#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.

[keerysfreckles]

keerysfreckles masterlist !

(in no paticular order)

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱

requests are open!!!

max verstappen

connor bedard

truth is

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)

peter parker

cedric diggory

apple pie

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

[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

[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)

[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!

[glamdringwlv]

Unchain my heart: Part 5. Lose control.

Unchain my heart series. Logan Howlett x oc!fmale Summary: Mia Green has grown up in a lab, subjected to numerous experiments due to her status as a mutant. When she manages to escape, Charles Xavier takes her in at his mansion, giving her a new life and helping her regain her memories. However, the arrival of a new resident at the mansion threatens to destabilize everything she believed.

Warnings: Violence, foul language, a mix of various canons, X-Men movies, X-Men animated series, X-men comics.

When she returned to her room, it felt empty. Everything she had just seen, the man's words... it all echoed in the walls of her battered mind.

She was still damp, though the warmth from the fireplace and Logan had shielded her from the cold of the lake. The warmth from Logan. She hugged herself, trying to comfort the pain of not being in contact with him. It had been his presence that pulled her out of that whirlwind of anguish and pain.

Her head throbbed, and she could still feel the ghost of electrical impulses at her fingertips. With a heavy heart, she dragged herself toward the bathroom connected to her room, but when she touched the doorknob, the rustling of the sheets stopped her.

She felt selfish for not wanting to face what was coming, but she didn’t have the strength.

“Oh God, Mia, what happened to you?”

She didn’t turn around; she only glanced over her shoulder as Scott got out of bed, hurrying toward her.

“Nothing, I was sleepwalking and ended up in the lake, that’s all.”

“The lake? What…”

She squeezed her eyes shut as he grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him. A thought flashed through her mind. I’m tired of not being able to see what’s in your eyes. She pushed it away immediately, because it wasn’t fair to him.

“I just need a hot shower, Scott. I’m exhausted.”

“Mia, you can’t show up soaking wet and expect me not to worry.”

She raised her hands to put distance between them and saw his face contort in pain. She knew she was pushing him away, and her actions were creating an abyss between them.

“I’m really fine. Logan helped me out of the water, so he’s…”

“Logan?” His voice turned cold, distant. “What the hell was he doing there with you?”

Saving me from myself while you didn’t even notice I was gone. She bit her tongue, not wanting to say it, but she couldn’t stop.

“He saw me leave the house, and when I didn’t answer his calls, he got worried.”

“Worried?” The venom in Scott’s words made her frown. She didn’t know where this was coming from. He crossed his arms, and a look of disbelief spread across his face.

Mia rubbed her forehead, trying to ease the pounding headache that was making it hard to be more understanding with her partner.

“Scott, I can’t deal with this right now. I don’t have the energy. Please. I’ll deal with your jealousy tomorrow, if that’s okay.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line when she realized what she had said. She had no control over her words and didn’t understand where this bitterness was coming from. He just wants to understand and help.

“My jealousy… Sorry I don’t understand what’s happening. This guy shows up, confronts you in your classroom, and then turns up saving you when you’re fainting and pulling you out of frozen lakes. Mia, you don’t even know him. What’s going on?”

She felt weak for a moment as the truth in his words hit her. Tears filled her eyes, and she felt foolish for wanting to cry while arguing with someone she cared about. The silence that followed her words was worse than any shout. In that emptiness, everything was falling apart. And when she finally found her voice, it was broken.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me. And it terrifies me.” She struggled to find the words to describe what she was feeling. “There’s something… inside me that isn’t right, Scott. I can’t control it, I can’t rein it in, and I’m afraid it’ll come out and destroy everything.”

Scott’s features softened, and he tried to reach out to her, but she recoiled, as if fearing her own pain was contagious. She saw something break in his eyes.

“I’ve tried to tell you, to explain that I’m not myself anymore and that Charles isn’t giving me answers, and your stance was to defend him. You didn’t even consider that I might be right.” The dam holding back her tears broke, and she began to sob, hurt. “I tried to come to you, and you downplayed it.”

Scott’s face darkened again.

“Mia, I didn’t downplay it. I just said you had no reason to distrust Charles. He’s never given you one. But you throw yourself into the arms of a stranger.”

The mutant’s frustration caused the lights in the room to flicker. Inside her, a surge of anger and rage ignited, feeding her wilder side, the one that had shattered the lake ice in a burst of power. She felt the atmosphere grow heavy and the ghost of energy in her limbs.

“You’re an idiot, Scott. You’ve always been the Professor’s lapdog. You’ve never even considered disobeying him. ‘Cyclops, do this,’ ‘Summers, handle that,’ ‘Scott, keep the broken girl occupied.’”

“What? Mia, Charles never told me… What I feel for you is real.”

She knew it was true and that she was being cruel to him, but she couldn’t stop. Once again, she had lost control that night.

“If I’ve thrown myself into someone else’s arms, it’s because they didn’t treat me like a damn broken toy. Like something to be cared for and manipulated carefully for fear of it breaking. Scott, I’m not who you thought I was.”

The lights flickered again, and he tried to approach her, but he stepped back when he felt a small shock pass through him.

“We’ll fix this, we’ll find the answer, together. Just like always, okay?”

She wanted to say yes, to stop everything and hug him. She really wanted to trust his words. But the one now trying to break free was her, seeing everything from within, unable to access her body. The beast had taken control and was trying to spread the same pain she felt. She pounded against the wall that held her back but couldn’t return.

“There’s nothing to fix, Scott. I’m not the person you fell in love with anymore.”

“Mia, you’re always going to be that person, no matter what. I don’t understand how everything changed in less than two days, how…”

He saw her eyes light up with an unnatural color, and the words died in his mouth. He somehow knew he was no longer speaking to his girlfriend, that something else had taken her place.

