#but once they brought him back and actually allowed for there to be some focus on how he felt about the situation

[navree]

didn't they also fridge Felicia's Day's character at like the peak of her (the actress') popularity? i remember there being some kind of commotion about it at one of the comic con panels, but i was and still am on the fringes of the fandom. so, i'm not entirely sure.

I don't know how popular Felicia Day was at the time, but yeah pretty much. They introduced some last minute villains to make Dean go crazy (for plot reasons and again, Dean is always at the scene of the crime), and one of them killed her offscreen, with Dean and Sam finding her dead and bloody in a bathtub, before the rest of the season is basically devoted to Dean's pain over the fact that she's dead and how Dean reacts to it and what that all means for Dean. She literally just died for no reason other than to advance a plot that didn't even need it because he had a supernatural (heh) reason to go crazy anyway; the only way it could have been more obviously fridging is if she'd literally been in a fridge instead of a bathtub. It did cause a lot of commotion from what I remember, given how classic a case of fridging it was and how there was still so much more to do with the character and how well-liked Charlie was, as well as the show's absolute dearth of female characters anyway (tho she was a canon lesbian so they couldn't ship her with either of the men, which I'm sure made it more easy to kill her off so they couldn't do PG-13 sex scene with Jared or Jensen and Felicia).

[moondancediner]

Love of my Life

summary: the dagger squad meets hangman's best-kept secret

jake seresin x reader

word count: 1490

warnings: no editing, fluff

a/n: this popped into my head the other night... enjoy! also this gif makes me CHOKE ohmylord

song rec: love of my life - harry styles

masterlist

It wasn’t on purpose. Nights when you and Jake ended up at the same bar were never planned, mostly because your friends from work always wanted to go somewhere downtown, and Jake’s friends from work always wanted to go to the Hard Deck so there was never a chance for the two groups to intersect. 

Tonight, however, your friends had enough of hearing about all your nights at the Hard Deck with your fighter pilot husband who drops by work every once and a while with lunch or a gorgeous bouquet of flowers. They decided to venture out to the Hard Deck tonight for your monthly get-together and you weren’t going to miss an opportunity to ogle at your husband from across the bar while he played darts and pool with his Dagger Squad friends who just so happened to be in town visiting. 

And that’s exactly where you found yourself on this lovely Friday night. Your friend walked over to your standing table with another drink for you and you thanked her with a smile. She immediately started diving into some workplace gossip, keeping her voice quiet since so many of your colleagues had managed to make it out tonight. You half-listened to her go on how bad the break room refrigerator smelled the other day but your real focus was on Jake who was playing pool with Phoenix, Fanboy, and Bob. He had Bob on his team and you were surprised to see him actually give the man a chance to play without correcting or coaching him. 

You knew all about the Dagger Squad, when Jake was first sent out here you followed him, even knowing this wouldn’t be a permanent duty station, and he talked about everyone he was competing against non stop. From the moment he came home after training you were getting a full rundown of the days happening (you were sworn to secrecy of the top secret events, of course). You learned quickly who was who, even if you never got the opportunity to meet them. 

After the mission, you were pulling out boxes and getting ready to move what little belongings you brought over to the island when Jake came home and surprised you to your core. He accepted a teaching position here on the North Island and you were staying for the foreseeable future. 

You were shocked but over the moon. Jake would be in one spot for at least a couple years and wouldn’t be off on deployments and missions so often. You could start a family and he could actually be there for all of it. 

“Hello? Anybody home?” A hand waving in front of your face brought you out of memories and a trance you hadn’t realized you were in. You laughed and smiled at your friend, but not before catching the eye of Phoenix, who totally caught you staring at Jake. 

“Sorry, sorry, got a little lost there.” You waved her hand out of your face and took another sip from your drink. 

“I’ll say,” she laughed, “I mean, I get it.” Her eyebrows wagged and you laughed heartily, throwing your head back. She was always complimenting your choice of husband and you had to agree with her, he was fine as hell. 

“Fuck, I think one of his friends just caught me staring,” you said once the laughter died down. 

“Remind me again why he doesn’t tell them about you?” 

“It started off as a joke,” you start, “he wanted to see how long it would take one of them to notice, and now it’s just an ongoing bet we have.” 

“A bet I am about to win, by the way.” Jake suddenly appears behind you and you’re happy to see him until his words sink in.

“You’re not allowed to interfere!” You point at him and he just laughs. 

“No interference, I promise.” He leans on the table you two are standing at and you almost forget about the bet for a second because his green eyes still captivate you even after all this time. 

“Well, what are you doing over here then?”

“See now, that’s where it gets interesting because someone caught you looking at me,” he tips his beer over in the direction of his friends, who scatter like chickens when you turn your head to look at them, “and they bet me $20 that I couldn’t walk over here and get your phone number.” 

“Hmmm, seems like fair play to me.” Your friend interjects, looking contemplatively between you and your cheating husband. 

A noise comes out of your mouth, somewhere between disbelief and betrayal. You only had one month left before the bet was yours and you could claim your prize and now this happens, the perfect opportunity falls right into Jake’s lap. 

“Did none of them notice the giant ring on my finger?” You hold up your wedding rings, which glint even in the dim bar lighting and Jake takes your fingers in his hand, bending them towards himself before placing a kiss on your knuckles. You swoon. It’s impossible not to. “Don’t try to distract me, you’re in trouble.” 

“Come on darlin’,” His hand fell away from yours but moved slyly around your hip, where it curled around the belt loops of your shorts, and just then, while his face was inching towards yours, your wedding song came on. 

“When did this song get added to the jukebox?” 

“I may have put in a special request.” His smile did you in. You met him halfway and when your lips met that familiar kaleidoscope of butterflies took flight. Jake pulled away just to smile at you some more before pressing a few quick kisses to your lips. When he backed away enough, you took the chance to look over his shoulder and see what his friends thought. 

The entire group was standing around, completely gobsmacked at what just occurred and you could only imagine what was running through their minds. 

“After you, Mrs. Seresin,” Jake whispered in your ear. You gave him the best glare you could but he just laughed and grabbed your hand to walk you over to the group of people you already felt like you knew. 

Jake chuckled as you got within ear shot. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet someone,” he pulled you under his arm and you automatically slid your own across his back, “this is my wife.” He said it with genuine pride, a stark contrast to his usual cocky tone everyone was used to. 

“Wife?” Rooster repeated, dumbfounded.

“Pick your jaw up off the floor, Bradshaw.”

You ignored Jake and introduced yourself to everyone with a quick wave. “It’s nice to finally meet you all.” 

There was a beat of silence while you watched everyone process what was happening, but Phoenix broke it with a laugh. “You’ve been holding out on us, Bagman!” 

“Yeah, what the hell, man!” Rooster seemed downright offended that Jake would keep such a secret from them and you couldn’t help but laugh. 

“It’s not all Jake’s fault,” You come to his defense, “we had a bet going, which I just lost.” 

“What bet did you two have?” Bob asked, coming forward to introduce himself to you properly. 

You shook his outstretched hand, smiling. “We wanted to see how long it would take for someone to figure out he was married.”

“You… you don’t wear a wedding ring?” Rooster seemed to be having the hardest time with this revelation and it was cracking you up. 

Jake pulled his dog tags out from under his shirt, proudly turning them around to display his gold wedding band that perfectly matched the one around your finger. They both belonged to his grandparents and he was so proud to give you his grandmother's band on your wedding day. 

Phoenix studied the two of you for a moment, watched the way you started to sway to a song and Jake immediately joined in, watched how his attention always drifted back to you, and how his entire cocky dimenor melted away as soon as you were near. 

“So, what’s the story? How did you manage to bag Hangman?” Natasha asked, leaning her hands on the pool cue in front of her. 

Jake pretended to be offended. “I’m not that wild.” 

You roll your eyes affectionately before diving into the story of how you and Jake met. It was nothing spectacular or anything you would want to make a movie about, but it was a whirlwind romance that ended in the two of you married in the Seresin family’s backyard three summers ago. 

When you finished your story, all smiles for your husband, Rooster raised his beer in a toast. “Welcome to the family, Mrs. Seresin.” 

Jake couldn’t help but smile. It felt good to let the team in on his best-kept secret, even if he was gonna pay for her losing the bet later on tonight. 

---

thanks for reading ily

Requests are open 🫶🏻

[theglamorousferal]

Persephone's Binding Part 2

Hardcover/Anger Management ship Sacrificial Bride au

AO3 Prompt Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

(Things get a bit angsty here for a bit, but don't worry, it gets back to some of the cracky-goodness!)

After allowing himself to relax for a bit and actually letting his muscles loosen for once, Jason rose from the bath and rinsed himself off under a piping hot and strong shower. He finished the rinse off with a flash of cold water to focus back up and made his way to the vanity where there was basic hotel amenities. He attempted to style his hair and after at least drying it, pulled on the fluffiest robe he has felt since he first moved into the manor all those years ago.

Fuck. The family. The Outlaws...

Jason put his face in both his hands and took a deep breath, then allowed his shoulders to slump as he dragged his hands from his face to his sides. He marched in a lazy manor over to the end of the large bed where he flopped face down. Surprisingly, it wasn't as fluffy as he was expecting and he silently thanked whatever force there was that he wouldn't have to resort to sleeping on the floor or a chair for the familiarity. Though, he turned his head to face the windows, that little reading nook looks like I could easily fall asleep there.

No, stop it. Do I remember the Dimensional Code for home?

Jason contemplated. On one hand, it could be useful, on the other, they could have an entirely different category system here. He spent the next however long trying to remember the dimensional code for his Earth and tracing the swirls of purples and greens out the large windows. A knock startled him.

"Jason? Are you decent?" He stood quickly and pulled the robe tighter together, not quite ready to show his autopsy scars to his soul-owner? A literal goddess? He wasn't quite sure what she was yet.

"Uh, yes, come in, I'm covered." He tried to stand casually next to the bed when he had just been sitting, his hands now in his pockets.

"Hi, so one of my aides figured one thing out about the ritual that is somewhat concerning and also something I probably also should have brought up. Mind if we sit at the window?" She strode in and settled herself with a pillow against the window and waited for him to do the same. Once he was settled, she hesitated for a moment before sighing and looking out the window to the haunting site outside.

"The Infinite Realms has another name, one coined from my Earth." She licked her lips before she spoke again. "It's also known as the Ghost Zone. As the dimension between dimensions, it is also where beings known as ghosts, the Restless Dead, Neverborn, Gods, and all sorts of other beings that thrive off a substance known as ectoplasm reside. As such, I am current Queen Regent of Ghosts." She let him think for a moment before turning to him. "That means I can tell when someone is death-touched." Jason froze. "I didn't mention it before because I know it's super personal, but then my aide figured out that the ritual only worked because of the fact you are and especially since you had spent time here-" She cut herself off as his eyes just bugged out larger with every word that spilled from her lips. "Sorry, I just, I'm death-touched too. I haven't died yet, but I have been around death magic, or radiation, or whatever it is, since before conception. I don't know exactly what you went through, but I know it was deeply traumatic. I can have my healers take a look at your soul and see if it's alright because it kinda radiates a bit how traumatic it was." She bit her lip with one hand raised near her chin.

Jason closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and clenching his jaw tight and blowing the air harshly out his nose. He fell back against the window, allowing his head to knock against the glass. It was warm, as though the sunlight was gently shining upon it. "Yeah." He croaked. "Yeah, I died." He said softer. "I was dead for roughly six months." He dipped his head forward to block his face with his bangs. "Crawled outta my own grave." He laughed bitterly. "Spent a while wandering, a while more in a coma." He swallowed tickly. "Got picked up by my dad's vindictive ex and trained for a while to be an assassin." He looked up at her, making eye contact. "She dunked me in this pit of magic shit, we call it a Lazarus pit in my dimension. It cures those near death and kills the healthy. Fixed me up the rest of the way, or at least the scars and issues I had pre-death. I got to keep these." He allowed the top of the robe to fall away, showing the tops of the large y-shaped scar that ran the length of his torso. She gasped, both hands coming to cover her mouth, tears began to form in her eyes. She reached out as if to touch them and stopped herself, her face turning determined.

"I, Jazmine Nightingale, High Queen Regent of the Infinite Realms, the Mediator, the Caretaker, and all those other titles." She waved her wrist. "Declare that I will help you however you deem necessary. Whether that be helping your soul, returning you to your dimension, breaking this binding, or whatever. You are currently bound to you, and as such that makes you my responsibilities." She paused in her speech for a moment, thinking. "I mean, you're already technically one of my subjects because I think you qualify as one of the Restless Dead, but we'll figure out your classification when we take you to a healer. For now, it has been a long day. I will have one of my aides come to get your measurements for some clothes, I'm sure we have some around here somewhere that should fit you at least for dinner. The aides can get any style you like and it can be made quickly by the seamstresses we have on staff." At his hesitation she added with a smile, "They work in supernatural means, they will not overwork themselves by making an entire wardrobe in a few hours."

She patted the cushion in front of her and stood. "I will meet you at dinner, it's not formal at all, don't worry about dressing fancy, I'm just still in this getup from 'official queen stuff'" she said with air quotes looking tired. "I'll see you in a bit Jason!"

"Yes, um, your majesty." He stood to bow, the robe making it a bit difficult."

"Just Jazz please, for the love of the Ancients." She said with a pained look on her face.

"Right, sorry," he stammered, straightening, "See you later, Jazz." She smiled softly before leaving him to himself. He smacked his hand to his face groaning at himself before flopping face-first into the bed again. "She's the ruler of the dead and she's so determined and nice, what the actual hell? She's so earnest, it's so cute!" he sat up leaning his elbow on his knee. "Okay, operation Romance Plot is go. She isn't put off by the fact you died, this is good, I can work with this. Okay, so castle, let's go with that aesthetic. I'm thinking let's go with a poet shirt and some black slacks for dinner tonight." He claps his hands in front of him, decision made.

As if summoned by his words, there was another knock at the door. A man with bright sky blue skin and a deep plum butler's uniform opened the door, a measuring tape casually thrown over his shoulders.

"Yes, hello good sir. What aesthetic are we thinking for this evening?" he said in a posh accent.

Jason clasped his hands together. "What should I call you? Would you possibly have a poet's shirt and a pair of black formal slacks for this evening?"

"You may call me Jeeves. Yes that Jeeves. I am the personification of the trope of the helpful butler, and as such my power set includes anything and everything that could help me complete the duties of head butler of the High Family's home. We absolutely do have that attire on hand, it would be but a moment for someone to fetch it for us. Now did you have any ideas about future attire?" Jeeves snapped his fingers and a skeleton manifested in a swirl of dust to obey his silent command to gather the requested clothing.

Jason paused for a moment, considering. "How does the Queen usually dress casually around the castle? I know she said she was from an Earth. I don't know where in the timeline her Earth is from and she mentioned that what she was wearing earlier was mostly for special occasions, so I don't want to look like an idiot." He explained.

"Very good sir, she typically dresses in either a less formal toga if she's to be seen anywhere near the public areas of the castle, her armor whilst sparring with her knights, the High Princes and Princess, and if she is only going between her room and study then her far less formal Earth clothing which is a long sleeved blouse and lightwash jeans, typical of the late 1990's and early 2000's."

Jason thought for a moment. He didn't know how long he would be stuck here, but decided that clothes enough to last a fortnight should work. For all he knew, time flowed differently between here and his home dimension. Decision made, he told the butler what he wanted. Measurements were taken, the skeleton arrived with the requested clothes and Jason was left to change into his clothes for the evening. He still is wearing his combat boots because he forgot to ask for a pair of shoes.

Once changed, he realized that he still probably had a bit before dinner and he walked over to one of the bookshelves browsing the titles. There were several classics that he recognized, his favorite, Pride and Prejudice, was there. There were a few as well with Jane Austen's name, but not titles he recognized. He decided to come back to those later and pulled what looked like a collection of fairy tales from the shelf then settled himself lounging in the window nook to read for the next few hours.

