to Australia, and a wave of jealousy washed over you. They were thrilled for you; an opportunity like this was a dream for them. You had even begged them to switch places with you and let you have the carefree summer you deserved. But they had politely declined, eager for their adventure backpacking across Australia. Not that you could blame them.

As the car navigated through the busy streets of Seoul, you couldn't help but feel excitement and dread. The city was vibrant and full of life, contrasting your conflicted emotions. This summer was supposed to be about freedom and adventure, not corporate internships and family obligations. Yet, here you were, heading straight into the heart of the world you had been trying to avoid.

“There’s my niece!” your uncle greeted you with a booming voice as you walked into his office on the top floor of the extravagantly modern building.

“Uncle,” you replied with a polite smile, masking your true feelings. “It looks like things have really stepped up since I last visited.” You glanced around the expansive office, the floor-to-ceiling glass offering a stunning view of Seoul.

“I’m going up in the world,” he gloated, his self-satisfaction palpable. “All of this could be yours one day, Y/N. That degree could be useful in a place like this.” You scoffed internally as if he’d offer you the company over his children.

“A dream, I’m sure,” you retorted, sarcasm lacing your words. Your uncle, too absorbed in his monologue, didn’t seem to notice.

“You’ll meet the production team today during your tour, and then I’m gathering a few idols this evening for a party at one of the local clubs. It’s a great way for you to mingle with your new colleagues…” He continued enthusiastically. The thought of mingling was bad enough, but a club full of idols? Your worst nightmare.

“Respectfully, Uncle, I’ve just been on a long-haul flight, and I have no idea where my accommodation is. I need a shower. Do I really need to attend a party full of… idols? I’d be happy to skip it.” You kept your tone as disinterested as possible, hoping he wouldn’t push further.

“No way! You’re not missing a party like this! It’s one of my specialities, and I planned it specifically for after your arrival so you could attend. If you’re going to experience the idol lifestyle, you might as well do it in style.” He flared his hands dramatically as if trying to add flair to the ordeal he was dragging you into.

“Uncle, I’m not becoming an idol. I’m here for music production. That’s my passion,” you stated firmly.

“Well, look at 3racha. They do both,” he countered, and you couldn’t help but groan in response.

Stray Kids. The latest group to be moulded under your uncle's strict regime. When you first heard of 3racha, you were impressed—three young guys producing their own music, carving their own path. It was a refreshing change from the other groups that came and went through your uncle’s company. But it wasn’t long before they were assimilated, transformed into a group of eight, adopting the idol mindset. It was disheartening, really.

“Either way, they’ll be there tonight,” Your uncle continued his speech. “You could learn a lot from 3racha; try and mingle with them.” There it was, the mingle word again. It made your skin crawl. Before you could retort, your uncle was at the office's door, motioning you to follow him to tour the rest of the company building. 

Arriving at your accommodation, you had a moment to reflect. Despite your disdain for the company, you couldn’t deny the impressive level of their equipment. The studios were filled with gear you had only read about in coursework books. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to get your hands on it. That was a task for Monday. For now, your primary focus was fighting off jet lag and preparing for this ridiculous party. You figured you could show your face for an hour and wait for your uncle to get so absorbed in himself that he wouldn't notice you slipping out.

What do you even wear to an event like this? You could already guess that the idols would be dressed in high-end brands that would take years to afford. You opened your suitcases, pulling out garment after garment, searching for anything suitable. Nothing. Despite having a rich and famous uncle, he hadn’t even splurged on an outfit for you? You’d have to deal with that after a shower. Feeling grimy after the long flight, you only wanted to feel the warm water washing away the travel fatigue.

After a blissful shower, you stepped out, threw on your robe, and began towel-drying your hair. A knock at the door startled you, and you hurried to open it.

“A delivery from Mr. Park,” the voice announced from the other side. You opened the door slowly to find the suited man from earlier handing you a black garment bag with a zip-up front. He bowed and walked away silently. You shut the door, staring at the bag in confusion. Maybe your uncle did get you a dress?

You rushed to the bedroom, hanging the bag on the wardrobe and unzipping it slowly, praying the outfit wasn’t hideous. To your surprise, the bag contained a beautiful floor-length black dress with an elegant tie at the back. It looked and felt too expensive for your body, but if you were going to embrace the night “like an idol,” you might as well do it on your uncle's dime.

Dressed to impress, you took a final look in the mirror. The dress fit perfectly, accentuating your figure with a sophisticated flair. Maybe this night wouldn’t be so bad after all. If nothing else, at least you’d look the part.