“It didn’t change in just two days, and you thinking that proves me right.” Small flashes of light streaked across her body, wild and uncontrolled. “I’ve always been holding back who I really am to fit into the image you’ve designed for me, but I’m tired of feeling weak.”

He couldn’t respond, unable to find the words to bring her back, to ease her pain.

“Because you think I’m weak, don’t you, Scott? Always being a half-person, always exhausted from keeping part of myself locked away, away from everything so I don’t hurt anyone. Fainting at the slightest provocation because I don’t have the energy to be who I am.”

He extended a hand toward her and wanted to pull back, though she didn’t. Despite everything, he still believed the girl he loved would never hurt him.

“Well, I’m going to show you just a tiny part of what I feel.”

He sensed Mia’s presence in his head. Raw, wild, and damaging. He clutched his head as if trying to soothe the pulsing pain it was causing, and when he finally let it in, the air tasted of fear. His breath caught when terror and confusion struck him. He felt a bubble of anguish in his chest threatening to burst and destroy everything in its path. And beneath it all, an overwhelming sense of loneliness. He fell to his knees in front of her, and tears he couldn’t hold back appeared beneath his glasses.

Mia thrashed within her own mind. She hammered against the mental barrier trapping her and with one final push, she emerged into the light. She immediately cut off the connection with Scott and knelt with him on the floor. Gently, she hugged him and let the spasms of her crying overtake her. With mechanical movements, the mutant wrapped her arms around him, still in shock from what she had felt.

“I had no idea…”

She shook her head, not wanting him to say anything. She clung to him, but didn’t find the peace she had found in other arms. She remained a whirlwind of fury and pain but swallowed it.

“I’m so sorry, Scott. I can’t… I’m not able to… Not anymore.”

He nodded, trying to understand what had happened in such a short time. A clear name appeared in his mind, the one responsible for all the unleashed chaos. Logan.

The room fell silent after Mia’s words, her apology’s echo hanging in the air like a heavy presence. They both remained motionless, her on her knees in front of him, Scott still holding her as if that physical contact could mend what was broken between them. But the electricity in the atmosphere made it impossible.

Mía was frozen, every fiber of her body trembling with a mix of exhaustion and regret. But beneath that wall of emotions, she felt something else: an abyss, dark and unknown, a growing chasm between who she was and what she was meant to be. She knew there was no turning back.

Scott was the first to move. He rose slowly, loosening his grip on her and stepping away. The weight of disappointment was unmistakable on his face, despite his attempts to mask it behind his usual firmness. He didn’t say a word as he took a step back, and she felt the coldness seep into the space where his warmth had been.

He took a deep breath, as if searching for strength to continue. Then he spoke, his voice tense and barely controlled.

“I don’t understand what’s happened to you, Mía. I don’t recognize you anymore…” His voice trembled, frustration and pain struggling to break through. “I thought we were in this together, that we could get through anything. But every day you seem further away. And now…” Silence enveloped him, unable to finish the sentence. He turned completely, facing away from her, as if he couldn’t bear to face her any longer.

She watched him in silence, knowing that any words she said would only make things worse. She had come too far to turn back, and though a part of her wanted to scream at him not to leave, another part knew this was the end. She couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine when her inner world was falling apart. She had lost him, and with him, she had lost a part of herself.

“I need time, Scott. I need to find out who I am… before it’s too late.” Her voice came out in a whisper, almost imperceptible, but the words were final. She knew there was no going back.

He nodded, though he didn’t look at her.

“Find out who you are in Logan’s arms,” he replied finally, his voice now empty, lacking the warmth it used to have. “Maybe you need to separate from me so the guilt doesn’t eat you up inside.”

Mía felt her heart sink at his words, but she said nothing more. The distance between them had grown too great, and she didn’t know how to bridge it. He stood still for a moment longer before walking toward the door. He paused at the threshold, his hand on the doorknob, and turned his head slightly, as if about to say something. But the words never came. Instead, he left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click, leaving Mía alone in the dim light.

The silence that followed was deafening. The weight of solitude pressed down on her like a leaden slab, crushing her. She tried to hold back her tears, but the tension and sadness overwhelmed her. She sobbed, letting her body shake under the pressure of everything she had been holding back. But the tears didn’t last long; there was something deeper that tears couldn’t heal.

The flickering of the lights returned, a constant reminder of her inability to control what was happening inside her. Sparks flew through the air, small discharges racing around the room, mirroring her inner turmoil.

She slowly got up, stumbling towards the window. The view offered a white, cold, empty landscape, just like how she felt inside. She had broken something in her relationship with Scott, she knew, and now she had to face what came next. Her mind turned to Logan. The memory of his warmth, his unyielding presence at the lake, his ability to understand her without even needing words. But even that was uncertain.

The icy wind stirred the bare branches outside the mansion. A shiver ran down her spine. She was tired of feeling incomplete; she wanted to feel as strong as she had at the lake, needed more. She couldn’t stop the feelings that surged in her head and overwhelmed everything. Once again, she saw her world from a third-person perspective, as if her body didn’t belong to her. I’ll find answers, one way or another. There was that wild, raspy voice that she struggled to recognize as her own. She howled a denial, but she couldn’t stop that beast.

She wiped her tears away with a swipe and took a deep breath, feeling the cold from the window giving her strength. With determined steps, she left the room. She walked through the empty hallways of the mansion, her mind focused on one thing. She tracked the minds in the mansion until she found the one she was looking for. That uncontrolled tangle of thoughts that oozed pain. She followed it to its source.

She reached the door leading to the wing where Logan usually stayed. She hesitated for a second before raising her hand and knocking, her other side struggling to regain control. The hollow sound reverberated in the silence, and she waited.

“Come in,” Logan’s deep, gruff voice called from inside.

She entered the room, closing the door behind her without a word. Logan was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, extinguishing his cigarette with a casual gesture. As she walked in, he noticed a change in her posture, in her expression. Mía’s gaze, usually intense but controlled, was now fierce and determined, as if a storm was about to break inside her.