[spidey-webz]

505 | Logan Howlett

Summary: You're long gone and Logan only has the memories of you left. One evening, he decides to relive them again and almost feel you around him once more... (loosely inspired by "505" by Arctic Monkeys)

Pairing: Worst!Logan Howlett x f!reader

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, lots of angst, reader has died in Logan's universe, hints at masturbation, p in v sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk, light choking, breast play (a little), oral (f receiving), alcohol, use of petnames (bub, baby...), it's a little sad, happy end ig? , MOST OF THIS IS A FLASHBACK/LOGANS MEMORIES

Word count: 4.3k

Masterlist

Wade was on a date tonight. 

The apartment was strangely quiet without his roommate’s annoying voice. Blind Al was meeting up with friends too, so it was just Logan in the quiet space. 

A few weeks ago, he might have sought out the first bar he could find on an evening like this. But not today. Today, he just wanted to take time for himself. Watch some trashy sitcom on TV and order himself two pizzas just for himself. When would he ever get to experience an evening this quiet again? Wade’s chatter was continuously making his head hurt and he sincerely hoped that he would grow partial to it with time. Or else he might actually cut off his own ears in an attempt to stop this man’s mindless talk. 

Was killing someone because they talked too much a valid reason? 

The microwave in the kitchen let out a few “beep” noises. There were still some leftovers from yesterday. Greasy pasta seemed to be his main source of “nutrition” these days. If you could even call it that. 

Even though Wade was graciously offering him a place to stay, Logan didn’t want to overstay his welcome. He’d have to find his own apartment in due time. But he was still adapting to this world. 

Wade had tried multiple times to make him go to a bar with the intention of actually talking to someone. Find a friend or find a woman. 

But why would he do that? He had lost everything already. Helping Wade out with jobs for the TVA was one thing, but he didn’t want to socialise and meet other people. Back in his universe, it had brought him nothing but pain. He wasn’t going to risk someone else’s life again. Wade couldn’t die and Logan kept a friendly distance to all his friends even though they had been nothing but welcoming to him. 

The only person he would have cared about was you. Logan didn’t know if you even existed in this timeline, in this universe. But he knew the end of it all, so he would not come looking for you. Maybe if you had never met him, a few horrible things could have been prevented. 

Once he had sat down on the couch, plate in hand and putting on a TV show that he wasn’t going to pay any attention to, he tried to relax. Booze was the only option for him to feel calm. When all his senses were drowned out by the alcohol, he could allow himself not to think about you and the mistakes he has made. 

Wade insisted that he was a hero – a good man. He had saved people, he had saved this timeline, but the weight of his mistakes was only decreased and never really gone. 

Logan was a broken man. Nothing could fix him. 

His memories were weighing him down. Even now, in the quiet of his apartment, he felt like they were torturing him. 

There was one memory in particular that wouldn’t leave his mind. Losing his friends and his family had been one thing, but losing you had felt like the final blow. A death blow. 

Game over. 

His desperation always brought him here eventually. The sound of the TV being drowned out by his thoughts as he forced himself to focus on the good things. The happy memories with you, before all of it had been taken from him. 

He placed his plate down, rubbing over his temples. The thoughts of you wouldn’t leave his mind. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t shake the feeling. It was rushing through his entire body, encircling him and pulling at his nerves. 

Your smell would always linger in his memories. Your voice would always sound through his head in his dreams and even now, he could remember it as clear as day. Logan was getting older, his memory got worse, but you would always linger in his mind. Sometimes, he managed to push the memories away, but you’d always find a way back. He didn’t want to forget you. He just wanted the pain to stop. 

Logan missed your late-night conversations together. He missed spotting the crinkles around your eyes whenever you laughed, holding your stomach and making him feel like the funniest person on earth. 

But now? The Wolverine wasn’t fun. He wasn’t a “fun” guy. He had been drained of it when you left him. 

He had buried his happiness with you.

Yet you wouldn’t leave his mind. Sometimes, on days like today, he allowed himself to think about you. Let the good memories flood his mind. Hold onto the relief they brought him, before it would turn into pain again. 

Logan closed his eyes as he laid back on the couch. His breathing calmed down when he tried to hold onto the glimmer of hope as he dove back into the memories of you. It was addictive and soon, he found himself engulfed in the feeling of you. 

The hint of a smile appeared on his lips as he pictured your face in the sun. Your pretty lipstick almost begging for him to ruin it. 

He remembered running his thumb over your lips, smearing its colour a little, before he leaned in for a kiss. You always tasted so sweet on his tongue, the taste often lingering even after you left. Logan was a tough man, not easily shaken, appearing strong on the outside, but whenever your hands found their way into his hair, his heart started skipping beats. Low groans drowned in your mouth and he revelled in the feeling of your body pressing against his. 

Even now, when all he had were the memories of you, it was all he needed to feel intimacy.

Logan laid down on the couch, allowing his thoughts to drift away. 

For a moment, it felt like he was back in that hotel room. 

The numbers 505 written on the door. Moonlight shining in through the windows as he spotted you spread out on the bed. Hands settled between your thighs and that teasing smirk of yours. It would always drive him crazy.

And it still did now, as his hands undid his belt buckle, his mind ready to let go of reality for a moment. He was ready to let the good memories of you in, reminisce about the highs you’ve shared with each other.

Logan still remembered the feeling of your body against his own. Breasts pressed against his chest, hot skin against hot skin, your pants getting faster as he brought you both closer to your release. So many nights spent in pleasure with each other’s bodies, but the night in that hotel room stood out to him. 

His body was exhausted from his last mission. But Logan would never be too exhausted to return to you. As soon as Scott gave him the all-clear, he was quick to step onto the first plane he could get. Go back to New York, back to that hotel you had agreed to meet in. 

It was always a back and forth with you two. Never putting a label on things, but being drawn to each other all the time. Logan had tried to resist you in the beginning, but it had been to no avail. Your smile, your lips… it was all so very tempting and now he had lost himself in you. 

The walls of the hotel were dark, only a few dim lights illuminating the space above his head. Logan could feel his heart beating faster. You always brought him to his knees, but he would never admit it. 

Not to anyone, not to you. 

The numbers 505 were written on the door in big, golden letters. His hands instinctively smoothed down his lumberjack shirt, taking a deep breath. It felt like his body was craving yours, in more ways than one. 

Logan knocked on the door, waiting for you to allow him inside. 

“It’s open.”

Your voice sent a shiver down his spine. 

When he entered the room, his eyes immediately searched for you. And there you were. Spread out on the bed, wearing nothing but a shirt that looked way too big on you. Your hands laid between your thighs, your skin illuminated by the moonlight shining through the large windows. 

“I’ve missed you.”

Logan closed the door behind himself, smiling at your words. He had missed you too. 

“I know,” he answered, turning the lock before he stepped further into the room. 

His senses soon became filled with you. He drowned out the rest of the room, the rest of the lights outside. All the business of his life and the world around him seemed to vanish when you were close. Close enough to touch, close enough so he could drown himself in you. 

The smell of your perfume. The faint smile on your lips. His eagerness to touch you. 

Logan had spent so many nights between your thighs already. He loved to watch you squirm as he held you down with his arms hooked underneath your knees, lips attached to your sensitive bud. He would never get enough of your taste. He would never get enough of your moans filling the room. Soon, he would be able to feel your soft skin underneath his fingertips again.

But he wasn’t going to rush it. Not today. Even though his body wanted to feel yours intertwined with himself. 

You sat up on the bed, leaning against the headboard and stretching out your legs. Your shirt moved up, revealing the lace panties underneath. Logan’s gaze caught them almost instantly, eyes roaming your body as if he was already planning where to touch you first. 

“I ordered something to drink for us.” You pointed over to the small table by the window. Logan loved whiskey, so you made sure to order some. For yourself, you had chosen a simple cocktail. 

“Very considerate,” he grinned. Logan filled his glass with a few ice cubes and whiskey, taking a strong sip before he placed the glass back down. The liquid burned in his throat, but he would always enjoy the thrill it gave him. Drinking was just the easy way to try and avoid dealing with what was going on in his head. 

“How was the mission?” You asked him. You were no stranger to the feeling of staying up all night, worried that something might happen to Logan. His regenerative abilities lifted your worries a little, but there were still so many bad things that could happen if he wasn’t being careful enough. It was still fascinating to see wounds close up so quickly on the man’s skin. Also, hickeys never lasted. They healed up within seconds, vanishing into nothingness. 

But it wouldn’t stop Logan from leaving them on your soft skin. 

His shoulders slumped for a moment, before he let himself drop into the soft armchair. Your question seemed to have motivated him to drink just a little more, so he reached for his glass again, downing the remaining liquid in one go. “It went well. No major fuck-ups. I’m just glad to be back.”

“Back with you” he wanted to add, but those words never left his thoughts. 

“I’m glad you made it back. Without any major injuries.” Even though that wasn’t really possible…

Logan laughed softly, nodding a little. “Of course. I always try to come back in one piece. Wouldn’t want to miss out on that sight.” He tipped the glass in your direction, before placing it back down on the small table. His eyes raked over your body once more, his cock getting hard in his jeans. 

He needed you. There was no denying that anymore. 

Logan pushed himself out of his seat, slowly walking over to the bed. Your excitement grew by the second and you couldn’t hide the smile forming on your lips. Your dreams had been filled with the man ever since he had left. His touch would always linger on your skin and the memories of him, pressed up against you, whispering lewd words into your ear… 

He sat down at the end of the kingsized bed, beckoning you closer with a small movement of his hands. You followed suit, sitting down next to him and before you could open your mouth again, his lips were on yours. 

Hungry. Passionate. 

Maybe even desperate. 

His beard scraped against your cheeks, his arm sneaking around your back and pulling you straight into his lap. You could feel his arousal in his pants and you didn’t hesitate to roll your hips against his own. 

A low groan got lost between your kisses and Logan’s hold around you tightened. Your hands explored his hard chest, all toned muscle, wandering further down until you reached his belt. It wasn’t hard to open it while you were still kissing him, the gesture so familiar by now. 

You had waited far too long to chase your pleasure again with Logan. And you wanted him to know how much you had missed him. How he had been the only one on your mind. 

“We need to get you out of that nightgown,” Logan mumbled. His voice had grown rougher – deeper. 

His calloused fingers slipped under your silk clothing, brushing over your soft thighs before he lifted the nightgown over your head. His eyes lingered on your breasts, his erection twitching underneath you. Another buck of your hips and you had Logan groaning once more. 

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you while you were gone,” you mumbled into his ear as Logan started to kiss your neck. His beard scratched against your skin, sending shivers down your spine, while he took his sweet time littering your neck and then your jaw with sloppy kisses. His lips felt good on you. Wherever they might be. 

Your hands curled into his shirt, pressing your naked chest against his clothed one. 

“Is that so?” He asked in return and while you couldn’t see his smirk, you could clearly hear it in his voice. 

Your teeth caught onto his earlobe and a hiss slipped through Logan’s teeth. His right hand got a hold of your hair, pulling you back, so you’d look into his eyes again. 

“Touched myself when I was thinking ‘bout you,” you smiled. 

The thought alone seemed to spur Logan on even more. A soft groan, followed by a smirk as he pulled your head back by your hair. He was gentle with it, but still determined. His eyes searched for yours, mischief sparkling inside them. 

His beard brushed over your exposed breasts, leaving a shiver in its wake. Goosebumps spread over your skin as Logan wrapped his lips around your delicate nipple. His tongue swirled around it, still holding you by your hair, neck tilted back, so he could just admire the view in front of him. 

“Got the sweetest body I’ve ever fucking seen,” he grumbled, giving your right nipple a little pinch. He could spend an entire evening just taking in every inch of you. He needed to memorise every part of your body. 

Tension started to build in your abdomen and you wanted to clench your thighs together, desperate to get some kind of relief as Logan played with your body – determined to make you sing in his arms. 

In one swift motion, he had you on the bed again, head in the thick pillows as he slid between your legs. His calloused fingertips brushed over your thighs, before he slipped them underneath the sides of your panties, pulling them down your legs and exposing your core to him. 

The sight in front of you was sinful. Logan had opened a few buttons of his shirt, hairy chest peeking out. You couldn’t wait to brush your hands over his chest again and feel his hard muscles under your palms. His hair was tousled from your kissing, his cheeks and lips a slight pink colour and the mischievous smirk on his face seemed to complete the picture. Your hands fisted the sheets when his tongue brushed over your sensitive nub. 

Logan was skilled with his tongue and he loved to show it to you. His arms hooked under your knees, holding tightly onto your thighs as he kept you spread out for him. Your hips bucked up against his mouth, so he pressed your hips back down again with one hand. “Stop squirming, bub. I will give you what you want.”

You could trust him with that. He licked through your folds again, savouring the taste before he continued flicking his tongue against your clit. Your back arched, hips trying to squirm, but he kept you firmly in place. Logan was eating you out like a man starved, relentless and desperate. His hips sometimes bucked forward, pressing his cock against the mattress for some sort of temporary relief.

He wanted to be inside you. But not without making you shiver for him first. His fingers dug into the plum flesh of your thigh, probably leaving a bruise or two. Your moans echoed through the room, hands clawing at the sheets as you felt your orgasm approaching. 

“M’close,” you announced, voice audibly trembling. 

“Let go, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” His deep voice seemed to rumble through your middle, your hips bucking up further when Logan loosened his hold on you. His tongue continued to flick against your clit relentlessly, his middle finger slipping between your folds and curling just right. 

Your high came over you in waves, followed by whines and moans and chants of Logan’s name. It sounded like music in his ears. He wanted to hear more of this as the night would go on. 

And he would. 

His fingers continued to press against the spongy spot inside you for a few more seconds, letting you ride out your high. When your breathing calmed and your head dropped back into the pillows, Logan pulled out his fingers from between your folds. 

“Look at me.” His voice was demanding and you didn’t hesitate to direct your gaze back at the man between your legs. His eyes stared into yours as he ran his tongue along his finger, cleaning your wetness off them. A low groan escaped Logan’s lips at the same time, his eyes filling with desire. 

He had waited long enough to feel you around him again. He’d enjoy every second of what was about to come. 

Logan did quick work of his clothes. Shrugging off his shirt, the rest of his clothes soon joined the pile on the floor. For you, it was a delight to just watch. The muscles in his arms flexed with every one of his movements. The scratches from the last time you had slept together were nowhere to be seen. What you could see however, was the fine line of hair travelling down from his belly button and ending in his underwear. 

Your legs still felt shaky from your previous orgasm, but you felt the need to press them together in anticipation. Having Logan’s tongue between your folds was just one part of the pleasure he could give you. 

Being apart from him always made you crave him even more. His touch, the taste of his lips, the feeling of his body weight on top of you… 

Logan moved to hover over you, hands firmly planted on either side of your head as he looked down at you. His hair was a dishevelled mess, but it made you all the more desperate to run your fingers through it. And you did, even if it was just to pull him down further, lips meeting his in a passionate kiss. 

You could feel his left hand moving up your thigh, gently urging you to spread your thighs further, so he could settle between them. His naked body was always warmer than yours and you felt enveloped in his scent. You could feel his cock resting heavy between your thighs, his hips moving ever so slightly to create a little friction. 

“Lo, please…” you whimpered against his lips. Of course, he could only smile at your words. He was always a tease, but he couldn’t ignore his own desires. His body had been burning with longing and now you were right where he wanted you. 

“Don’t have to ask twice, sweetheart,” he mumbled against your neck, placing a few soft kisses there before he sat up on his knees and pulled you closer to his middle. His hands gently travelled up from your ankles to your thighs, before he took a short moment to admire your glistening folds. “So desperate just for me,” he groaned, before he aligned his cock with your middle. 

Logan wanted to feel your walls clench around him again. The sweetest feeling in the world for him. 

His cock slowly parted your folds, filling you up inch by inch. A low groan escaped his throat and you held tightly onto his strong arms. 

You loved to have Logan fill you – the satisfying sensation of having your body adjust to him and then feel so full. 

His hands moved to your thighs, putting your legs over his shoulders as he started to thrust slowly into you. 

“I’ve missed your pussy so much,” he groaned, looking down at the sight in front of him. 

Your eyes were wide, arousal clearly written onto your face and your tits were right there for him to see. With every shallow thrust, they moved just a little, nipples perking up and tempting Logan to lean down and capture them with his lips again. 