As expected, the venue was massive and overflowing with the Korean elite. Idols, producers, brands, and executives mingled inside, outside, and everywhere in between. The kind driver from earlier had dropped you off, and you headed into the venue, presenting your invite to the lady at the entrance. Stepping inside was overwhelming; the language barrier was one thing, but the sheer number of people was another. You reminded yourself that this was for your career; you'd need to navigate situations like this in the future. This was just practice.

You felt the weight of countless eyes on you, the unfamiliar girl walking through a sea of people who seemed to know each other well. You searched for your uncle but couldn't find him. He was likely caught up with some business person trying to secure more cash. The bar seemed like a safe haven, so you headed over and ordered a drink from the open bar. Free drinks? It could get messy.

Taking in the sights around you, you were reminded of how much you truly hated idol culture. Everyone acted like they were better than each other, obsessed with who would debut first or sell more albums. Whatever happened to the passion for just creating music? You sighed, sipping your drink and checking your watch—had it been an hour yet?

“Not really all they're made out to be?” A voice spoke from behind you. English? An Australian accent?

“Only thirty minutes before I can make my escape,” you responded without turning around.

“A free bar, and you want to leave?” The man chuckled. “That’s not very trainee behavior of you.” He scoffed. You turned to face him with a confused look. He looked oddly familiar, definitely one of your uncle's idols.

“Me? A trainee? Try again,” you scoffed back. “As if I would ever put myself in a situation like that.” You rolled your eyes, returning to your drink.

“Ouch,” the man said, faking as if a bullet had hit him in the chest. “No offense taken.” He laughed it off. “If you’re not a trainee, what are you doing in a place like this?”

“I’m interning for my…” You caught yourself not wanting to reveal your relation to JYP. “Interning for the production department,” you finished, forcing a smile onto your face.

“A foreigner interning in production? Interesting.” The man’s tone was questioning. “You must be talented to beat the competition over here.” He nudged you. Why was he being so nice?

“I think I have talent,” you confessed. “K-Pop wouldn’t be my first choice, but it's a start.” You shrugged.

“We’ll probably be seeing more of each other then… what was your name?” he asked, hand outstretched.

“Y/N.” You couldn’t help but smile; he seemed nice. He didn’t have the self-centred air of an idol. He must work in the production studio.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Chris,” he said with a warm smile.

Chris. A nice, average Australian guy you’d be working with in production. Maybe this internship wouldn’t be too bad after all.

You spent the rest of the night with Chris, discussing production techniques and your mutual love for creating music. It was refreshing to talk to someone who shared your passion and seemed to have actual experience in the field. Hours passed, and you still hadn’t seen your uncle—a lucky escape, it seemed, now that you were flying under the radar.

As the evening wore on, you decided not to push your luck. You quickly exchanged numbers with your new coworker, feeling proud to have avoided all the idols and their inevitable drama. With a sense of accomplishment, you made your way to the exit and headed for the taxi rank.

Climbing into the cab's back seat, you felt a wave of relief wash over you. The night had turned out much better than expected. Chris was a promising connection, someone who understood the industry from the ground up, and you were excited to start working with him.

Chris: ‘It was nice to speak to you tonight. I’ll see you on Monday! 🙂’

You locked your phone, smiling at the message. It might be a hot girl summer, after all.

It was a rush getting up and ready for work on Monday. The only things propelling you out of bed were the excitement of playing with top-notch equipment and the possibility of seeing Chris. You’d been texting on and off all weekend, exchanging production tips and the odd flirty message. Having a friend in such a big city was a comfort, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find him attractive.

You hurried to your uncle’s office, breathless, as you adjusted your outfit and stepped through the doors.

“Sorry I’m late, Uncle… jetlag,” you tried to explain between breaths.

“Oh, Y/N, you’re here!” he called you over to the seating area in the corner of the room. “I brought up some people I’d like you to meet,” he said as you walked over.

“Y/N, this is 3RACHA: Han Jinsung, Seo Changbin, and Bang Chan. Guys, this is my niece, Y/N,” your uncle introduced you.

Your face dropped as you locked eyes with Bang Chan. Well, Chris.

“Bang Chan?”

“Niece!?”

𝖶𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾? 𝖳𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾! 𝖬𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝖻𝗈𝗑 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗎𝗒𝗌! 𝖶𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗃𝗈𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍? 𝖣𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗋 𝖣𝖬!