“Let’s get started,” she said, her voice rougher than usual, carrying an urgency that brooked no argument.

She advanced towards him with determination, but inside, the conflict was palpable. The voice of reason ceased to fight for a moment, distracted by the almost magnetic attraction she felt towards him. Her darker side, now governing her thoughts, lulled her in the deepest part of her mind, using the mutant’s presence to silence her. The desire to find answers in Logan’s memories, to dig into his mind, was irresistible. But to do that, she had to envelop him, capture his full attention.

Logan frowned. Something in her tone, in the energy emanating from her, made him hesitate. He stood up, as if trying to assert his presence and regain control of the situation.

“What’s going on, Mía?” he asked, trying to stay firm.

But before he could react, her darker side had already taken control. She gently pushed him onto the bed, straddling him, her legs wrapping around his sides, her body taking possession of his. The closeness, the warmth of her skin, the scent that seemed to envelop everything around him… it all washed over him like an unstoppable wave.

Logan tried to speak, but his words drowned in the tense air. His mind, always alert, began to fade under the weight of the sensations. The touch of her skin, the warmth of her body on his… it was as if, for the first time in a long while, something inside him relaxed. Suddenly, he felt Mía’s presence in his head, persistent. This time, it wasn’t painful, but rather the opposite.

As she delved deeper into his mind, her presence in the space grew more intense. Her essence, her scent, everything that was Mía, amplified in his head, surrounding him completely. Logan began to breathe harder, his body tense. The bond between them was rising to a level he had never experienced with anyone. He didn’t just feel Mía’s mind in his, but also her physical essence, every beat of her heart, every emotion that coursed through her skin.

The scent of rain, an electric buzz in the air, the heat of her presence. He closed his eyes, fighting to stay grounded. What he’d initially felt for her was now mingling with something deeper, a connection that overwhelmed him, something he struggled to handle. He knew he shouldn’t let things progress, but the intensity of what was happening had him on edge.

His muscles tensed; the control he’d always maintained over himself was slipping away with the touch she had begun to trail through his hair. He felt her in every sense, wrapping around him, making the need to touch her unbearable. He couldn’t focus on anything else. Mía’s mind was a storm in his own, and his body was responding to it in a primal, urgent way. It wasn’t just physical attraction; there was something about her calling to him in a way he couldn’t rationalize.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears, and his self-control was cracking. But beneath all that comfort, something wasn’t right. There was something in the way she looked at him, how her hands rested on his shoulders—it was too... intense. There was more in her eyes than simple attraction. It was a dangerous mix of desire and control.

Logan, confused, let the moment wash over him, but when his thoughts briefly wandered to Scott, something didn’t fit.

“What’s up with Summers?” he asked abruptly, trying to snap back to reality, his words slicing through the silence. It didn’t seem like Mía to be with him like this, at least not while she was still with Scott. But he got no answer. Her gaze darkened, her expression hardened for a moment, as if something inside her had broken. That lack of response made him realize there was more behind this moment.

“Scott?” she finally replied, her voice barely a whisper, running her nails through her hair. She tried to look innocent and almost smiled with satisfaction when she noticed a growl escaping from his throat. She almost had him.

That brief pause was enough for a spark of doubt to ignite in Logan. Something inside him, buried under the layers of sensations Mía had invoked, began to awaken. The question about Scott had started as a casual curiosity, but now, in light of her lack of response, it began to take on a different form in his mind. This wasn’t like her, and for the first time, he started to think that her state wasn’t the result of a simple decision.

The air between them grew thick.

“Mía...” he tried again, this time in a softer tone, trying to reconnect with the part of her he knew.

But she wouldn’t let him finish. She couldn’t lose this battle now, not when she could feel his memories at her fingertips. She leaned in, her lips barely brushing his, and Logan felt the clash of his desires mingled with a darkness that enveloped him. The warm breath on his skin drove him mad, shattering the chains with which he had held back the part of him that had been yearning for her since the first time he touched her in the Danger Room. His body reacted before his mind could sort things out. It was a kiss charged with everything she could offer, a kiss that ensnared him in the same darkness she was falling into.

Logan closed his eyes, letting the emotions engulf him. For a moment, everything felt right. Feeling complete, feeling needed—something he had never fully experienced before. But... there was something else. A bitter aftertaste to it all, as if behind that fullness lay a trap. Anger began to rise from deep within him, but it wasn’t directed at her—it was at what was happening.

Logan struggled to turn his head away, breathing deeply, trying to regain some control.

“This isn’t you, Mía...” he said softly, with that deep yet reassuring voice he always had.

The anger bubbled inside her, tired of people telling her who she should be. For a moment, both versions of her agreed on something—the frustration of being told who to be. She didn’t even know the answer herself; how dared they think they did.

Mía kissed him again, this time with more force, with a passion that came from the depths of her being. She bit his lip with intensity, and Logan had to stifle a groan. He pulled her closer, feeling that the contact between them wasn’t enough. He needed more. The kiss was intense, raw, as if every cell in her body was pouring its desire into him, pushing every boundary.

Through the mental link they shared in that moment, Mía allowed Logan to feel what she was feeling. She wanted him to see her desire, to understand that she wanted him, that this wasn’t just manipulation. But in her haste, in her desperate attempt to distract him, she made a mistake. Unintentionally, she loosened her grip on her rational side, and the girl’s awareness let slip an alert to the mutant, despite the fact that she was enjoying the moment as much as he was. It allowed him to glimpse, even if for a second, that yes, she was using him. That part of her, the part struggling to control everything, saw him as a means to her own ends.

Logan, bewildered by the torrent of emotions and sensations, tried to process it. He felt Mía’s burning desire, but also the cold sting of betrayal. The mix of both shook him, but before he could react, Mía intensified the moment. She used her powers to dig her nails into his back, opening wounds that healed immediately. Logan gasped, enveloped by so many sensations. The blend of pleasure and pain clouded his judgment, and he was on the verge of giving in, of letting his more primal side surface as well.