“More,” you urged him on, hands starting to claw at the sheets beneath you. Logan was more than happy to comply, so his pace picked up. His cock hit your sensitive spot in just the right way, sending shivers through your body with each thrust. You could feel him deep inside you, just right against your cervix. 

Each movement of his hips brought you closer to release and Logan’s thrusts grew harder and more impatient. He lifted you off the mattress ever so slightly to reach deeper, making your legs squirm on his shoulders. 

“Feelin’ so good, baby.” His eyes darkened with lust and he moved one hand away from your hips to palm your left breast instead. Logan’s thumb expertly brushed over your nipple as well, causing your pussy to spasm around him. 

Your walls tightened around his cock, eliciting a groan from him once more as he felt you squeeze him so perfectly. Logan could usually do this for hours, but he hadn’t seen you in so long and your body knew exactly how to work him up just right. 

“I'm so close, Lo,” you warned him, nails scratching along his arms as you felt the knot in your stomach tighten. Your legs were shaking on his shoulders, announcing your incoming orgasm to him. 

His thrusts grew a little faster and he angled your legs closer to your body, hitting your sensitive spot over and over again in that position. Beads of sweat started to build on his forehead as he grew closer to his climax. Logan’s hand moved from your breast to your throat, lightly pressing down on it and sending another wave of pleasure through your entire body. 

With a corse voice, he leaned down to you, never stopping the movements of his hips. “I want you to come around me. I wanna feel your pussy milking me,” he groaned. 

His words finally sent you over the edge. Your orgasm came over you in waves and had you shaking underneath Logan. The spasms of your walls around him sent him over the edge too and you felt his warm cum filling you up bit by bit. His hands clawed at your hips, not enough to bruise you, but holding on quite strongly. 

“Shit,” he groaned, moving your legs to rest on his sides before he leaned down to capture your lips in a soft, but short kiss. His hand moved up to brush some hair out of your face, gaze searching for yours as he relished in the feeling of having you still wrapped around him like this. 

“Don’t stay away for this long again, Logan.” 

Your words sounded like a plea and he was happy to oblige. 

He would not leave you out of his sight for long again. 

Logan put an arm over his forehead as the memories washed away again. His skin was covered in sweat and he felt the tears well up in his eyes. All of this always made him emotional again. 

He couldn’t bring you back anymore, but he could keep your memories safe with him. Sometimes, it felt good to indulge them, other times it just hurt. This time, it had felt like a relief, but the pain was already waiting to wash over him again. 

Cleaning himself up, he eventually got up from the couch and went for a shower. He needed to feel the hot water on his skin, a small distraction from his thoughts. As always, he turned it up high enough to almost burn him. But it rinsed him clean of his worries for a moment. 

Of his longing for you. 

He should have told you how he actually felt about you. That it was more than just sex, more than a physical attraction… 

After his shower, Logan just wanted to curl up on the couch again and fall asleep there. Let the next day come and live it as good as he could, because what other choice did he have? 

The doorbell prevented him from heading to the couch immediately. Instead, he quickly put on some short pants and a shirt, before he headed to the apartment door to find out who would bother him at this time. 

His heart stopped for a second when he swung the door open and the person on the other side came into view. 

It was you. 

taglist: @nonamevenus

[andivmg]

speak up andi, I beg of you, you have been mistreated the most here, I know it took shubble a lot of courage but she has helped so many people

i want to start this off by saying it is not a competition and i do not want to compare my experience to anybody else’s. shubble is so fucking strong and i admire her and everyone else who has spoken up about experiencing abuse endlessly.

DISCLAIMER 1

this is way longer than i intended it to be. i did not plan to go into as much depth as i did but the words just kinda kept coming and i kept thinking that if someone else is in a similar situation to the one i was in, it would be good to point out even some of the smaller details so that they can see that these behaviors are not something to be overlooked and could be a symptom of a bigger issue… idk. i apologize for how lengthy and wordy this is but i hope it all makes sense somehow

DISCLAIMER 2

a lot of you know who one of my exes is and i am asking you to please not make this about him. i am simply sharing my experience with some of my past relationships in hopes that they help someone else. i beg of you, do not go on twitter making threads speculating on whatever because it’s just going to cause me a bunch of problems and i don’t want this to be brought to his attention. if you share my story, please do not do it with the intent of starting drama. if you share my story, focus on the behaviors i am talking about instead of trying to figure out if it’s about him.

DISCLAIMER 3

this goes without saying but i’ll put it here anyway: i will be talking about toxic relationships, mention of self harm, mention of sex, implied violence. if any of these topics are triggering to you please scroll away, protect yourself.

I have been in a lot of relationships, but there are 4 that i would truly identify as the ones who had the biggest impact on me. Two of those i would consider emotional mistreatment. I don’t want to say i was abused for reasons that i will be discussing with my therapist this week, but i can certainly say i was mistreated. For the sake of privacy, i will be referring to these two dudes as 1 and 6.

I think the biggest difference between 1 and 6 is that 6 was obsessed with me to the point where i felt like i was being suffocated, whereas i’m not sure if 1 ever cared about me in the first place.

6 and i started out pretty normally. we had a bunch of friends in common and we were around the same people. so eventually, we became friends too. we would text and call all the time until feelings developed into a relationship. in the beginning he was really sweet and caring, saying all the right things that got me falling head over heels. now, something important to note is that i am someone who has always had a lot of guy friends. when i was little and in school, my mom made friends with a bunch of other moms and those moms were boy moms, so i grew up surrounded by boys. i bring this up because 6 didn’t like my guy friends. actually, i think he just didn’t like the fact that i had guy friends at all. so, whenever i would hang out with my friends, it was a problem. so this resulted in me never being able to go out or hang out with my friends unless he was there. then it got worse. before we started dating he had decided to cut back on drinking and to stop smoking. so because of this, i decided that i wouldn’t drink or smoke around him in solidarity. this was not enough for him. i had to stop drinking and smoking altogether. so once, when i was hanging out with my girl friends we decided to stay in and get wine drunk. we posted about it on our private stories on snap and once he saw, 6 called me arguing and yelling at me because i was drinking and posting about it on my story for “attention”. after this incident, i was no longer allowed to hang out with my friends because they were a “bad influence”. he also didn’t like the clothes i wore. sorry, let me reiterate: he didn’t like my clothes when he wasn’t around. it was perfectly fine for me to wear a short dress… if i was with him. i was not allowed to wear “revealing” clothing if he wasn’t around. mind you, none of the clothes i wore were revealing, it’s not my fault i’m hot yk? he took over my life. who i talked to, what i did, what i wore, where i would go, it was all up to him. my life no longer belonged to me. and at the time, i was okay with that. i didn’t realize that he had so much control over everything. i was young and naïve and he convinced me that he knew what was best for me. that he had lived more than i had and experienced more than i had and that he knew better. he was so good at making everything my fault and making him the hero or victim depending on the situation. i got catcalled on the street? “because you were wearing that fucking dress again, andrea you know how that looks. of course you got catcalled. this is why you can’t wear things like that when i’m not around to protect you”. I decided to have a fun night in with my friends and get drunk? “i just don’t understand why you would be posting yourself on your private story like that. you’re drunk and vulnerable. why do you want other people, other guys, to see you like that? and you know i’ve cut back on drinking so how do you think it makes me feel to see that? don’t you love me enough to do this for me?” the worst part is i believed him. because, in the beginning, he helped me so much and i looked up to him so much, surely he had my best interests at heart, right? this relationship went on for way longer than it should have. you may be asking yourself, how did you leave? if you were so in love with him and entranced by him to the point where he consumed you, why did you leave? he raised his hand. that’s what got me to finally leave. a year after we broke up, i found out that he was drinking, smoking, and doing all kinds of shit he told me he wasn’t throughout our entire relationship. he was awful, and i’m really proud of myself for being strong enough to leave when i did. i’m also really grateful for my friends, who stuck out that whole train wreck with me. who i lashed out against in order to protect him and defend him. they stuck by me through it all and i don’t know where i would be without them so shoutout to them lmfao.

1 was a bit more complicated. it started out in a similar way. we had the same friends, hung out around the same people, so it was only a matter of time until we became friends too. we would call and text every day until feelings were developed. at least i developed feelings, i’m still not sure he did. i told him this and i don’t remember how the conversation went but basically we had decided that we were talking as more than friends now. enough time went by where i was ready for it to become a relationship and i communicated that to him. looking back, i think he felt pressured into the relationship by me and by our friends. anyway we started dating and everything was fine. we would hang out and talk all the time but i felt like he was bored or disinterested by me, so i would constantly beg for his attention. i became this needy clingy version of myself that i hated. it felt like when we would hang out, he was always distracted by something else. i basically felt invisible to him. that is, when i wasn’t hanging out with my guy friends. similarly to 6, 1 did not like my guy friends or the fact that i had guy friends in the first place. i had a guy best friend at the time who is one of the most amazing people i have ever met. let’s call him S. S and 1 were acquainted with each other, hung out in the same circles etc. but 1 still didn’t like him. sometimes, whenever 1 was busy doing whatever he did when he wasn’t with me, i would hang out with S, we would watch shows together and just talk. Some days, it felt like i talked to S more than my own boyfriend. this did not sit well with 1. he would ask “why the fuck are you always hanging out with him?” to which i would reply “maybe if you hung out with me more, i wouldn’t have so much free time to spend with him” (toxic ik but what can i say? i was feeling neglected). so you can see what problems this caused. eventually i cut S off. I stopped talking to him completely and i haven’t spoken to him since. Back to 1. even after cutting off my best friend, nothing really changed. He didn’t spend much time with me and whenever we would, i felt like he couldn’t wait to go off and do something else. this got exhausting. at that point i was begging him to love me, to pay attention to me, to care about me. this led to us breaking up. he broke up with me over text. it read, and i quote, “i think we aren’t meant for each other. i think you deserve someone that will treat you better than i do. I don’t think i’m in love with you and i tried to force myself to love you because i thought that’s what i wanted but i really don’t think it is. we started this relationship when i was just tired of being alone and i really just don’t think it is right anymore. i don’t think i am attracted to you. I am sorry, i really didn’t know how to end this and this probably isn’t the best way to do it but it’s time”. The relationship went on for another six months after this. granted, i should have had more self respect and never gotten back together with him but it is what it is. so after he told me that he didn’t love me and that he wasn’t attracted to me, we stayed “friends”. which basically meant that we did everything that a relationship involved. without actually being in a relationship. that is, until one of his friends hit me up. there was some flirtation going on but nothing serious. i was still in love with 1 but, at the time, i was in desperate need for attention and his buddy was there to provide it. when i told 1 about it he flipped out, called me all kinds of crazy and decided he was done with me. his friend and i talked about it and poked fun at the fact that he broke up with me but got mad at someone else paying attention to me. when 1 saw this (he ended up forcing me to show him the screenshots of the conversation) he was even more pissed and even more done with me. the next day he called me and we were basically back together again.

however, this time, i was meant to earn his affection. because i did something so unforgivable and atrocious, he was basically in the clear to treat me like shit. and he did. he would cancel plans to go hang out with his friends. he would only come over late at night, even when i had class the next day. i was basically at his mercy. we only hung out when he decided. we only spoke when he wanted to. i honestly can’t even recall us going on any date after that incident, save for one dinner. in short, i was not a priority to him. this, combined with some other stuff, really took at toll on my mental health. i entered a deep depression and began self-harming after being clean for 3 years. i sought out help and found a wonderful therapist who really helped me. but, 1 only saw this as one more problem. when we hung out he would complain that i was too sad. important note: because of that text he sent me i was incredibly insecure. so, little arguments would always end up escalating because i felt like he literally did not care about me and he would just keep making me feel like shit about being depressed. whenever we argued (which was very often) it would end in me locking myself in the bathroom, sobbing, nearly throwing up, while he was on his phone. i remember one specific argument started because he asked me if i would leave him for harry styles and i jokingly said yes (i am not and have never been attracted to harry styles). that argument escalated to the point where we almost broke up and he said to me “you should warn people before they fall in love with you that you are so mentally ill. because you’re always going to bring down the mental state of who you’re with”. he used my mental health against me like that a lot. whenever i would bring up something i wanted him to do or something that i didn’t like, he would call me needy, clingy, and say that he was trying his best but that i needed too much, that i was too much. all i wanted was reassurance. looking back, that’s all i ever asked for. whenever i would ask him if he loved me he would say “well i’m with you aren’t i?”. this is the same man who decided to go to vegas with his friends on my birthday after he promised he wouldn’t. this is the same man who said that he didn’t love me. the same one who said he wasn’t attracted to me. the same man who i would catch looking at other girl’s (some being his “friends”) provocative pictures on twitter. (this is definitely tmi so i’m just going to put a bunch of asterisks at the end of the tmi so you can skip there if you don’t want to read it) but there was a long period of time in our relationship where we had zero intimacy, and it wasn’t because of me. this fucked with my head a lot because i had this idea that because i was so emotional and needy that i could compensate physically. but when that stopped, my thoughts looked something like “the only thing i was useful for was sex and now he doesn’t even want that from me”.************whenever i remember this, a part of me thinks he might’ve been cheating on me during that time, but i have no proof so i guess we’ll never know. also during that time period, we were arguing over the same things over and over “it feels like you don’t love me” “but i’m hanging out with you” “that’s not the same as loving me” “you’re so fucking needy. and then you wonder why i don’t like coming over”. it was exhausting. we had the same friend group. and even our friends got so sick of us that they would tell me to break up with him. this went on for months until one day, on our one year anniversary, he told me that his plans for the day included playing video games. nothing else. that’s when i broke up with him. that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. i just couldn’t do it anymore.

we stayed friends afterwards in order to keep the peace within the friend group. after about a month, he told me he was going to do better. he said he was going to start going to the gym, and maybe even going to therapy, that he was going to eat better and live a better lifestyle for me. he said he was going to plan dates for us and treat me the way i deserved etc. very much vibes from that one euphoria scene. but i was done. maybe i didn’t communicate that well enough to him and that’s my fault. but i was really confused at the time and i didn’t know what i wanted. eventually we had a conversation and that’s when i told him that i was no longer interested in a relationship. i think i just didn’t believe him anymore. i didn’t believe that he would change for me or anyone else for that matter. through the entire relationship he was mean to me, he neglected me, belittled me, and overall made me feel like shit at worst and invisible at best. even when i would offer to plan things or suggest activities for us to do together, he would be disinterested the entire time or just cancel and make plans with his friends instead. and of course it was all my fault for one, flirting with his friend that one time, and two, just not being interesting enough. he made it feel like i wasn’t good enough, and at the same time victimized himself. he would tell me “nothing i do is ever good enough for you” while i was the one putting in all the effort in the relationship. then he would go “well why would i put in effort with you? remember when you were flirting with [redacted]? I still think about that and it fucks me up”. mind you, he would only bring this up whenever i brought up any concerns or issues. anyway, as you can tell it took me a really long time to realize that this relationship was toxic and unhealthy and i’m really proud of myself, again, for having the strength to leave and never look back. i think one of the reasons why it took me so long to realize that i was being mistreated was because everyone around him loved him. and to me it was hard to see how someone that was so well liked could be bad. so i felt like i was the problem. i felt like there was something wrong with me and if i just fixed that, then he would treat me better and love me and care about me. it took a lot of therapy to realize that he just wasn’t that into me. i was like a toy to him that he could just pay attention to when he was bored but ignore me the rest of the time. but then, when someone else showed interest in me he would suddenly care and be like “no she’s mine, you can’t have her”. he didn’t want me but he didn’t want anyone else to have me and that was the bottom line. that was the base off all the problems and toxicity that happened while we were together.

in conclusion, both of these men were awful in their own unique ways. i hope that by sharing this, someone who is in a similar situation will see it and identify these behaviors as something to watch out for. i hope that someone will see it and realize that they are not alone, and that they are not the first person to go through it, and that it gets better. these events all happened over two years ago and now i am in a beautiful and healthy relationship, i’m studying something that i am passionate about, and i am surrounded by people who love, care about, and support me. i am in a much happier place now and you will find that too, whoever you might be <3

[boyprincessarchives]

— ೀ from: your secret admirer [edward nashton x gn!reader]