Finally, with all the willpower he could muster, Logan pulled his face away from hers, breaking the kiss. His breathing was ragged, and his body trembled, still responding to the storm of sensations Mía had unleashed in him. With a low growl, he managed to gently push her back, breaking the physical contact that kept him tethered to her.

“Mía, stop...” His voice was rough, but there was a mix of pleading and determination in it. The look he gave her was intense, a mix of desire and suppressed anger. He couldn’t deny that what she was doing affected him, tempted him, but Logan wasn’t someone who would be dragged along easily.

She looked at him with frustration in her eyes, almost defiant, but there was something more. She knew Logan had seen part of the truth. She knew that, despite her desire, she had let him see her other side, the one that used him for her own ends. And that threw her off balance.

Still trembling, she tried to maintain control over herself, over the situation. She brought a hand to her face, as if trying to remove an invisible mask that was choking her. She wanted to continue, to hold on to that control, but she was now aware of how difficult it was becoming.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice breaking, but her hand trembled as it left his back and stroked her hair. Logan closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He knew there was something profound between them, but he also understood that she was torn between her desire and that part of her that controlled her, pushing her to do things she didn’t fully understand.

“You don’t need to do this,” he murmured, placing his hands over hers to stop her. There was no aggression in his gesture, just a firmness indicating that he wouldn’t be dragged along.

The weight of those words fell on them with an intensity he hadn’t expected. She felt his darker side slowly retreating, but not because she wanted it to, but because Logan was demanding it. It was hard to maintain control. It was like an internal current fighting to take over, but every time he looked at him, with eyes full of pain and understanding, something inside her broke a little more.

“It’s easier this way...” she whispered, not sure if she was speaking the truth or just trying to justify what she had done. But the phrase sounded hollow even to her own ears.

“It’s not, Mía.” Logan’s voice was firm, though there was a trace of vulnerability in it. It pained him to see her like this, caught in that internal struggle, and it moved him to want to help her, not just because of the desire he felt, but because of something deeper. A connection that, though he couldn’t explain, he couldn’t ignore.

She finally gave in. She couldn’t keep fighting, not against this. She felt she was losing, not just the internal battle, but something more valuable. The control she had longed for was slipping away, and with it, the darkness that had dominated her every move began to dissipate, slowly, painfully.

Tears started to flow from her eyes before she could stop them. Everything she had tried to hold back was now spilling out. She sobbed uncontrollably, burying her face in Logan’s chest, seeking refuge in the only place she had left.

Logan held her without saying a word. There were no words that could comfort her in that moment, but his warmth, his presence, were enough. He felt Mía’s body shaking, her breathing slowing, until gradually, exhaustion overcame her.

And there, in the mutant’s arms, Mía fell asleep, as he held her close, determined not to let her sink any deeper into the darkness that tormented her so much.

[moonshynecybin]

please just a window into your mind palace 🙏 how does vale react when marc gets kidnapped? how does he act and what lengths does he go to save him? what kind of measures does he take to make sure marc is never harmed?

it’s really more like. okay so i think the lever that drives the purpose of the story in all of the whump fic EYE read as a young teen was. hey what if this character gets KIDNAPPED and BEFORE they got kidnapped everyone was maybe perhaps taking advantage of them/under appreciating them/not realizing they were in pain (this attitude could be extrapolated from actual observed behavior in canon towards this character orrrr ENTIRELY INVENTED. doesn’t really matter. with marc it is. unfortunately very real in many ways from vale due to their biblical level estrangement) but NOW people get to freak out and realize how much they care about them and how much they love them and nurse them back to health while whiping blood off of their bruised, pretty face as the kidnapped character sort of gazes up at them in disbelief that a WORM like them could even be cared about enough to be gently touched. in many ways this is a fun scenario to think about with ROSQUEZ. because i think marc has internalized. okay vale doesn’t care about me. and i want him to be proven WRONG ! INCORRECT BUZZER ! and this is perhaps a batshit crazy enough lever to get vale a lil stressed. like it’s one thing to see marc vaulted through the air. they do that for work. AND vale doesn’t even like THAT. but. ransom ? kidnapping ? total marquez family media freeze out? not even a cryptic liar statement from honda to overanalyze or a shirtless selfie from a hospital bed to signal he’s alive ? homie is BUGGIN. he likes INFO he’s CURIOUS he knew every detail of marc deciding to ride on that arm in 2020 he pays ATTENTION. worry despite distance. and oh boy this is the supreme worry scenario.

so anyways the wheels are off we are doing old school fandom tropes because in real life i think vale like. just stays kind of quietly scared until he’s asked about it where he has to perform the most insane feat of mental gymnastics ever put to camera. but that’s not FUN !!! so marc gets kidnapped by uh. evildoers. not important. they only really beat him up in a hot way like on teen wolf. and vale finds out through a blurry picture of marc shirt kinda half unbuttoned and mouth duct taped and on the NEWS and he looks SCARED and TIRED and BRUISED and. not very much like himself. which is thing that puts a burning pit in vale’s stomach the MOST, and he’s pretending he doesn’t care he’s pretending it’s normal he’s pretending it’s about HIMSELF (what if someone was out there kidnapping generationally talented motorsports professionals uccio ?? he HAS to be checking the news obsessively for safety THANK YOU..) but he’s really so stressed. white knuckle grip on his composure. like vale is not sleeping not eating he’s refreshing the news story obsessively because he doesn’t KNOW anything which is the scariest part. he’s calling in every contact he can he’s traveling to spain he’s getting turned away at the marquez family door. he’s still DENYING THAT HES FREAKING OUT. and he’s MIA. uccio is like vale has also been kidnapped. vale is like shut up. please. i am fine.

now in no world do i think vale actually DOES anything effective to get marc back bc at the end of the day he’s just a noodle who can ride bikes good. sorry. leave that to spy aus and the like. but he TRIES and he FREAKS and when they get marc back (bruised and pale and thin. comes into the ER like. and when can i ride my bike again. fully in tears) he arranges everything so it goes as smoothly as possible and then he stays in the hospital lobby for a full two days bundled up on an incognito hoody like a weirdo. he’s just gotta see him

[barefoothighlander]

hiiii i love your work so much and i was wondering if you could please do something angsty where the reader is dating ghost and on the team and something goes wrong? like to the point where they are MIA and presumed dead for months? but they are found and ghost is so relieved and can’t believe that they’re alive (can be female reader or gender neutral i don’t mind 💛)

been in my feels recently so here’s some ghost angst

warnings: violence, grief, mentions of death, small mention of scars & blood, mentions of ptsd, smoking, gn pronouns (reader call sign is fox)

“Where are they?” Ghost bursts into Prices office

“Soap got back 10 minutes ago”

“And what about Fox, are they back?”

“Not yet”

“Not yet? Did they call in?”

“Comms fell through half an hour ago”

“So they’re out there blind?”

Price huffs a breath, nodding to Ghost, his face drops, you had been on a recon with Soap and it was going well until the two of you got ambushed and had to call for evac, Soap made it to the rendezvous point where the heli was waiting but you weren’t there, the enemies swarmed the checkpoint, you made the call for them to leave you.

Ghost loomed around base for hours, waiting, changing the channel on his comms every minute to see if you were talking, but it was radio silent.

“Let me go find them”

“Absolutely not Simon, there’s hostile everywhere I’m not sending you out to get killed”

“With all due respect Captain, it’s not your call”

“If you leave this base I will have you sent home son, the best we can do is wait”

Ghost stands still, his eyes staring down Price silently begging him to let him leave, but Price stays stern. He walks to the deck, standing outside the base his his back against the wall, reaching for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket and lighting one.

He stands outside for hours, willing you to appear, to be safe, walking towards him with open arms, but his view is clear. No one on deck, no vehicles pulling in, there’s nothing.

Two months pass, two months of silence, Price had called the mission to an end two weeks after you were declared MIA, Ghost went back to an empty home. Everything was too quiet without you there, the bright lights of the house dimmed without your presence, Simon felt everything slipping away again.

He’d never prepared himself for the day he’d lose you, he’d lost everyone, everything, the pain of living without you didn’t even compare to that of losing his family, he felt like someone had reached into his chest and ripped his heart out. He barely slept, staying awake every night praying you’d walk through the door, when he did sleep he dreamt of you, your face resting on the pillow just inches from his, he dreamt of just holding you.

The scent of your soap still lingered on some old clothes, he’d sometimes grab a shirt and just hold it to his skin, imagining it was you there in front of him instead of a piece of cloth.

Within the second month he had cut all contact with the team, ignoring their calls and texts, he didn’t care for their words of encouragement or condolences, none of it made up for the fact that you weren’t there.

He felt guilty, he couldn’t save you, he blamed himself thinking about how he should’ve been there, he shouldn’t protected you just like he’d done in missions before. He blamed Soap for leaving without you, even if it was your call, he would’ve never left you behind no matter the circumstances.

It was all too much, he didn’t have enough time with you, an eternity still would’ve been too short, everything in him ached and longed for you, he just wanted one more moment, one more time he could tell you how much you meant to him, how much he loved you.

He refused to pack your things, not out of denial but because he refused to let you be forgotten, wherever you were, you’d be with him forever. He always made your side of the bed, he kept all your mugs next to his just like you’d done years before, everything in his life still looked as if you were with him.

His hope dwindled with each day, every night you were gone was just a higher chance of you never coming home to him, he checked in with base every morning to see if there was any news, everyday was the same, you hadn’t shown up.

72 days had gone by since you went missing, presumed dead but they hadn’t identified your body, at 4am Simon was standing on the porch smoking a cigarette when the ring of his phone echoed through the house, he assumed it was some call in for an op, begrudgingly dragging himself back inside to pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Is this Simon?”

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m with the Bayfield Emergency Hospital, we have a patient asking for you”

His heart dropped through his chest, he hung up his phone and rushed to his car, he was acting purely on adrenaline, every fibre of his being hoping it was you they found, that he wouldn’t arrive to someone else laying in a cot.

He’s speeding through the dark night, eyes darting around to check for police officers, there was nothing in the world that could stop him from getting to the hospital.

He pulls into the parking lot and rushes through the large glass doors,

“Where are they?”

“Who Sir?”

“The one that asked for Simon, where are they?”

“I need your full name”

“I- I can’t, please just tell me where they are”

“Sir I can’t let you in without the paperwork”

He slams his fists to the desk, “Please”

He sees two security guards from the corner of his, he retracts his palms stepping back, tears pricking his eyes as heat flushes his skin,

“Is he here yet?” A doctor asked, stepping through a sliding door

“Are you fox’s doctor?”

“Who are you”

“I’m Simon, are they in there”

The doctor looks hesitantly towards the nurse, “come with me”

His ears a ringing, the fluorescent lights above his head feel blinding as he makes his way through the series of hallways.

“They’re okay, a little banged up, it’s their mental state we’re worried about”

Simon looks through the small window on the door, you’re laying in the bed, your arms strapped to your sides.

“You can go in”

Simon takes a breath, nodding to the doctor before opening the door, he can see you better now, there’s cuts and bruises scattering your legs, dried blood on your skin all the way up to your neck, your face is flush, stained with tears.

“Fox?”

You turn your attention to him, shaking your head “No, no please, go away”

He moves towards you slowly, like a wounded animal as you thrash against your restraints, tears streaming down your face.

“Fox it’s me”

“Please, just let me go”

His hand ghosts over your arm and you flinch from the contact, Ghost turns to glance at the door before he takes his mask off, turning back to you.