︶︶︶︶︶⠀୨♡୧⠀︶︶︶︶︶︶⠀୨♡୧⠀︶︶︶︶︶ summary: you're edward's newest penpal! ...unbeknownst to you. set in the riddler year one comics, in the midst of finding and fulfilling his purpose to rid the city of its impurities, edward finds that his biggest hurdle for his plans are the growing thoughts about the corner diner's newest regular. but he cant just come up to you!! maybe notes will have to suffice... contains: edward's usual creepy behavior, light stalking?, he just fantasizes about having a life with you/meeting you i guess, writer is horrible at riddles and attempts to make one word count: 1.5k tags: @nshtn writers note: heres that silly little fic i was talking about a few weeks back. im not sure why i feel more comfortable posting it on my second acc, but here we are! woohoo, its my first fic ever, so i hope you all enjoy some writing from a dyslexic and secondary english speaking writer♡ for that one person that said no, i humbly apologize hehe (ㅅ´ ˘ `)♡

enjoy!! ︶︶︶︶︶⠀୨♡୧⠀︶︶︶︶︶︶⠀୨♡୧⠀︶︶︶︶︶

♡ you two would definitely meet at the diner he frequently visits. during your first visit there, he was sitting in his usual spot, a booth in a forgotten corner, drinking a latte and solving his crossword puzzle. ♡ the diner is usually quite quiet at this hour, and he's frequented it to the point where he recognized the different usuals’ voices. so hearing you speak your order for the first time quickly stuck out at him, like a singular melody in the midst of his crowded mind. he immediately perked up at the sound; not much could really tear him away from whatever puzzle he brought to keep himself company but... you were so… different compared to everyone in this corrupt city. ♡ at first he’d try to brush off your presence, he might never see you again after all. but then you’d come in once a month, then every other week, then multiple times a week. ♡ he'd stare down at his lap, frustrated at himself. what was it about you that made you so different anyway? you were like a nagging habit he couldn't shake, like a stray that came crawling back that his heart couldn’t help but ache to tend to again. he sighed with his eyes shut, submitting to you every time, allowing his thoughts to be consumed by you once more. ♡ he was so lucky... having your closeness grace him. and each time you visited, you only seemed to fill more parts of his mind. at this point, he wasn’t even able to focus on his daily crossword puzzles. it annoyed him to no end but... that’s how he knew you were special. you brought a new light in his usual dark life. ♡ slowly, edward's mind didn't seem to care to search for the answer anymore. he didn't need to know why you were special, now he understood you just were special. he was losing his sense of logic, giving in to your beckoning presence, how good it felt love you. ♡ everyday he’d observe you from his own booth at the diner, now for once glad his spot was usually forgettable. he sipped away at his own cup as he watched and took note of every detail: the way you’d sigh after almost every sip of coffee you took, that polite, yet forced smile you gave to those who passed by, and his favorite detail? the fact that you never visited the diner with anyone else. of course he wasn’t entirely certain if you were single or not but, it made him more confident. like he actually had a chance. ♡ he’d immediately fantasize about the day where he was confident enough to go up to you and speak, figuring out the information he so desperately needed on his own, through your conversations, and not through speculation or crumbs of information he'd overhear through exchanges that didn't belong to him. in his mind he was obviously more confident, no stutters or awkward silences. then you’d go on dates, and maybe you’d see each other outside the diner, just the you two sharing a life together. oh, a man could dream...

♡ after finding and accepting his interest in you, he started frequenting the diner even more, just so he could broaden the possibility of seeing you more often. the time he spent there was practically unhealthy at this point. there was probably remnants of coffee in his lungs from the ungodly amount of hours he’d spend inhaling it secondhand. he would even bring in paperwork instead of his usual crossword puzzle. anything just to be blessed and catch glimpses of you. ♡ sometimes he would see you visit after an extra excruciating day of whatever you did for work. it would break his heart every time, watching you slump into your seat, your long sigh turning into a groan, before treating yourself to a sweet little dessert to drown out the sorrows long enough to at least get yourself home. ♡ he’d get lost in the thought of bringing you home— one you guys actually shared— scooping you up, running you a hot bath and taking you to bed, having you in his arms. he’d wished you didn't work, or at least not this hard. (though he found it quite admirable.) he wished that he could provide for you, so he could never see you this exhausted again. for once in his life he could feel adequate. like a worthy man, somebody's hero. ♡ at times he would feel guilty for borderline stalking you. he knew how you liked your coffee, but he didn’t even know your name! but it wasn't stalking... right? he was just... interested! preparing for the day he'd actually speak. its meant to be flattering... though he would never follow you home, or attempt to find every single piece of information the internet had to offer about you, of course…

♡ ...not yet at least. (thankfully for you, he held back for the sake of researching his newest death contraption.) ♡ but, while sat at that lonely booth, he allowed himself to completely indulge in you. he couldn’t help but stare, you were just so captivating from across the diner, even under the dim lighting it provided, and the late hours you frequented. he just had to know more about you… maybe after this was all over. ♡ you began consuming every part of his life. even outside the diner he would find his mind slipping to thoughts of you. he was starting to miss you. it frustrated him to no end. the color blue would remind him of that sweater you wore a few days back, and that dog he saw at that animal rescue had awfully cute eyes like yours. he even started associating the scent of coffee to your voice, only furthering his desire for caffeine. 'god edward, keep it together.' he'd think. it all led back to you. ♡ you were distracting him from his plans on wiping this city clean. he should be figuring out how to correctly wire this detonator, not fantasize about how soft your skin would feel on his!! but you also began becoming his newfound reason. he knew you were one of the only few good people left in gotham, maybe the hope this dump needed. he wanted you to live in a safe city, he needed you to thrive. you only deserved the best after all, to have the ground you walked on worshipped... ♡ sat in his usual seat, he would begin leaving riddles or crossword puzzles for you to solve, he would even draw doodles of flowers and hearts, instead of his consistent scribblings about batman and the lies of the government. even if he tried, all the riddles he'd come up with would be about you anyway. ♡ edward couldn’t help but stifle a giddy squeal. it felt like he was a teenager again, passing notes to his crush; writing them on the diner’s napkins and placing them in front of you when you looked away, quickly slipping past your line of sight. they would always have to do something with his love and adoration, how he’d reveal himself to you one day. he made them just for you. he even slowed his handwriting so you could read it better. ♡ for now you were endeared. confused, but endeared, while you looked around the room for the napkin's source. they were cute, simple things that gave you something to do, if you looked past the creepy part. it gave you something to think about and look forward to while you try and distract yourself for a little while. ♡ he wondered if you noticed him like he noticed you. he wanted you to notice him. for the first time in his life he wanted to be seen. just for you, he wanted to be somebody.

“ i am with a lock and you might be my key; when you find me, you feel complete. i’m a rare treasure that brings happiness and joy. what am i? ”

♡ and at times he was frustrated at how oblivious you were, but that didn’t deter him away from you or find you any less intelligent as he thought you were. the day you two would properly meet would eventually come. he idolized you, you were his sunshine in all the gloominess of the city. his one bright light. ♡ he would secretly cheer you on from his seat behind you, marveling at just how smart you are. anticipating the amount of time it would take for you to solve everything he had laid out for you, like a rat in a maze. would it take you five minutes? two? or maybe would you take that little napkin home today? ♡ he loved watching you struggle, your eyebrows knotting together as you looked down at the ink on the page. he could barely contain his giggles as you proudly smiled to yourself as you filled out the words of his puzzles. he was just as proud of you as you were of yourself. he knew you could do it.

“ …a soulmate…? ”

♡ you solved his riddles! how were you not perfect for him?

[alexthetrashyracoon]

Fantasy au nobody asked for but I give you anyway.

Tags: Flowerfairy Reader, traveling mercenary Ghost, a bit of cursing, momentarily character death but we stay above the ground don't worry, a bit angsty but it gets a happy ending, I promise <3 (if that flops I'll cry)

Word count: 1350

"We shouldn't go this way." They flatly said and fluttered next to Ghost's face, brows in a pinch with their hands pressed against their rips. "It's dangerous."

Ghost grunted and swatted at them, not hard enough to hurt them or cause them to crash to the ground, but to get them out of his face. "You've been traveling with me long enough. You should know by now I don't care how dangerous it is as long as it gets me to the place I need to get." He says and leaves the cobbled path to take the short cut through the woods.

They huff and flutter after him. "I warned you."

It's been three months since Ghost met the little flower fairy, caught in some bandits' bottle. Ghost was hunting the group of bandits down, a big fat reward waiting for him when he brought back the leader, dead or alive it didn't matter.

So when he cleaned the camp, he found the bottle that had rolled under a sack and at first, Ghost had discarded it as trash, not looking twice at it but then he heard the little banging sound on glass and checked the bottle again, finding the little thing inside.

At first Ghost wasn't sure if he could believe his eyes. It wasn't everyday after all that someone came across a fairy, tiny human with wings on their back, but they pinched Ghost hard enough for him to believe it.

Ever since then Ghost allowed the fairy to graciously follow him, if they promised to keep their mouth shut, which they never truly did. They were talking all the time, chatting about whatever was on their mind. And Ghost, he would never admit that out loud, actually enjoyed the company for once. He was used to traveling alone, never bonding with others or keeping friendships alive for long. But something about the fairy was different.

At the end of the shortcut, Ghost finds himself standing in an opening that looks quite peaceful, not enough for him to drop his guard but the scenery is nice for a change.

He turns around to face the fairy who sits on his shoulder like usually when their wings get tired. They barely weigh anything more than a feather, even if he teases them all the time that if they keep eating so many cookies that he won't be able to keep walking with them on his shoulder. They always pout in return and don't talk to him for exactly ten minutes before chatting about some flower they have passed on their way.

"See. No danger around." Ghost grunts and decides it's time for a break, to replenish his strength and energy while enjoying a bit of nature's beauty. He puts down his backpack and sits down next to it. "Wake me in an hour."

The wake-up call never comes, or at least, not an hour later, but several hours, considering that the sun is going down right now and Ghost finds himself in a cage with his arms bound behind his back with rough rope. "The fuck is going on?" He asks, his tongue heavy as he speaks, eyes needing a few moments to focus again, ears still ringing, making hearing hard. Someone must have knocked him out cold when he took a nap, how embarrassing for someone like him to get caught off-guard by some amateur bandits.

Something... Someone, steps in front of the cage. "Look at that. The shithead who killed my brother is awake." That someone kicks the bars of the cage, making Ghost flinch at the rattling sound that comes with it.

He quickly gathers himself again, checking the guy outside the cage but not recognizing the person. "I killed many brothers... So, who the fuck are you?" Ghost asks, sounding overly confident, as always, even in situations where he should show a bit of restraint. Especially in situations like this.

The person grabs onto the bars of the cage and rattles them, baring his teeth like an animal. "You dick. I'll make you remember before... Hey! What the fuck! What is that?!" The bandit jumps and swats at something in the air but can't quite catch it.

Ghost's eyes widen, his fairy is back, he has been asking himself where they have gotten lost while he was in that cage. But he can't let their distraction be for nothing, he uses the chance to break the binding and steal the key from the bandits' leather belt to get out of the cage.

"Shit!" The bandit curses as he turns to look between Ghost and whatever is attacking him but decides to ultimately pay attention to Ghost, the bigger threat. Ghost's fairy uses the chance to get away to safety, leaving Ghost to fight without worrying about getting them into more danger.

It's clear as day that Ghost is no amateur and that there was no way in hell that the bandit would ever win. But somehow he managed to get away, right where Ghost's little fairy waited for him.

Ghost isn't fast enough to save them, he watches as the now bleeding bandit grabs the little fluttering thing and squeezes his hand shut until the noises stop and the forest completely falls silent.

He makes quick work of the bandit, he doesn't even look at his face as he cuts off his head. All he cares for is the little fairy in the bandits hand that's laying there, like a little doll, unmoving.

"Come now. Don't play with me, little fairy." Ghost says and picks their body up with shaking hands.

He never felt like this before, so damn helpless and clueless. What is he supposed to do? How can he turn back time to get his fairy back. The little chattering fairy that he learned to care for.

"I know you warned me it's dangerous... I should have listened." He says, not crying. He can't. He won't. Ghost never cries. Even if he wants to. "It's my fault you're dead. I'm sorry."

He remembers the promise they made a few weeks ago.

"Let's see the world together. You and I." They have happily announced back then and Ghost couldn't say now to their happy, smiling face. "Let's see the world together. You and I."

He would give his own life just for one more chance with them.

A single tear rolls down Ghost's cheek. It's more than he ever allowed himself before. It lands on their tiny body, staining their clothes.

Ghost searches for a spot to bury them, he knows they love flowers, so why not bury them in a field of them.

Just as he's finished with the hole in the ground, the air picks up, the breeze becomes warmer with flower petals and leaves flying through the air, surrounding him.

"That hole is way too small for someone as big as me."

Ghost knows that voice, he looks down only to find the body missing. Instead he sees naked feet, human feet standing in front of him, he looks up, following the long legs.

"How?" He asks, ignoring their nakedness and standing up, touching them, their humanly sized body. "I saw your dead body. He squeezed..."

"I don't know, Ghost. In my last moment I just remembered that we promised to travel the world together and when I opened my eyes again, I saw you on your knees, digging that hole." They explain with a smile, gratefully taking the woolen cloak from Ghost's hands and wrapping it around their shoulders. "I think Lady Fate is still not done with our story, Ghost."

At first it was a big change, gone was the tiny fairy fluttering around his head all the time, but Ghost quickly got used to seeing the other human next to him every night and day. Ghost had to teach them how to be human at first but he was sure that this was a challenge they would master too. One step at a time. And this time, Ghost would listen to his fairy turned human more often.

[thelastofhyde]

you cut your hair, and take some space (2)

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 2 of 3! (part 1)

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, policeofficer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, violence, nondescript depictions of sa ( not javi ), pedro-ception aka there's a small cameo of another pedro boy, vomiting, mentions of pregnancy, reader is described to have hair and celebrates christmas ( but no mention of the reader's religious beliefs )! 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. 14.3k

hyde’s input. hey... hey... how y'all doin'?🧍remember when i said part 2 would be posted a few weeks after part 1? yeah, that was a fucking lie. and, remember when i said it would be 2 parts in total? that was also a lie! the universe is praying on my downfall ( i had a fun mental health episode and fell into a black hole for a few months <3 ) unfortunately, i am very much still alive and kicking, so this is me trying to get the ball rolling again when it comes to posting fics. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it + tumblr will not allow me to post it as a whole due to it's paragaph-count limit, 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!

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of. “huh?” “this. us. it could be casual, y’know?”

Golden boy, you dropped the ball I am Annie fucking Hall

The year moves too fast.

It’s like you blink, and suddenly it’s Thanksgiving.

Leaves turn brown. Pumpkins are carved only to rot upon front porches. A gathering of friends, young adults getting their first taste at hosting a thanksgiving meal.

You’re put on dessert duty, which culminates in stressful tears and your mother’s hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, reassuring you that it’s okay, everyone burns their first pie.

No one at the party needs to know the pumpkin pie you brought was a product of your mother’s gentle care.

Then there is actual Thanksgiving, which you celebrate, as always, at your aunt's.

The highlight is, and forever has been, the road-trip out of state, your father making it his mission to deafen you and your mother with his horrific singing.

As they drop you back at your apartment, your father has no qualms leaning out the car window and calling after you.

“I expect to see you cheering me on at the Thanksgiving Touchdown event!”

Which brings you here, to said event, sweater sleeves tugged over cold fingers and a wandering pair of eyes who refuse to comply with your wants.

You want to focus on the ongoing football match- Fire Department vs Police.

Your eyes prefer to follow him, striding up the field, his hair soaked in sweat and his t-shirt long removed.

You’ve no valid reason to roll your eyes at the other women who seem to prefer spectating the sport of Javier Peña. You’re no better than them.

Yet, as one of them let’s out a joyous shriek as he takes a pass at the ball, your eyes roll.

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

At least you have company. An older gentleman, who you caught struggling to pick his wallet up from the floor. He’d smiled as you returned it, and conversation had flowed easily from there.

As the whistle blew, commencing the final match of the local community services’ football league- or, Thanksgiving Touchdown, as your father so aptly named it-, he’d patted the empty seat next to him.