“It’s me love, no one’s gonna hurt you”

“You’re not real”

He thinks for a moment, his fingers moving to undo one of your restraints as he kneels by your side, he lifts your hand to touch his face, your fingers trace over his scars.

“It’s me”

You let out a sob, Simon reaches to undo your other arm and pulls you into him, muffling your cries with his chest as he holds you.

“It’s okay, you’re home” He’s saying it to the both of you, your fingers clinging to his jacket.

He sits with you as you cry, his hands gently stroking your hair,

"I can't believe you're home" He whispers into your hair, his eyes watering as a small sniffle leaves his nose.

His hand holds yours close as you wait for the doctors to clear you, they tend to a few superficial cuts before letting you leave. Simon helps you slowly walk to the car, the ride back is silent, his eyes glancing over to check on you every so often before he pulls into the driveway.

You sit, staring at the house, he opens your door standing next to you, his arm extending to help you out before you make your way inside. It's all so familiar but different at the same time, everything is the same, the pictures on the shelves haven't moved, the flowers that sat in the vase now dried up and wilted, he kept everything the same.

"Let's go to bed" He says, his hands lightly cupping your jaw as he leans down to plant a gentle kiss to your forehead. You follow quietly behind him as he settles into bed, the mattress is soft under your body, a stark contrast to the environment you've been in for the past few months.

His arms wrap around you, pulling you into him as his chin settles on top of your head, you're breathing in his scent, the warmth of his skin enveloping you just like you wished it had for so many nights. Simon's heart aches with every sniffle you let escape, all he can do is hold you.

"I love you so much Simon"

He takes a deep breath, hip lips pressed to the crown of your head, "Don't ever leave me fox".

[theshotsheardacrossworlds]

Jealousy

Fill for #7 on this list featuring poor Rolan watching his fiancée get hit on at a ball. He decides to do something about it. NSFW.

“Rolan, at least try to smile, sweetie.” His fiancée’s mother lightly chided the Master of Ramazith’s Tower. He, Amelie, and her mother were attending yet another boring ball hosted by idiots. He was already in a sour mood when they arrived. There’s been a setback in repairing the glass observation dome at the tower. There was a parade of rude customers in the shop today. These new dress boots are hurting my damn feet. The wine here is piss.

But then he saw something that made him seethe.

His beautiful, perfect fiancée was speaking to a human noble who was standing too close.

Too, too close.

Amelie very clearly knew the gentleman, chuckling softly at something he said.

He had not felt it in the months, not since their engagement was announced and her companions went their separate ways.

A dark, ugly feeling in the pit of his stomach.

She is mine. MINE.

“Rolan, there’s…oh dear. Off he goes.” The countess laughed, shaking her head, watching her future son-in-law stride with purpose across the ballroom.

Heart pounding in his chest, Rolan downed the rest of his wine and placed the chalice on a tray before resuming his mission.

Yes, mission.

To save my beloved from…someone she knows and is happily speaking to.

Turning her head, the half-elf caught his glance and grinned. “Oh Stannik, this is my fiancé Rolan—”

He as discreetly as possible wrapped an arm around her ample waist, his hand resting on a hip. “I don’t mean to interrupt,” he began as politely as possible. “But may I borrow you, my dear?”

Borrow.

As if I should have to borrow my future wife from an ingrate like this “Stannik.”

As if I should have to be gracious when he was CLEARLY flirting with her.

As if I should have to be a gentleman at all times…

Unaware of her fiancée’s inner turmoil, Amelie smiled at him. “Of course, love.” She looked at the human and nodded. “Please excuse me.”

Pleasantries out of the way FINALLY, Rolan guided her out of the ballroom.

“Rolan, is something wrong?”

There must be a private room somewhere…

“Are you alright, love?”

I am FINE AND DANDY, sweetling.

There!

He hastily unlocked the door, which turned out to be a washroom. Both now inside, he locked the door.

For privacy, of course.

Amelie barely opened her mouth before his lips crashed into hers.

Mine.

Mine.

My Amelie.

She is mine.

All mine.

Forever mine.

My intellect, my talent, my heart, my soul, my body…all belong to her.

She is mine as I am hers.

Breaking the kiss and completely breathless, she placed her hands on his shoulders. “Rolan, what has gotten into you?”

He truly wished to say, “You.”

Instead, he huffed, “He was flirting with you, Mia! And I was standing across the room! Watching him! Flirt with you!” His hands stayed firmly on her hips, which he noticed were fuller than they were previously. She told me yesterday that she’s the happiest she’s ever been. Happy and content with our life together.

She blinked. “Was he?”

Rolan groaned. “Darling, really!”

“How was I supposed to know? He’s always been nice to talk to at these things, but I never thought he would flirt with me.” She frowned. “I’m sorry?”

FUCK.

You idiot.

You fool.

You utter swine!

“No, no, no darling. That’s not what I meant. I’m not blaming you in the slightest. I simply—”

A manicured nail touched his lips, silencing him. Any trace of sadness and confusion in her golden eyes was gone and replaced with amusement. And lust. Gods. “You simply wished to remind Stannik that I’m your fiancée and not his? That I’m going to marry you and not him?” She closed the admittedly small gap between them, her body flushed against his. Hands once again on his shoulders, her lips curled into a smile. More like a smirk, you saucy little— “That I’ve given you my all and not him?”

He nodded. “Y-yes.”

“Did you want to take me in the middle of the ballroom, my love?” she whispered against his lips. “Scream that I’m your Mistress of Ramazith’s Tower?” Amelie captured him in a quick kiss before she let out a squeak as he gripped her hips and forced her backwards against the sink.

Chuckling heartily, Rolan pawed at the hem of her gown. A light and airy rose pink gown with various embroidered summer flowers. Another piece from Astarion. “No, but I do want to take you here, sweetheart.” He began to pull at her smalls, getting off and placing them on the counter. He then grunted as he undid his trousers. “Going to show you…how much I…” How much I love you. How much I desire you. How much I need you.

Bringing his face to hers, she kissed him slowly as he lined himself to her entrance, gasping at how bloody wet she is. Zurgan, she’s going to be the death of me. Moans escaped their lips as his ridged member slid inside her. “Rolan…take me, love…”

As you wish.

He was going much faster than he would have been if they were at home and not in a washroom at a ball, much to his dismay. Still though, I’ll make her feel wonderful. How could I not? With a few deep thrusts, he came just as she did. His hold on her remained firm as she was more than a little unsteady. “Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you, sweetling. I’ve got you.”

Long, soft arms around his neck, his fiancée nodded wordlessly, still catching her breath.

I will always have you, dearest. Always.

“I do believe this is the longest time we’ve gone with you cleaning us after lovemaking, my handsome wizard.” Amelie teased.

Gods, I love seeing her like this---happy, carefree, full of joy.

He grimaced and then muttered the spell. “I barely call whatever that was lovemaking, sweetheart. It was barely a fuck.”

A wave of giggles erupted from her as she kissed all over his cheeks and mouth.

Perfectly content being in a washroom with her future husband.

Certainly better than going back to that bloody ball.

[kuyurasu]

Spider Lily

Dottore x Reader

Part 1

Part 2

Summary ; Soulmates are tied with their lifespan. After being sold to a man as a slave in sumeru, you forgot about the boy you had saved as a child. He didn't.

WC ; an obsene amount

Reading time ; depends.

Warnings ; a fuck ton. Porn with plot, p in v, mentions of rape and sodomy BUT NOT APPLIED or discussed in further chaps, trauma, severe abuse, slavery, suicidal thoughts, realistic healing, dark side of teyvat basically, heavy sexual content in the future, oral (m+w), praise, degradation, spanking, dom/sub, rough, soft, sweet, mean idc just being rabbits., so many more... don't be nervous, I'm just a little pinch of mentally insane.

... Haunting Adeline, anyone?

Authors note : Enjoy and sorry for being MIA, life fucking me hard-core in the ass. Also, I don't care who reads this. I'm not your fucking mom. I ain't gonna tell you what to read.

Perhaps it was a cruel fate that brought you to where you are now. Something messed up the fairytale, princess wonderland story you were supposed to be in. and somehow, you were here.

If you could curse the gods above, Celestia, and everything, you would. But physically, your tongue was tied. Incapable of muttering but a few words. It was a cruel world to be living in, and while others were blessed, you were in the dirt. Beneath all of them. A slave, they called you. Your own father sold you just so your mother couldn't save you, run away, or live without having a slave tattoo etched on your wrist.

Your father was a cruel man. Heartless, even. He didn't see anything wrong with abuse, it seemed, or treating his daughter or wife like cattle. He cut off the tip of your tongue when you screamed and fought with him as he sold your older brother, ultimately resulting in his death. He broke your bones and scarred your flesh beyond recognition. And then sold you away.

It was when you were 4 years old, though, that you first met the emotion of happiness. It was soft and warm. It started in the center of your chest and slowly spread out to your entire brain. It was definitely infected, yet so beautiful.

"Are you okay?" You asked softly, your eyes softening at the little boy in front of you. He was dirty and breathing heavily, yet he was wearing nice Sumeru clothing. It made your heart ache that he was clearly better than you, and yet, your slightly shorter tongue couldn't stop itself from speaking to him. Your voice was shaky and raspy from years of silence.

The little boy did not seem to mind; he actually had a fascinated look in his eyes at the sight of her semi-cut tongue.

The boy looked around frantically, though, at the sound of yells and searches among the villagers. They were looking for him.

"Please, help me." He asked for you. His bright red eyes were the only thing you could make out from the night sky, the mud covering his body, and his trembling form. Regardless, something struck a chord in your heart to help him. Perhaps it was something that you knew would be direct disobedience to your father, but helping anyone and getting back at him was all that pushed you to help the little boy.

You ran into the house, not even bothering to hide your footsteps until you made it to the small cabinet that hid the medical kit. The forest rangers provided every household in the rainforest with them, and who knew you would be using them on someone other than yourself and your mother?

You ran from the house, soft little breaths escaping your lips as you made it back to the boy with little time passing. You were secretly surprised your father did not hear you, so he must be out somewhere.

"H-Here." You crouched next to him, holding out the medkit to him. The red-eyed boy deftly began to pull everything out and use the supplies with unexpected accuracy for a little child.

You looked up nervously, watching the group of villagers go in hoards as they looked for someone—the little boy, not that you knew that. Not that he told you. He wrapped his injured foot and hand before catching sight of the slavery tattoo branded on your wrist. "What's that?" He asked quietly, his small, pale hand grasping your wrist before you could hide it.

You were stunned into silence for a moment, speechless as to what to say in response. You swallowed before answering, "My father wishes to sell me to Hadanish."

"The slave owner near the desert?"

You gave a small, reluctant nod in response to his inquiry, knowing it was something to be ashamed of, even terrified of. The muddy boy grabbed your shoulders, pulling you close.

"Come with me." He pleaded with you. How could he let the little girl who saved him go into slavery? It would kill him alive. No one has ever shown him kindness before you. He couldn't let his savior just die. He knew what happened to slaves, especially women. He was disgusted at the mere concept of you being in the clutches of Hadanish, a man known for his rape, sodomy, and abuse. You already looked to have experienced hell; he couldn't bear thinking of you experiencing more of it.

"N-No, I mustn't... I have to stay with my mother. sh-she needs me."

He grasped the little girl's cheeks, making them muddy as well, while the yells and hollers of the villagers looking for someone persisted. He shook his head, seeing the tears in the little girl's eyes. It was sad that you already seemed so grown up. "You saved me. I will never forget this. I will save you, I swear." He whispered to you, his heart breaking as he knew he had to leave. He had to go now.