“Hmm?”

He points, and you follow the direction, realising he’s speaking about Javi.

“Him,” he says it with a teasing tone to his voice. It’s like he’s mocking the agent. “Think’s he’s God’s gift, takin’ his top off like that.”

The more you sit with the older gentleman, the more you enjoy his company.

On the field, your dad bellows something at Javi. He replies with a curt salute, and shoots off down the length of it.

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

A force to be reckoned with, keeping pace with rookies half his age.

The vision of him, gun strapped to his leg and a tact vest on his chest, speeding down streets in the columbian heat conjures in your mind.

You wonder how it felt to know him then, if worry kept his companions awake.

It had certainly kept you awake in recent months, and that was with him safe, in Laredo, cooped up in some bachelor pad.

“Surprised he’s not thrown his top to the crowd of screaming ladies!” The gentleman continues his mocking, and it rouses laughter out of both of you.

A whistle is blown, your eyes return to the field and, though he’s quick to look away, you catch the tail end of Javier’s eyes on you.

Fifteen minutes pass, in which you do your best to not stare at him.

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

Eventually, the man next to you coaxes you into getting him a lemonade from the food truck.

You oblige, of course, and deny his attempts to hand you cash, insist it’s on you.

He’s kept you smiling on a rather gloomy day.

You tell him you’ll be right back, smile, and realise you don’t know his name.

“Chucho,” he tells you, and waves you off.

You join the queue, keep your head down, ignore the gossiping women three spots ahead of you, claiming to have each shared an encounter with Javi.

You don’t need to know what he’s been up to.

You don’t want to know who he’s been up to it with.

It happens when you’re finally being served.

There’s no longer a queue, just you, smiling as sweetly as possible. The service industry is rough enough, nevermind on holidays.

You order successfully, both Chucho’s lemonade and a hot chocolate for yourself.

The guy working the truck- young enough, a bit too traditionally good-looking, with coiffed hair and a shaven face- he’s talkative.

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

Even more so after a something that means nothing yet everything ends out of the blue and you’re left reeling over whether or not some part of you is to blame.

So you let him shoot you his dashing smile, and throw in unnecessary pet-names that just feel forced into every sentence he speaks to you, and write his number on the paper cup of your hot chocolate.

“Here you go, pumpkin,” he winks. The pet-name feels a little too on the nose for the season. Couldn’t he have called you sweetheart instead? “A sweet treat for that sweet smile.”

You wonder if he’s allowed to gift the free donut he slides your way.

Your stomach growls and begs for sugary release before you can fully bring yourself to care.

An awkward thanks. Hands reach up to grab the to-go cups, three fingers curling up the bagged donut. 

He helps you get a grip on the beverages, placing them in your hands.

His touch lingers, more than necessary, fingertips brushing over your knuckles as if trapped in slow-motion.

“So, a pretty girl like you got a boyfriend, or are you gonna let me take you out to-”

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

Your father screams one name, loud and clear, down the pitch.

“Peña, get your head out your fucking ass and pick up the ball!”

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

Javier, frozen in place, face an unreadable maze of emotions, eyes staring right at you.

They follow you all the way back to your seat, even as the game picks up again.

Even as you congratulate your dad on another victory for the police department, now the four-time consecutive champions of the Thanksgiving Touchdown.

Even as you head off to your father’s car.

Even when you’re home, curled under a blanket and watching a televised copy of Annie Hall, you feel his eyes on you.

The look of betrayal on Javier Peña haunts you even once you fall asleep.

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

Everything has it’s place, from the books that line your bedside table to the memories inside your mind.

You compartmentalise.

Tucked deep into the right side of your brain, there’s a box.

It’s contents, memories you’ve yet to process.

Moments you know that, if you wish to move on, you’ll have to relive.

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

And, scribbled in bold red marker, April ‘99.

A late night.

You, wide awake, laying on your back and mapping out stars in his ceiling.

Javier fell asleep hours ago and now snores softly against your neck, muscled arm curled around your waist as his legs entangle your own.

The agent is a fiend for cuddling, and so often wraps himself around you like a vine.

You find yourself nestling your hand in his hair, and take note of the sharp breath he intakes.

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

Relax when you feel him snore and press himself even deeper against your naked skin.

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

He hadn’t told you that, but he didn’t need to.

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

In the way he let you take the lead, resting back against the couch to watch how your hips wound down on him.

In the way he got even clingier than usual, dragging you into the shower with him just to have you near, holding you from behind as you washed up the plates he’d used to serve you dinner (a trade-off he’d reluctantly agreed to months ago: he cooks, you clean), laying his head on your lap as you curled up to watch some cheesy horror movie- one you’re bound to fall asleep during and he’s counting on it, glancing up till he spots you slumped over and eyes closed, granting him the perfect excuse to carry you to his bed and nestle himself in beside you.

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

It’s like you’ve forgotten something, misplaced something, and can’t even figure out what it is.

You just know its absence is wrong.

Javi mumbles something, dreaming away, and you feel the subtle press of his lips against your skin.

Fingers curl tightly into the fabric of your (his) shirt.

He can’t get you close enough, it seems.

Playing against his wants, you pull back, slowly, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.

There’s a pinch between his brows, furrowed in worry.

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

It’s a selfish act, born purely from your own desire, but you find yourself pressing a kiss against his forehead.

His grip loosens, though slightly.

It gives you enough time to feel a stir between your thighs, a calling coming from your bladder.

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

It’s a struggle that leaves you topless and feeling a pinch of cruelty, standing over the bed as you watch his hand grabbing at the vacant spot you once occupied, your scent and shirt the only traces you leave behind.

You don’t bother turning on a light, make your way to his bathroom with practiced ease.

Pad your way across the cold linoleum floor, sink down onto the porcelain seat- he’d stopped leaving it up when your overnight visits became more frequent. You hadn’t asked- didn’t need to ask-, he’d simply done it.

Closing the door over, yet not enough for the hinges to squeak and the handle to lock, you pray the wood muffles noise of the flushing toilet.

When it stops, you wait a few seconds, until you’re sure there’s no rustling coming from his bedroom.

Then, you open the tap.

The water is barely a trickle, yet you tell yourself its enough.

Lather your hands in soap, sit them under the constant drip of cold water till you feel the suds wash down the drain.

It’s hard to stop yourself from sneaking a glance at the mirror, just as it’s hard to recognise the version of yourself you see.

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

Yhen come the thoughts of Javier, and how he sees you.

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

He’s not said anything. Or done anything, to make you notice a change.

But, then, Maybe it’s been subtle, slow, dragged out long enough it’s not drastic enough for either of you to take note of.

You eye the spare toothbrush he keeps in his bathroom, and try to remember when it became yours.

You don’t remember.

One moment, his toothbrush sat alone. And, the next, you were standing side by side, laughing as you raced to see who could make a foamier mess of the toothpaste.

Corazón, you look like a rabid animal, he’d called you once, laughing through tears as he wiped away the white suds dripping off your chin. You’re lucky that you’re just so cute.

You can recall, even now, how quickly his mouth had found yours that night, with no ulterior motive other than to bask in the minty taste of one another.

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

Only, sweat lines your forehead and your face seems drained of colour.

You make it only two steps back before you’re hurtling across the bathroom floor.

Your knees crash down first, harsh and unforgiving against the tiles.

The first wretch burns, has you coughing over your own gag.

In the dark, it’s hard to see what exactly comes out of you, but you know where it came from.

Your stomach.

Another wave of nausea hits, this one harder, and you’re gripping at the sides of the bowl, spewing into the water below.

A splash meets your cheek, but you’re too out of it to care, wave after wave of nausea leaving you a coughing, gagging, crying mess.

You feel lightheaded, only managing a moment to catch your breath before another wave hits.

It feels like you’re suffocating.

It’s in your throat, in your mouth, in your nose, in your hair.

It feels like it’s never stopping and you’re doomed to spend the rest of your days submitting to the horrors of throwing-

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” warmth, against your naked back.

It’s a nice warmth, not like the one that has you covered in a cold sweat.

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

You try to follow it, match your breathing to the tactile comfort.

“That’s it, baby,” cool air meets your neck, the hairs that stuck to your skin now pulled up and pushed back. “I’m right here, I got you.”

Eventually, all that’s left is the burning of bile at the back of your throat and the dull ache of eyes gone raw with tears.

You’re pulled into a solid mass, naked chest pressed to naked chest as you go slack upon the bathroom floor.

You’re exhausted, and covered in your own sweat, tears and vomit.

Javier doesn’t care, pulling you tighter against him and whispering sweet words you don’t quite pay attention to.

“Woke up and you weren’t there, corazón. Don’t do that again,” even in his attempts to chastise, he’s gentle, brushing the remaining strands of sweat-slicked hair off your face. You must be an awful sight, yet his expressions don’t give way. “You wake up, you wake me up too. ‘Specially if you’re gonna hurl, okay?”

You glance at him, swallow back a lump and deal with the realisation that dawned upon you ten minutes earlier, as you sat hunched over the toilet’s bowl.

“Javi,” he smiles at the way you call his name.

You feel sick all over again at the thought of that changing, everything changing, as you build the courage to speak.

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

You imagine he’ll stand up, pace the floor.

Run his hands through his hair, rant over every thought he has.

Ways to get rid of it, the dangers of your dad finding out.

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

He’ll ask why you weren’t safer, why you forgot to take that morning-after pill, why you played so fast-and-loose with your body.

None of it arrives.

He stands, yes, but only to pull you up with him, tired limbs leaning into his strong build as he drags you both under the heat of a warm shower.

You watch the remnants of your own vomit wash down the drain, and question how he can stand there, not disgusted with you.

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

He’s rougher with himself, scarcely drying properly before he’s carrying you back to his bed, a replay of hours earlier as he lays you down, crawls in behind you and tucks you both under the soft comfort of his worn-out sheets.

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

He so easily nestles himself behind you, dragging you back against him and committing himself to the role of big-spoon.

His hands have always felt large, their touch always electrifying, but nothing compares to the feeling of him splaying one across your lower stomach, a subtle press into where part of him could be growing within you.

“Javi,” you whine, fighting off the sleep your overwhelmed body so badly needs. “I’m sorry.”

You say it because you feel obligated, like it’s your place to be apologetic.

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

“No seas boba (Don’t be silly),” there’s a fresh set of tears already sliding down your cheeks by the time he replies. “Don’t need to be sorry, baby.”

“But I-”

“But, nothing,” his tone feels final, one that tells you you’ll get nowhere arguing against him. “You’ve done nothing wrong, corazón.”

You fall asleep, eventually, soothed by his gentle breathing and the repeated motion of his thumb stroking over your belly.

Yhe next time you awake, there’s a crack of sunlight creeping through his blinds.

Javi’s still in bed, only he’s propped up on his elbow and staring down at you.

His smile stretches a little wider when he spots your open eyes.

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

“I gotta go, corazón,” is met with a protest from you, rolling over to curl into his solid chest.

Expecting it, he wraps you up tighter in his arms, presses an array of chaste kisses to your head.

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

You don’t want him out, in the real world, where the hours you’ve spent cooped up together become more scandalous than the peaceful nature of them.

“I know, I know. Don’t wanna go either, baby,” you wonder if you spoke your thoughts aloud, or if Javi simply knows you so well.

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

Help him tie it, the comforter pooled around your naked waist as you sit criss-cross-apple-sauce and Javi’s at the side of the bed, legs bent at the knee.

He thanks you with a kiss, then asks you to pass him his cologne.

It’s on the other side of the bed- his side of the bed- and you lean over to grab it.

You don’t bother handing him it, spraying it directly onto your own wrist and dabbing it into the skin of his tanned neck.

He lets you, a gentle smile on his face and eyes that pull you in for a hug, burrowing himself between your naked breasts.

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

“You’re gonna smell like me all day, cariño (darling),” he tells you.

“Good,” you reply.

Another hum, this time of approval, and a squeeze to your hip.

When he pulls back, he looks even more reluctant to leave.

Reality rears it’s ugly head, but he pushes it out your mind with the pressing of his hand against your stomach, the same spot he’d held onto all night.

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

Your hands instinctually curl in his hair, and you like to think you leave it a little messy, enough to ward off any of the women he works along side, hopeful eyes hoping to get a taste of the handsome, unmarried cop.

“Stay,” he mumbles against your skin, as if you’re the one who’s about to leave. “Don’t go, ok? I’ll call around lunch.”

He keeps his word.

Calls you, a few minutes past two, interrupting whatever daytime TV you were pretending to watch.

Answering leaves you feeling lightheaded, like you're trapped in a daydream.

Listening to him croon down the line while your finger anxiously tangles in the phone’s wire as you stand in his apartment, it feels domestic, like you’re waiting for him to come back home, a place you share together.

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

“How bout you, corazón?” He knows how to make you melt, picturing him smiling at his desk. “Have you ate yet?”

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

“You need to eat, baby,” you don’t like the fact he uses that pet-name, not right now. “There’s plenty in the fridge. Could make yourself a sandwich, or some toast. Might even have some of that pasta left over. You know, that one you said you liked? Oh, wait, maybe don’t eat that, don’t think uncooked salmon is good for pregn-”

You don’t want him to say the P word, so you cut him off.

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

He says ok, then you hear him take a bite of whatever his lunch is.

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

He tells you a quick story, something about one of the younger guys accidentally stapling his tie to an arrest warrant.

That rouses a laugh out of you, makes you forget all about the massive P word he almost said.

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

A place he’d begged you to stay this morning, safe and tucked away.

“Was thinking we could drive out to the clinic, find out for sure if we’re pr-” he cuts himself off this time, like he knows you’re not ready to hear that word. “Then we’ll take things from there, okay? Whatever you decide you wanna do, corazón, you call the shots.”

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

He walks through the door and welcomes the way you coil yourself around him, humming in delight as he peppers a few kisses over your face.

“Still smell like me,” he says it with approval, takes a purposeful whiff at you as he pulls you tighter against him.

You still smell his cologne on him too, buried beneath a few layers of sweat and cigarette smoke.

Near clinging to one another, it’s a miracle you two make it out his apartment and down the elevator.

An arm around your waist, he guides you over to his car.

Pulls the door open for you, stops you from bumping your head on the way in.

He practically runs round the car’s hood, jumping into the driver’s seat and thrumming the engine to life with the turn of a key.

“You remember to eat?” He asks as he pulls out onto the street.

You nod, then audibly reply.

Tell him you did in fact eat toast, leave out the part where you spewed your guts again twenty minutes later.

The drive is quiet.

Not uncomfortable, just relaxed, with the radio playing gently and his window rolled down enough to let in some air.

At some point, his hand slides over the console and rests against your thigh.

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

As you watch out the window how he drives past the turning for the local hospital, he must catch your questioning gaze.

“They, uh,” he clears his throat, rings his hand over the steering wheel. A small stain of sweat marks it. “Know your dad pretty well in there. And me. Figure you’d rather he not find out about us like that.”

He’s right.

So you relax back into your seat, accept the fact you’re both driving out of town together.

At some point, the beginning notes of your favourite song play through the stereo.

You instantly perk up, sitting up straighter in your seat and tap your foot a little to the beat.

Javi says nothing, simply peels his hand off you to turn the volume dial up.

Seconds later, he turns his head and throws you a look just asking if he’s done good.

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

A soft squeeze before he pulls them up to his lips, eyes back on the road.

The clinic is bright.

And squeaky, each step you take making you a little more nervous than the last.

Javier, by all accounts, is solid as a rock, signing you both in, picking up a few pamphlets, buying you a can of soda, all while you curl up in some plastic chair and just focus on not spewing your guts out.

You only relax once he’s sat beside you, helping you get a sip of the sugary drink and wrapping a protective arm around you.

You don’t mean to but you fall victim to sleep, the past 24 hours getting the best of you.

You come-to likely not much later, but to the sound of a childish giggle.

Cracking one eye open, just slightly, you notice you’re slumped into Javier, head on his shoulder.

There’s a giggling little girl in front of you both, in purple overalls and with two pigtails to hold her curly hair.

One of her hands is on Javi’s knees, using him to keep herself standing.

“First time?” You snap your eyes shut as a stranger’s voice fills the quiet bustle of the clinic.

A confused sound leaves Javier.