You stammered slightly, your heart pounding in your chest, as you began to watch the little boy stand, taking the medkit with him. "W-Wait!" She called out for him, and luckily, he did pause. "What's your name?" She asked him softly, receiving a faint smile from him.

"Zandik, and yours?"

You whispered your name, only for him to nod and run off into the night.

It has been over 500 years since you were alive. It was weird considering you thought that you'd have been passing away like any normal person... But when you got to 40 years old and you still hadn't aged past 23, you knew something was wrong.

So did Hadanish, but he took advantage of it. He knew that as a slave who had no signs of age or death, you were like the perfect worker. It wasn't until your bones ached and threatened to break after hours of labor that he let you rest, only to get about 5 hours of sleep, and that's being very generous. He sent you to nation after nation in chains as a walking slave to serve from master to master; you wouldn't be surprised if everyone forgot about you—just something like a package for them.

Slowly, over the span of 200 years, you began to believe them. Tormented by what you saw through the ages, by the age of 396, you were so deep and lost in your own mind that it was like all you could think about was doing your labor. Until your bones break, until you throw up and can't think about your own name, until you forget to be.

It was at age 512, 5 years ago, that some person helped you. Practically saved you, as you were near death one particular night.

That morning, you woke up to a strange, nagging feeling. Something is screaming in your brain to get out of there. It was weird. After all the years you had spent completely alone in your head while your body got abused left and right, it was odd to hear a sense of self-preservation still remaining.

It was before 4 a.m. on a Wednesday when you got that dreadful feeling. It was something that you had never truly experienced before. Something in your gut told you that if you did not leave in less than 10 minutes, you'd never wake up again.

Carefully and strategically, you stood; being used to the chains that clamped down on your ankles, you shuffled silently to your current master. Asleep, unaware of whatever danger was lurking near the camp. It set your teeth on edge, the approaching lethalness, but the best you could do right now was get the hell out of there.

Your heart pounded and ached in your chest. It had been so long since you felt like hope was even possible in your situation. Maybe it was when you turned 124 that you stopped believing? You forgot. It didn't matter now. To hell with all the past grievances, you were getting out. Today.

With a shakiness you hadn't experienced in awhile, you reached for your master's pocket. The dogs around you, also chained to the metal post, did not stir. Neither did any of the other people as you slipped your hand around your key—a delicate yellow shade. It caused your breath to stutter as you weakly walked behind one of the tents, carefully unlocking your chains, as the idea of them waking up to their prized forever slave to be escaping...

Yet they were trusting. In over a decade of events and masters, you had never once tried to escape. Before today. It was because, at the ripe age of 4, you were already out working for your father—minor tasks, but still. Then you joined your brother; it was ingrained in your very soul to be a slave. To be a worker. They trusted that their product wasn't even aware she could escape. but they underestimated the power of instincts and wanting to remain alive, even for you.

The key twisted, and the lock came undone a second more. It was like time froze for a long, agonizing second, waiting and listening to anyone waking up to the betrayal—no, the resistance of a slave.

When nothing happened, you took off in a sprint. It felt so weird to fully extend your weak, shaky legs, but you told yourself that it was the most freeing, beautiful feeling. The nation of Natlan was beautiful yet savage; the land was not suited for the unfit, yet luckily for you, being a slave that worked until the skin was completely off your feet and bleeding, you were quite capable of this. It was like the pain of you running for hours on end didn't even phase you; the wheeze of your breaths did not stop you, nor did the trembling of your legs to take a breath prevent you from running all the way until you physically collapsed on the sands of Fonatine, laughing like a fool.

It had been far, far too long since you smiled and laughed until you were gasping for air while your legs trembled. Sore and probably having broken bones from your relentless running, while your head was spinning with exhaustion and dehydration. You were on a delirium high, dying as you lay on the beach.

After so long, you had basically killed yourself by escaping. It didn't make you sad; in fact, you laughed even more. Until you were puking up the water and bread from yesterday's lunch. It was hilarious!

You did all this just to die! It was so...

So… beautiful! It was like nothing you had ever experienced before. A crazed expression on your face as suddenly you could not laugh anymore. Your chest was just falling and rising rapidly while your heart rate shot up to levels you'd never felt before. looking up into the sky with wide, shaky eyes.

For some reason, the little boy you helped when you were just a small child flashed before your eyes. Oh yeah. Did he live a good life? You wondered, Did he suffer but escape earlier than you? Should you have accepted his offer to escape?

Maybe you did have a regret in your miserable life. The one choice you could've made could've changed your very life. What would it have looked like? Would your brother have lived?

"H-Hold me." You whispered out, unable to even lift a finger as you stared up in the sky, unable to breathe any longer as, for some reason, it was like life had swept under your feet...

The water dripped slowly. Just dripping in her open mouth to slowly hydrate her body so as not to put her in shock. Foolish girl, she already looked like she had put her heart through a shock. It was lucky she was even barely alive. Although he couldn't necessarily blame her, not after seeing the several slave tattoos all over her body when cleaning her up.

Perhaps it's for the best that she did such a thing, so she knows what life feels like. Overwhelming would be an understatement. He would probably tell her to look after that insanity she felt for that short amount of time; perhaps she could find life where she found death.

Maybe.

He would have to report to the doctor that he would not be coming back until tomorrow, which did worry him slightly. but if he told the harbinger that he had found another rare experiment item, he would let it pass.

"Foolish girl. The world has done you cruelty, yet I have to use this tactic. Sigh." The man gently placed a damp cloth atop her forehead, cooling down the fever ravaging her insides. She would take a while to heal, but that was why he was here. As a Fatui operative, he had never truly saved a life. It felt nice.

Perhaps she would be suited for a life in Snezhnaya; who knows? All he knew in this moment was that she was dying.

"Your soulmate is probably waiting for you somewhere. C'mon, foolish girl, wake up for them."