“Yeah, could tell from the look on your lady’s face,” the man continues. “Same one my own wife had during our first visit.”

You want to pay attention to Javi’s response, but you’re a bit busy dealing with the fact he’s not correcting the man, telling him you’re not his lady nor his wife.

His thumb soothes over your hip, and you wonder at what rate you’ll melt away into a pile of nothing thanks to his soft touches.

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

You tell yourself to try harder, to actually pay attention.

You succeed, catch as Javi replies, “a girl.”

“Yeah?” the stranger seems genuinely invested, it almost makes you want to open your eyes, see him for yourself.

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

“Wanted a boy, myself,” that same little girl giggles again and you can’t fight the temptation to peek once more, catch as she crawls into her faceless-father’s lap. “Doc told us it was gonna be a boy, too. Then this one came along and, wouldn’t ya know, not a boy.”

“Surprise!” the little girl squeals, and you feel Javi’s shoulder shake under your head.

God, you want to look at him, see if he’s looking at her with the same adoration that’s festering in your heart.

“Yeah, baby, you’re my little Sarah-Surprise,” the man coos and, despite his rough accent, it suits him. Like he was only ever meant to speak with gentle words and a soft heart, all for his precious daughter. “It’ll get easier, on your lady, just so ya know. Less scary, more exciting. ‘Bout to welcome our second one, and I’ve never seen my wife so happy.”

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

A chair squeaks as pressure is taken off it, the stranger standing.

You peak your eye open in time to see him picking his daughter up, her little legs dangling off his hip.

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

“What,” he clears his throat, and you wonder if it’s of emotion. “What are you hoping for this time?”

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

You’d pretended to wake up to Javier’s coaxing.

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

A smiley nurse handed you a cup, talked you through what you needed to do for your tests.

Took your blood pressure, complimented your earrings, and stepped out the room to give you privacy.

A short while and a reunion with Javi later, you sat in a doctor’s office, both a nervous wreck as you clasped each other’s hand.

“Mrs. peña,” again, Javier does not correct the doctor. And you realise it’s because he filled out the forms, he signed you in. He wrote you down as Peña. “You and your husband are not pregnant.”

What should have followed was a sigh of relief, from both of you.

But all you felt was led drop in your stomach and Javier’s grip tighten on your hand.

“You are, however, displaying symptoms of acute food poisoning, likely salmonella.”

The doctor continues on, detailing a prescription you’re being given.

But it falls on deaf ears, the world around you gone blank as you wrestle with conflicting emotions.

You’re not pregnant.

You should be elated. Jumping, and cheering, and dancing all over the place. Instead, you’re silent, letting yourself be guided back into the car by Javi.

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

He doesn’t explain that he’s taking you back to his place.

Getting you back in his bed, switching off the lights, he curls himself in behind you and splays his hand over your stomach.

Over your empty womb.

For some reason, you find yourself sobbing into your pillow, unaware of the tears from him that stain your neck as he tries to hush you.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” the irony of him repeating those very same words last night is not lost on you.

It’s hard to move on, when every month there’s a stabbing pain in your abdomen and a trickle of blood staining your underwear to remind you of April.

And so you keep it locked in it’s box, slapping another caution tape over it’s lid as you groan and roll out your own bed, trudging your way into your bathroom to check if the wetness between your thighs is your monthly visitor.

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

It’s not because he’s done anything to warrant your rejection, but, rather, it’s the forthcoming actions he’ll be guilty of.

See, you know why he’s calling.

Your mom let it slip, over brunch and a few too many glasses of wine.

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

Or, at least, that’s what you were until the last poker night he’d hosted, way back in March.

He slips away, phoned by your tipsy mother and obligated to drive three towns over to go pick her up because she misses him.

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

It was less a suggestion, more of a pleading, his hands already scraping the seat back and awaiting you to plop yourself down.

He leaves you with his hand, his winnings so-far, and a kiss to the top of your head.

“Watch out for Peña,” he whispered, as if you hadn’t been keeping an eye on the agent all evening, clouded by his own cigarette smoke and sitting looser each sip of his whiskey, no ice. “His poker face is dangerous.”

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

Rounds end and rounds start, and you father’s pile of winnings grow more and more.

It’s an ego boost, taking money from these cocky men who look at you as though surely you have no clue what cards you’re holding.

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

Flinging down cards, muttering curses, shoving his cash across the table.

All whilst glaring, at you, eyes black with ire.

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

Nearly an hour’s past since your father left, someone else leaves the table.

Says he needs the toilet, you point him in the direction of it.

You all call for a break, and then you graciously offer a refill on drinks.

It’s what your dad would’ve done, kept them all drinking and lowering their inhibitions, their focus disappearing alongside it.

“I’ll help!” One of the officers exclaims.

He’s on the younger side.

Practically a rookie, it’s only the second poker night he’s attended.

He’s sweet, with his large-framed glasses and his nervous smile.

You both make your way out of the basement- refurbished to be your dad’s man-cave- and head towards the kitchen.

You open the fridge, grab however many bottles of beer you need.

He heads to the liquor cabinet, pulls out a bottle bourbon.

You beat him at grabbing the whiskey, an unvoiced need to be the one who refills Javi’s glass.

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

Conversation flows naturally between you, in spite of him being a near stranger.

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

You both agree on the fact he’s a pain in the ass.

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

You tell him where to go to get the best club sandwich.

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

nNeither of you can tell who causes it, but one of you mispronounces a word and you both wind up in a pile of giggles, falling over yourselves and banging into counters.

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

Through wheezes, he repeats the phrase that left you both in this state.

You laugh harder, louder, warn him to stop before you lose control of your bladder.

Something thuds in the hallway, your eyes shoot up to the kitchen entry and you swear you see Javi’s retreating figure.

Blink a few times, realise there’s no one there.

You both gather some decorum.

He grabs as many of the beer bottles he can manage, and looks at your empty hands in question.

You tell him to head back without you, that you just need to go to the toilet.

Parting ways, you find the both the downstairs and upstairs bathrooms occupied.

Sigh in frustration, only to remember your parents en suite.

It’s empty, because of course it is. No one would feel comfortable enough invading the privacy of your parents' bedroom.

You do your business, wash your hands, fix yourself in the mirror.

Decide your lipstick needs a little touch-up, your clothes need straightening out.

And, when you’re done and ready to head back down to the poker table, you hear a thud.

Pull open the bathroom door, expect to find your father struggling to put a tipsy, giggly, clumsy version of your mother into bed.

Instead, there is only a brooding look and disapproving grunt.

A firm grip, on your arm, dragging you right back into the bathroom.

The door slams shut, a little harsher than you’d like, the sound of it surely reaching the ears of those regrouping for the next dealing of the cards.

He doesn’t pounce, like he so usually does when he’s wearing that look of frustration.

He’s simmering in it, teetering on the edge of boiling anger as he smooths a hand over his chin, visibly clenching his jaw, swallowing back whatever it is he wants to say to you.

He takes one step forward, and you go one back.

Then two steps, which you also match.

Your hip smacks into the sink’s counter on your fifth step backwards and it’s enough to finally put his hands on you.

He tugs you right into his chest, one hand soothing over where you’d banged your hip.

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

When he speaks, you nearly melt into a puddle, the heat of him invading your space, face inching close to your own, enough to have you questioning the sanctity of your parents en suite.

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

“Could ask you the same thing, officer,” you make the fatal mistake of giggling, but you’ll blame it on the fruity cider you’d helped yourself to.

He clearly finds no humour, not even as you fiddle with the top button of his shirt and shoot him your best look of innocence.

“Think you’re real fucking funny, don’t you?” His hand, warm and imposing, grips a hold of your face.

It’s almost painful, but you like it, squirming a little at the blunt stab of his nails and the way he smooshes your cheeks, forcing a pout onto your lips.

You try shake your head, his grip won’t let you.

“Sitting in a room full of men, making yourself the centre of attention,” he huffs a breath out of his nose, and you can’t help but compare him to an angry dragon.

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

“What’s the matter, Javi? Jealous you’re not the centre of all those men’s attention?” You’re poking the dragon, teasing him, and it’s an act that may leave you burned and scarred.

Or, as you’re hoping, it’ll win you the ride of a lifetime.

He doesn’t even grace you with a verbal response.

No, he scoffs, as though he’s in physical disbelief at the words you’re saying.

Spins you around, pins you to the sink’s counter, tugs your hair till you’re forced to stare at your reflection.

He’s right behind you, seething in anger, fire in his eyes.

His head dips between you neck and shoulder, brushing his lips against your pulse point.

“Not all of us are attention whores like you,” it’s fleeting, and he’ll deny it if you dare mention it, but he smiles.

Just a second, but you feel it, see it even though he tries so hard to turn his face into your neck.

It’s what lets you know he’s playing, teasing, egging you on to push him over the edge.

“I’ve been with real whores, corazón,” he confesses a sin you already know, eaves-dropping one too many times on your dad fishing stories of Colombia out of him. “Fucked them so often they started doing their nails in colours they knew I wanted to see wrapped around my cock.”

Involuntarily, your back arches, brushing your ass against him and providing him the perfect access to wind his hand up between your heaving breasts, all the way up till his fingers curl round the base of your throat.

In the mirror, the image is one of ownership, of Javi seizing your bodily autonomy. A whore and her gentleman caller.

It’s arousing to think about, Javi and his whores.

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

“And not one of them took half the money you’ve taken from me tonight.”

Oh.

So that’s what this is, his pretty ego, bruised at the hands of you?

Poor Mr. Javier Peña, humiliated in front of all his peers round after round, hundred bill after hundred bill.

You almost taunt him for giving into the temptations of the fragile male ego, but you’re stopped in your tracks.

By him, hands squeezing at you a little tighter as he grinds the unmistakable outline of his hardened cock against you.

That single action changes the game, entirely.

Because this isn’t about you stealing his money and his ego.

No, this is something far filthier, that has your panties growing wetter beneath the skirt of your dress.

“I’m worth every dime though, aren’t I, officer?.”

The grip tightens.

He shoves you harder into the counter, so hard a tub of your mother’s moisturiser topples off.

The hard outline of him is still there, ever-present.

“‘S that what you like, huh, taking my money? Wanna be Javi’s personal little whore?”

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

Certainly not you, reflection mimicking the way you eagerly nod, teeth biting down on your bottom lip in a failed attempt to hold back a grin.

Javi notices- of course he notices- and takes his victory, hips rocking even deeper into you.

There’s too many layers between you, a feat on which you both agree, yet neither of you do anything about.

You just savour the friction, instead, pushing and pulling one another to the axis of pleasure.

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

“What’s it gonna cost me to get you bent over and stuffed full of my cum, corazón?” One hand leaves your body. The mirror snitches on him, exposing how he’s reaching into his back pocket. “This?”

He smacks something down, into the bowl of the sink.

It’s his wallet, and you watch the worn leather of it shine with the residue of water on the linoleum.

The hand at your throat pulses a squeeze, his knee nudges you from behind.

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

His mouth, right by your ear, lips tickling you with the subtlest of brushes against it.

His hand guides your own, down into the sink, flipping the wallet open and putting it’s belongings on display.

Bills, some placed neatly, others stuffed in forcefully, edges spilling out the pockets. There’s less in there than when he arrived, courtesy of you.

There’s a few miscellaneous cards. A library card, an ID slip you’re sure he uses for something in the sheriff's station, a loyalty card to some record store.

The picture of his mother sits centre stage, radiant smile and loving eyes grabbing the attention of any who dare open it.

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

And then you notice something else, peeking out from behind his mother’s picture.

You dive into temptation, dart your nosy fingers over to tug at the object, till you realise it’s another picture.

A picture of Javi, and you.

Taken on a polaroid you found under a box of his belongings, you remember the day clear as ever.

The two of you had messed around, captured your sins on film with the promise of destroying it after. It would be too risky a thing, to allow image evidence of the intimate ways in which you knew each other’s bodies.

Javi’s fingers on your skin, your nipple in his mouth, his cock’s outline bulging within your lower abdomen.

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

Fully dressed, eyes fixed on his television, your head lays in his laps while his fingers card through your hair.

It’s captured from above, as if Javi’s own eyes had made a permanent record of his view.

The sweetness of this living on, of Javi taking something sacred for himself to keep hidden in his wallet distracts you for a moment.

He does good to bring you back into the room.

“Take how much you think you’re worth, corazón,” whispered into your ear, as he rips a few of the notes out his wallet.

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

With each bill you count, your internal price shooting up within your head, you try picture his reaction.

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

You, your face, looking at your expressions in a way that reminds you it’s his job to read people.

You decide to be bold, dig into his wallet and, even though your insides twist in anxious turmoil, hold up your hand to present him with your answer.

Resting neatly, between your fore and middle finger, a shiny credit card.

The gleam in Javi’s eyes just about match it, blackened and blown out with lust.

The card is plucked out your hand.

The hand on your neck leaves, in search of your waist.

The fabric of your dress bunches, wrinkling and creasing as his fabric-straining grip inches it’s hem higher and higher.

You feel sexy like this, face heated and breathing heavy.

It’s an effect he has on you, has had on you, forcing you to look at yourself in new lights, in new angles, admiring every out-of-line trace of you for what you are.

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

And every other word under the sun that Javi whispers into your skin with innocence as his body commits sins within you.

At the bottom of the mirror, you watch as the white cotton of your panties comes into view.

Wet, as you both expected, the thin fabric now turned almost sheer, exposing the delectable view of your cunt hugged cutely by the cotton’s tight seams.

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

There’s a strain to his voice, one that would have you worried he’s in pain if it weren’t for the way you’re watching as his face contorts with lust.

His eyes are dark and you study them like he studies his card, contemplating something.

A few seconds pass. 

Tension is puffed out his chest with one exhale, through the nose.

You feel the air tickle your skin.

He nods curtly, to himself, and flickers his gaze back to meet your own in the mirror.

It’s unwavering, even as he brings the black plastic down and smacks it against your mound.

You squeal, he hushes, and you both know he doesn’t mean it at all.

He likes when you gift him noise, a private aria only he has tickets to.

Just as easily as the first time, he snaps the card against you again, a jolt of pleasure shooting straight through your clit.

Just as loudly as the first time, you squeal, a jolt back into his warm, steady, hard embrace.

“What’re you running from, hmm?” His face turns, burrowing itself in the tresses of your hair.

A shallow sniff, and you wonder if he notices the smell of his shampoo on you.

There’s a pressing of lips, against your scalp, and it’s far too gentle of a juxtapose to the imagery of his fingers pulling your panties to the side, exposing your pussy to the bathroom’s cold air and the two pairs of hungry eyes in the mirror.

“You say that this is what you’re worth, and then you don’t want to take it?”

The third spank of the card against your bundle of nerves is harder, louder, echos in the confined space. A moan, minuscule and muffled, slips past tightly shut lips, a look of fear flashing through wide eyes.

Javi’s quick with his reassurance, gentle with his comfort, a hand stroking over your collarbone.

“Don’t worry, no one’s gonna hear you. You just be as loud as you need, hermosa, they’re too busy encouraging that boy-cop to ask you to dinner.”

There’s a tint of jealousy to the way he says boy, and you’re reminded of the image of him in the kitchen doorway.

Smack!

The card strikes down, once more, this time eliciting an open-mouthed gasp. 

He doesn’t let up, repeating the action twice more.

It hurts, in a way that makes your core throb and your toes curl, squirming aimlessly in a grasp he knows you don’t truly want to escape.

But he mocks you, with a hushing noise in your ear and gentle it’s okay, corazón, Javi’s got yous against your neck. His thumb swipes through your folds, coating it in your wetness and dragging itself up to your clit, soaking it in soothing rubs.

His gentle nature lasts mere seconds, his wrist flicking back only to smack the credit card down again. This time, it’s a pattern of three, repeatedly crashing down on your sensitive nerves one after the other.

In the mirror, you watch him observe as he twiddles the card between deft fingers, contemplation on his mind.

The room’s quiet, apart from your shortened breaths and his deep inhales.

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

It must have been a loud cheer, for you to hear them all the way up here.

And, suddenly, the stakes feel higher than when you were sat at the poker table, counting Javi’s coins with every passing round.

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

This doesn’t seem to cross Javier’s mind, who merely twists your head away from the bathroom door and back to the mirror, to where his hungry eyes await.

All contemplation is gone, he’s decided in what he’s going to do, and so you watch as he takes the card and swipes it through your cunt.

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

In fact, it’s rather uncomfortable, the solid plastic hard on your delicate skin.

It’s the arousal of him doing it that gets you weak in the knees, to have him perform such a mundane act- the swiping of his credit card- in such a crass, dirty, wrong way.

Like he’s paying for you, committing a physical transaction in exchange for your body.

It doesn’t matter that he could have you for free, has had you for free.

He wants to pay, wants to reward you in a way that aligns with the capitalistic world.

“Javi…” You whimper, softly, head lulling back against his shoulder as he swipes the card again.

Your eyes, slowly slipping shut, shoot right back open as you feel the rounded corner of the card prod at your opening, as if trying to notch itself within you.

“Think she could take it, corazón?” Javi bites at your ear, teeth clamping down and pulling at it’s lobe. The card sinks in, not even an inch. You nudge back into, your cry circling the room around you both. “I know, baby, I know. It’d be a wide stretch, but ain’t that all pretty whores like you are good for, hmm?”

It’s automatic, the way you bend to his every whim, head nodding without direct orders from your brain, every part of you, conscious or not, ready and willing to prove you could fit his card inside of you.

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

Surprisingly, the hand between your thighs retracts and you watch as he brings the card up to your mouth, glistening with your arousal.

“Open,” the directions are unnecessary, your mouth already dropping open for him in an act of muscle memory.

He hums approvingly, yet his eyes are still fury filled as he slots the card between your lips, lathering your tongue in your own taste. 

“You’ll take anything I give you, won’t you, corazón?”

The statement rings true, both ways: as much as you’ll take anything, he’ll give anything.

You don’t tell him that, though, finding it much easier to rest your palms on the countertop, backing your sopping core into him, enticing him with the wiggle of your hips and whines from your lips to take you already.

“Shh, shh, don’t you worry that pretty head. Javi’s gonna feed this greedy little cunt, ok?”

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

Something smashes, in the basement, and it’s enough to have you flinching.

Javi’s touch soothes you, a hand running over the curve of your shoulder as he presses yet another kiss into your neck.

“S’okay, probably just a beer bottle.”

He doesn’t move another inch, not till he sees you nod, melting back into him.

You hear, more than you see, the way he tugs his trousers down, just enough to free his hardened cock from its jean-clad confine. The risky business of a quickie in your parents’ en suite calls for clothing moved aside, and not removed.

Much to your annoyance, his all-encompassing warmth drifts away as he moves back, hands clamping down on your hips. 

He tilts them to the angle he wants, the angle he knows gets him brushing all your sweet-spots.

He tugs the skirt of your dress up, and then readjusts your soiled underwear.

You hear him draw a deep breath and watch his eyes in the mirror, glued to that spot between your legs, entranced.

The drag of his cock over your folds is familiar, the way he smacks the head of it against your clit is welcomed.

He spears you no gentle coaxing, no stretching around his fingers first, coming undone just for him to fill you right back up, this time with his cock.

No, this is a vengeful touch, the kind that’s meant to display his irritation, his fury, for reasons you’ve yet to confirm yet you’re more than willing to accept.

A man like him, so unfairly selfless, taking something in this world for himself, how he wants to and how he likes to.

You’ll be his vice, so long as he grants you his virtues.

Javi fills you with a single thrust, grunting low into your ear as you feel the way the air is physically knocked out both for your lungs.

He’s still, head buried in the crook of your neck as he works on steadying his breathing, giving you time to adjust to the delicious stretch.

You whine out some version of his name, feel yourself pulse around him.

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

He’s making you wait for it, you think, torturing you with an impending paradise.

He’s savouring the feel of you, he thinks, taking advantage of the few moments alone he wins with you.

"Javi,” he barely lets you part from him to speak, chasing a trail of kisses down your jaw. “This isn’t the time to develop patience.”

The snide remark earns you a bite, his teeth nibbling on the sensitive skin of your earlobe. You squeal, try remind yourself to be quiet, only to squeal louder when his hands tickle at your waist.

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

His hips roll back, slowly, but it’s better than nothing, better than when he wasn’t moving at all.

Still, he makes you squirm a little longer, moan his name a little louder.

Only then does his fake resolve snap and he’s fucking into you at a brain melting pace in the blink of an eye.

Javier does his best to keep quiet, at first, biting down on his lip and your neck just to contain all those melodies he usually makes.

You can’t say the same for yourself as, despite your efforts, broken moan after broken moan tumbles out your mouth and into the sink, filling and filling and filling it in sync with how Javi your cunt.

You wonder how long till it all spills over the edge.

“Joder (Fuck),” he groans as you unconsciously squeeze him tighter, pulling him deeper into your walls. serves him right, for the teasing and the torturing. “Tienes el coño más lindo en todo el mundo. (You have the prettiest cunt in the whole world.)”

You feel lightheaded.

Warm, sweaty, covered in the fingerprints of a lover you shouldn’t be with.

The bathroom fills with an array of sounds. The slapping of skin against skin, the broken cries of an agent’s name, the mindless rambling of a man drunk on pleasure.

“So good to me, baby. Always so fucking good to me.”

“Gonna stay here forever, fuck. That sound good to you, corazón, hmm? Full of my cock always?”

“Look at yourself… Pura belleza (Pure beauty).”

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

There’s no worrying about the happenings around the poker table, no listening out for your father’s car pulling in the driveway, no worrying about your tousled hair or sweating skin.

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

“Please, please, Javi-“ The words all melt together, pleads becoming his name, his name becoming pleads.

You’re not sure what you’re begging for.

It’s okay though, Javi always knows what you need.

“I know, amor (love), I know,” he murmurs into your skin, butterfly kisses so gentle you wonder how they come from the same man that’s pistoning his hips into you like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get. “Let go, c’mon. Show me how much you love this cock, how much you love-”

He’s cut off by his own groan, you cunt fluttering around him as you inch closer and closer to the edge of euphoria.

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs. 

It brings a welcomed cushioning, shielding you from repeatedly bumping against the marble of the countertop.

Your legs part further, eagerly, an easy pathway for his yearning fingers to seek out the wonders of the female body as they brush over your clit.

The gentle tactile that he strokes over your bundle of nerves, partnered with the repeated brushing of his cock against that spot that makes you weak in the knees, drool out your mouth, it’s becoming too much.

Eyes glancing in the mirror, you wonder if yours is the same image of the whores who’d warmed his Colombian nights: sweat soaked skin, hooded eyes, messed up hair, wrinkled clothing.

He tilts your hips, a deeper angle to fuck into you that has you perching up onto the tips of your toes, fighting with the chance of losing balance.

He’d catch you, if you fell.

Wrap you up in an embrace that’s more familiar than your own.

“I’m gonna- Fuck! Corazón, need you to cum. Now, please. Please. Need to feel you-”

He’s babbling, losing composure and revealing the side of him you pray he never showed those other women: the side that needs, the side that longs, the side that begs to see you cum before he allows himself to, before he’s able to.

“Javi,” it’s a struggle to speak, but you endure, fighting off your orgasm and holding back tears. There’s something you need from him too. “Cum with me. Wanna be full of you, all of you-”

“¿Sí? (Yeah?)” He pleads back, thrusts already getting a little sloppier, hands a little shakier in the way they touch you. Much like his poker face, you know how to read the face he wears moments before he falls apart. “¿Eso es lo que quiere mi corazón? (Is that what my sweetheart wants?) Want me to cum in you, hm?”

“Yes, oh god yes! So bad, Javi, I want it so bad!”

“Ay, bebesita, no llores. (Aw, baby girl, don't cry.)” He coos, a condescending lilt to his words that has you falling into a bigger mess. “Shh, don’t worry, baby. Gonna fill you right up, so my cum’s dripping down your thighs when that poor kid asks you for your number. Thinks he’s got a shot with you cause he made you laugh, poor boy wouldn’t know how to deal with all the noises I get out of you.”

Javi divulges into a spine-tingling rant of burning hot jealousy, the kind that leaves your cheeks burning and your heart scorching, lit under a flame of your desire for more of him. To have him, equal parts physical and emotional.

You try warn him of the bubble that’s about to burst, the feeling in your loins building and building till it’s seconds way from toppling over. 

“That’s it, baby, squeeze my cock. Lemme feel it,” He urges, heart pounding out his chest against your back, hands tightening their grip on your hips. “Need to feel you cum, ‘s all I want.”

You both crash and burn, together.

You fall first, a chaos of unfinished words, crying out for Javi.

He follows close behind, body pressed against your own like he’s willing you to fuse together, to become to entangled in one another that all possibilities of separation become void.

“Take it, cora-” He’s in your ears, in your head, in your heart. Inside of you, consuming you, as eagerly as he’s willing to be consumed by you, fingerprints on hips and teeth-marks in necks. “Take it, take it, take it.”

Arms envelop you from behind, crossing over your chest to pin you back against him.

He’s nearly stagnant, nothing but the twitch of his cock and the shallow thrusts he fucks you deeper with, filling you with another, another, another pump of his cum.

“So good,” Javi’s voice persists, teeth gritting as he bites back the need to be loud, to be heard, to lay a claim on you so blatant no one could deny hearing it. Your relationship with your father is the only thing that holds him back. “Good to me, baby. Always… Good… Díos. (God.)”

Craning your neck to the side, you manage to pull him in for a kiss.

It’s something he accepts easily, lips parting and melting into a dance against your own.

One of his hands falls over your jaw, twisting your face even closer to him.

The kiss dies slowly, with each of you refusing to truly part, pecks being splattered messily against the other’s mouth.

“Was I,” Javi interrupts you with another kiss, his free hand smoothing up and down your side, his hips still slowly rocking into yours, a delicious sting of overstimulation biting at your core. “Am I worth it?”

He pulls back, tired gaze warm as it takes in your messed features.

With the smile that stretches over his lips, however, one would think you were the prettiest creature in all the world.

He calls your name, calmly, slowly, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of it on his tongue. “You’re worth everything I could give, and more.”

There’s something behind the ways he says it that makes you believe him.

With little will to do so, you peel apart from each other, his hands moving quick to adjust your underwear as his cum starts to leak out onto your folds.

He exits the bathroom first, a final kiss placed on your cheek before your left alone, forced to confront the wrecked version of you that will never see your parent’s en suite in the same light.

Your dad arrives back just in time to see you slipping back down to sit at the poker table, no seat left for him to take but the one between his sweet daughter and his loyal best friend.

If only he knew he was placing you both where you most wanted to be when he suggested Javi give you a ride home, waving you both off through the car window with no idea Javi's cum sat dripping out your cunt, staining the car seat.

Your phone buzzes to life in your hand, slipping you out of your memories.

Your father’s contact name reads clearly on the screen.

Hitting decline one more time, you roll over and try ignore the gathering slick between your thighs.

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

Mr, I don’t want a label You made me a little miss unstable (And it)

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

Pick out a tree, synthetic, and lump the box up the countless stairs to your apartment.

Try not to think of how he would’ve insisted on helping, refused to let you carry it.

Even if it culminated in him doubled over in pain, clutching his lower back.

Lights, baubles, action.

The tree’s smaller than you expect, barely reaching your hip, but it’s green, tree-shaped and festive. It’s enough.

Your decorations are minimal, a few inconsequential things you picked out your parents’ stash. There’s a Santa hat, frayed with time. A few cracked baubles, with string so thin you suspect they’ll snap off. A gingerbread man ornament, a glass snow-flake. A crooked star, missing one of its points, tops the tree.

A homemade snowman, one you’d gifted your parents after a busy day in nursery. Neither of them had the heart to tell you you’d made its nose a rather phallic shape.

And then there's the red phone-box, nestled somewhere in the middle, an etching of LONDON brandishing it as a reminder of your trip.

You’d picked it up in a tiny bookstore, right next door to The Distillery Club.

The winter season has never felt so lonesome, tucked away in your grown-up apartment. 

There’s no fireplace to warm your hands, no hot cocoa boiling on the stove. No cheesy hallmark movies to laugh at with your mother, no racing past your father to grab the last slice of dessert.

It’s just you, alone, with only your wandering mind as company.

Sometimes, more often than not, it wanders to him. To if he’s alone.

To if he’s filling his heart as easily as he fills his bed.

To if he’s finally bought a second seat for his dingy balcony.

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

He hums, brows furrowing, lips pouting, smoke dragging into his lungs.

The cigarette sits perched between two fingers of the hand resting on your knee, his other curled around your waist.

“Some what?”

“Tactic,” you repeat. Watch him blow a puff a smoke, taste his ash at the back of your throat. “Only having one chair, so pretty girls have no choice but to sit in your lap.”

He lets his gaze wander away from the streets below and up to you, sitting pretty in his lap. Like a cat, draped over his thighs.

Nothing but his own rumpled, inside-out shirt to cover your skin.

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

Fingerprint bruises littering your hips, bitemarks etched into your collarbone.

“I gave you a choice,” he speaks with a reservation he didn’t have before, when he’d offered you a ride home from the bar. There’s an etching of something that’s diluting his expressions, sinking him deeper and deeper into his own pensive mind. “You were the one who insisted on sitting on me.”

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

Nails pinch at your thigh, causing a squeal out of you.

A few birds fly off a nearby wire, a head or two turn in the street below.

They don’t see you, or Javi, or the lack of clothing that sits between you.

“Neither were you. In fact, you were a little busy fucking my fac-”

“Stop!” Your sudden modesty feels unearned, yet that does nothing to stop you from placing your hand over his mouth.

He licks at it, you grimace, he licks again.

Then takes another breath of nicotine, as you wipe the remnants of his spit onto his naked thigh.

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

The whiff of Javi’s post-sex smell- muted cologne, matted sweat, burnt ash- steals your senses, reminds you you’ve already done enough to disappoint your father, a cigarette can’t do much damage.

So you let him hold it up to your mouth and inhale it’s poison.

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

But that was supposed to stay in Vermont, tucked between snowy slopes and wooden cabins. Existing in a timeline separate from your reality, where you are your father’s precious daughter and Javi is his trustworthy colleague and friend, that is where it should have stayed.

And it had, for two weeks. Sixteen days, specifically. 

You’d returned to classes, to sharing lunch breaks with your father in his office, to slowly moving more of your things out the family home and into your new apartment.

And Javi, from what you heard, had returned to keeping civilians safe, to sharing a drink or two with your father at the end of the work week, to flirting with every secretary within a mile radius.

Neither of your crossed paths and, when you nearly did, the other made the effort to turn a corner, shut a door, hide behind a wall.

Until tonight.

Until you ditched your mediocre date, some lame excuse of having a last-minute paper due.

Until you’d gone to console yourself over your failing love life, unknowingly sliding into a bar stool right next to the most desired cop in town.

Until he’d turned to you, tilted his head, and asked “d’you wanna get out of here?”

He’d offered to take you home.

The drive was quiet, tense, until his hand drifted over the gearstick and you dragged it down onto your thigh.

He squeezed.

You inched it further up, till the tips of his fingers brushed at the edge of your dress.

He took the invitation, took a turning towards his own place.

Brought you into his apartment, drowned you in his fountain of kisses, begged you to sit upon his face. He’d made you see stars beneath a roofed sky, eyes rolling so far back they threatened to get stuck there.

With barely a moments recovery from a third blinding orgasm, he dragged you down the expanse of his body, sat you down on his cock and refused to help your overstimulated, puddle-brained self ride him, grinning cunningly with his back pressed against the mattress as you struggled through shaky legs.

Eventually, he tired and launched himself, arms tangling behind your back, feet planted flat behind you, hips fucking up into your battered cunt until you both came to a haltering crescendo.

He’d layed you down to rest, cleaned you of any mess, and then wandered out to his balcony, inviting you to join him when the feeling returned to your legs.

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of.

“Huh?”

“This. Us. It could be casual, y’know?” Another puff of smoke slips right through his lips. “If that’s what you’re worrying about… your dad, and all that other stuff. I don’t need a label, not if it means I get to have… We could keep it casual, if that’s what you want.”

It takes a few moments for you to fully register his words, and then a few more to formulate a response.

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

Because what else could Javier Peña, notorious womaniser, want with you if not a casual, no-strings-attached permit to sleep with you, as many times as he sees fit, without the risk of losing his job or, worse, his best friend?

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

Within a half’s hour, he’s got your hands white knuckling as they grip the metal bannister of his balcony, his own hands busy pulling your hips back to meet each of his desperate thrusts, not even the cool air of the night enough to soothe the flaming desire that burns between you.

Your stomach twists, your mouth dries, your eyes water at the thought of him out on that balcony now.

Somebody else, some new body sat in your spot, upon his lap as they exchange smoke rings and warm mouths.

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

The Laredo sheriff’s department is known best for three things: its lack of parking, its swoon-worthy ex-DEA agent, and its office holiday parties.

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

A Christmas wreath, mistletoe hanging from every doorway, egg-nog and mulled wine.

It’s not just Christmas.

It’s menorahs, and ficus trees, and a statues of different gods.

Each piece of culture, tradition, holiday that makes up the people that inhabit the station, day in and day out, behind desks and in cop cars, filing paperwork and fetching coffees, represented in some way, celebrated.

Each member of staff is encouraged to bring their friends, their family.

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

Then there’s the gift exchange, a Secret Santa system, optional for each member of staff.

It’s the part you look forward to most.

Crowding your dad the minute he gets home on the first of December, poking and prodding till he lets it spill who he’s got.

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

Drawing up a list, made of details and anecdotes your father remembers of his target.

Dragging your shop-avoidant father down to the mall, for a day of gift hunting and sweet-tooth indulging.

Getting to watch your father’s coworker open their gift, eyes lighting up as you once again knock the ball out the park and gift them something perfectly tailored to them, winning your dad the spot of top gift-giver year after year.

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

No trying to crack just what exactly your dad should gift his person.

No waiting with baited breath to watch them open it, heart racing with that little fear of them not liking it, of you failing.

No, the moment that name fell from your father’s mouth, you knew what he needed to get.

Hinted at it, slightly.

Claimed you’d smelt it on a friend, thought it would be a good idea.

Sipping on some wine and picking at the buffet, you watch him pick up his gift.

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

Look down at the box, confused, then tear into the wrapping paper.

The whole room stops.

Not really, but it feels like it does, as somewhere across the room Javier Peña holds up a bottle of that damn cologne.

And, when his eyes instinctively find yours, it feels like everything else fades away.

Fades to grey.

It’s just him, and you. The only two within the room, holding a secret too heavy on the tongue to ever speak it aloud.

He knows.

Of course he knows.

Knows you’d watched him spray it on his skin, day in, and day out.

Knows you’d worn it on your own, sunk it deep into your pores after intertwining your souls upon wrinkled sheets.

Knows you’d watch its contents decrease over time, time you’d spent with him.

That bottle of cologne reminiscent of a timer on you both, that morning before the hospital trip becoming the last few sprays he got out of it.

Colour returns to the world that surrounds you as your dad steps into view.

He’s hugging Javi, pathetically tipsy and ignorant to the lipstick stain on his cheek, no doubt ingrained to his skin with how hell-bent he is on having your mother kiss him beneath each mistletoe.

They’re exchanging words you don’t hear, slapping one another on the back.

You turn on your heel, insides twisting as nausea overcomes you at the scene.

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

You’re trying to leave, tempted to take the good old Irish exit and just slip out a back door.

But your parents- ne, your father- are so busy show-ponying you around the room, that you fail to take a single step that goes unnoticed.

“There she is!” Your father calls out, somewhere behind you, as you slip your hand into the arm of your coat. This act sparks outrage, a frown birthing onto his face. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving too.”

You say you’re tired.

He boos, loudly, like he’s not the chief of police and a whole grown adult.

Grabs at you, lovingly, trying to pry the coat out of your hands.

The effort is minimum, and you know he’s only messing around.

You can leave, if you want to, even if he’d rather you stay.

“It’s not even midnight and you two buzzkills are leaving!” He wails, all the while he’s reaching around and helping you slip your other arm into the coat.

That’s when Javi’s face comes into view, over the arch of your dad’s shoulder, sporting a smile and a pair of keys dangling off one finger.

You try your best to counter his smile with your own, though your throat feels dry and your cheeks feel tight.

“I can’t believe I’m being betrayed like this by two of my favourite people!” The smile slips before you can catch it, eyes widening at your father’s words.

Words you’d spent months agonising over the thought of hearing. Picturing the circumstances in which he’d find out. Imagining the horrendous fallout, a red slash over Javier’s reputation. Swearing you’d quit it, quit him, and then winding up tangled in his sheets again, head pressed to his chest, eyes closed in the soundest of sleeps.

Javi plays it cool.

Nudges your dad’s shoulder, shakes his head and tells him to “quit the dramatics, viejo (old man).”

“I gotta head out to my pop’s first thing in the morning, he’s wanting me to help him rewire some of the fences.” Comes out as his excuse, one your dad can’t really argue against.

He knows better than anyone that Javi drops everything for his dad.

Well, better than anyone but you.

Your excuse, however, falls a little short, a consequence of the last minute conjuring of the lie.

“I’ve, uh, got an early class. Don’t wanna flunk out in my last year, right?”

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

And that’s how you know you’re screwed.

“Class? I thought you were on winter break.”

Javi takes the momentary distraction to shrug his coat on, over those broad shoulders.

Shoulders that twist with the rest of him, as he makes space for you in the doorway, nodding you over. Here, he’s saying without really speaking, escape with me.

So you do, tiptoeing past your parents as though, the slower and quieter you move, the less they’ll notice your approach to the exit.

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

“The library, it’s still open for the graduate students,” Javi swoops in effortlessly, dragging the spotlight off you.

He takes hold of your jacket, too, slipping the zip into place and dragging it up the length of your torso, over your chest, till it rests snuggly at your sternum.

A little too snug, making each new inhale deeper, harder, practically heaving the air into your lungs.

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

You don’t get to dwell on it too long, fortunately, for your mother lets out a gasp.

She points, eyes a little widened by excitement, at the both of you and nudges at your father.

“Look!” She tells him, and you watch in confusion as he displays her same reaction, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Then comes the laughter, straight out the depths of your dad’s belly and right to your weak heart, a melody that reminds you so much of easy Sundays and curling up next to him on the sofa, watching kids’ shows that seemed to entertain him more than you.

“Oh that’s just,” he takes a laugh break, doubling over slightly, his own finger joined in pointing at you two, beneath the doorway. “Too perfect!”

Before you can inquire on either of your parents bizarre reactions, Javi’s eyes are staring into your own and pointing upwards.

Wrapped with a red bow and barely hanging onto the door frame with a single strip of tape, a mistletoe stares down at you, two white berries like mini eyes.

When you glance at the agent once more, it’s hard to read what he’s thinking.

His shoulders are tense, his lips are pursed, his brows are furrowed. But, his eyes.

His eyes burn you with an unspoken intensity, a look he should never possess in front of your parents.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” You mom, camera in hand, urges you both, a wide grin cast upon her face.

You dad is in no better state, rushing forward to squeeze you both closer, one hand clasped over the back of Javi’s head.

When the once-agent exhales a nerve-striken breath, the warmth of it, of him, hits your neck.

“Dad, c’mon, stop-” you’ve never imagined yourself stuck like this, your mother and father both urging you to kiss a man you spent months tossing and turning in bedsheets with behind their back.

The creatively deviant part of your brain tells you this is how it could be, maybe, in some other life.

Some other life, where Javi’s not a cop, you’re new in town, and you both bump into each other at the grocery store.

Both of you reaching out for the same apple, or box of cereal, or bottle of milk.

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

He’d charm you, easily as he always has.

Get your number and then, the next day, a date.

One date leading to two, three, four, more dates.

Till you bring him home to meet your parents at last, squeezing his hand tighter when he tries to pry it away as the door opens to your father’s stern face.

It would take a while, you reckon, for your dad to see past the difference in years.

Your mother wouldn’t care, wouldn’t spare a second thought to it, not when she notices how much he makes you laugh and how he can’t keep his eyes off of you in any room you occupy.

This could be your first Christmas together, your parents begging for one sweet photo of you under the mistletoe, before you both head off to spend the rest of the holiday season with Javi’s father.

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

“C’mon, it’s bad luck not to!” Back in the present, in reality, your dad’s found his way over to your mother’s side. “Peña, just kiss the girl on the cheek for Christ sake, I ain’t gonna bite your head off for it this one time!”

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

Gentle, a hint of warmth, a tickle from the wisps of his well-groomed moustache.

“Get a bit closer, you’re not fully in frame!”

The flash goes off on your mother’s camera, and the two give a little cheer, and Javi wraps an arm around your back, squeezing you a little closer.

When all is said and done, your mother’s forcing you both to stare at the camera screen, a perfect picture of the most doomed couple to ever grace this Earth.

Such dramatics in your thoughts reminds you of the copious glasses of prosecco you’d downed throughout the night, and of your intentions to get yourself home before you done something stupid.

Like stand under the mistletoe with your former casual lover, the very same man your father calls for golf matches and March Madness debriefs.

Javi offers you a ride home, an idea your father approves of.

“I’m heading that way anyway, gotta pick up a few things before I drive out to the ranch.”

A part of you thinks he’s lying, wanting any excuse for a moment alone with you, but then that’s the kind of delusions you shouldn’t be feeding into.

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

You part ways at the door, your father watching you from inside.

Javi calls your name, before you can take more than a few steps.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Then his arms are pulling you in, and he’s got you right against his steady chest, and he’s resting his head atop your own, arms squeezing tightly at your sides.

“Get home safe.”

He walks away before you can tell him to do the same, the door slamming to his car the last thing you hear as you pull out your phone and call a cab.

It takes twenty minutes for it to appear, in which the rain starts and your clothes get soaked, but all that and the fifteen dollar fare are a cheaper price to pay than the torture of letting Javier Peña drive you home.

Crawl up the stairs, unlock the apartment door, drop your clothes onto the floor.

You find sanctuary under the shower, soap suds and boiling water, a dynamic duo that scrub off any remnants of his skin against yours.

Even as you step out, fully cleaned and towel wrapped around yourself, you catch a hint of his cologne, the very same one you’d made sure your dad picked out for him.

And as you pick your coat off the ground, a distant voice that sounds much like your mother scolding you for leaving such a mess, you notice it.

First, just a little extra weight.

Then, scratchy paper as your hand dives into the left pocket.

The wrapping is haphazard, with an uneven bow tied atop it, but that’s not what matters.

You tear away at it, let the paper fall to the floor at your feet.

Then you’re met with a small box, which you tear open too. 

And find it sitting neatly among balls of yarn, the prettiest, most delicate looking glass bauble.

It’s ribbon a deep green, and it’s centre an image of mountain slopes, backed by a green forest and a valley full of wooden lodges.

It shakes in your grasp, and you spy the snowglobe-esque white foam that dances around within it.

In it’s centre, in bold, italic and green, Vermont.

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

You fish it out in one breath, hold it up to read what it says.

Corazón, For your tree. I hope there’s still space.

[mitskicain]

navi | m.list

. ⁺ . ✦ the doghouse — ken sato x reader

© mitskicain all rights reserved. the modification, translation, and plagiarism of my work is strictly prohibited.

synopsis: all good things must come to an end

content warning: angst, hurt/some comfort (?)

word count: 1.8k

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epilogue: in the doghouse

There is a saying that the universe gives and takes. That, it writes people into your lives—your paths crossing—and you will start to see them everywhere. The things that they mention will appear in front of you, their body standing out from a crowd, their voice singular in a wave of shouting. But when it is time for the two of you to separate, the universe will write them out completely. Despite living in the same city, you will never see them picking out oranges and apples in the grocery store, never see them in their favorite restaurant, never have them pull up next to you during a red light. They say that when it’s really over, you will never see them again, no matter how intertwined the two of you were before.

Ever since that last argument in your place, you and Ken had only crossed paths another couple handful of times.

There was once in the convenience store near the stadium late at night—you grabbing some cup noodles, him with his energy drink. You saw him from the corner of your eye, hair doused in sweat and matted down from the helmet, his gloved hands reaching for the chiller. He might not have seen you. You were in your hoodie, hunched down, devouring your late night meal. There was something about writing fervors that always made you so hungry. You resisted the urge to ask him where he had gotten the butter chicken he brought over the first time he came around; resisted the urge to ask him anything really—because it wouldn’t be for the sake of curiosity, or your cravings—just the chance to talk to him again, but you were too proud to ever want to admit it first. So you let him slip by, gaze lingering on his back as he disappeared down the road to continue practice. When you walked home, you could still hear the distant roars of wooden bat meeting baseball, and the echo of its fwoosh across the stadium.

It was hard avoiding Ken. His physical self was limited to mainly the stadium and the streets to and from his house. The bars on the road across from the venue would be hotspots after practices, so much so that you changed your schedule to only cover nights when he wasn’t on practice. But that was the easy part. In the daylight, he was omnipresent—advertisements and banners and posters of him decorated nearly every inch of the city. Whenever the Giants won a game, there would be the valiant cheer of the crowd, and his face plastered on newspapers. When his birthday rolled around, they decorated the subway to the stadium that you took to work with him. It was a pain. You had to keep your gaze down or your eyes shut just to avoid looking at him. One time, you thought that you had bumped into him on the subway but then realized it was just a mural of him—height accurate and all.

The ample time had you working on your writing: shitty poetry drafts turning into something worth reading. The first time you had gone to a bar that allowed you to showcase your work, you felt your heart thunder against your ribs, an unswallowable lump formed in your throat, and though you stuttered through the first few lines you were met with smiles and applause when you finished. And you did it again, and again, and again—until you no longer stuttered and the applause turned thunderous—until the manager of the bar asked you to come in regularly, offering you a platform and all. You didn’t think you could have actually made it, the whirlwind of fame sucking you in, allowing you little time to focus on anything that wasn’t your craft. Soon enough, you were able to quit your job altogether and focus on writing full-time.

You didn’t expect it: after months passing and nothing from the other, for him to be merely 50 meters away from you, in the next conference room. You could recognize his voice anywhere—recognized the sound of his laugh from all the clamor of the reporters. You looked straight ahead as you tried your best to answer the questions from the critics and some of your readers, trying to drown out the noise booming from just across the hall. So close and yet so far. When the event concluded you rushed outside, hoping to catch a glimpse, only to find that he had been dismissed just five minutes before you. Emotions bubbled up in you—disappointment, rage, shame—leading to you eventually publishing a short novel that included graphic details of your relationship together. The release took Japan by storm; tabloids and headlines both banging on your doors for a statement.

The last time you saw Ken was in court.

A private settlement between the two of you. A gag order, your lawyer had said—you fought back the urge to laugh. Isn’t that what I used to put in his mouth? You joked, he didn’t find it funny.

While your lawyers discussed, you passed lingering stares at each other from across the room. You had never seen Ken so dressed up before: white button up, trousers, and dress shoes. His hair was gelled back, so different from how it usually looked—messy from having your hands in them. He fiddled with his cufflinks, keeping his gaze low, but there were moments, brief moments, where he looked at you and it felt as if nothing had changed. As if the two of you were back at your place, splayed out on the couch, lying opposite from each other, stealing glances as the movie rolled on. A place in your chest hurt at the memory, so you stepped outside and made a beeline for the vending machine, trying to find something to sink your teeth into to distract you from the hurt.

“I guess the truth was bound to come up one way or another,” his voice rang. You turned around, Ken trailing behind you. “Cat’s out the bag.”

You pressed your lips into a thin line, shrugging.

“I guess so.”

Silence between the two of you. It had been too long since either of you said a word to each other.

“Now what?” He asks, voice soft but expectant. Something inside of you squeezes. You trail your fingertips on the surface of the soda can, feeling the moisture collect onto your skin.

“Now I stop writing fanfiction of you,” you say, a teasing smile playing on your lips. He returns the expression, amused. “We move on, I guess.”

“Oh,” he sounds, a hint of disappointment. His fists hung idly by his sides. The urge to reach out to him and hold his hand and tell him that the two of you could start over was great, but you knew better than to do anything of the sort. So you just stood there, taking all of it in—the tension, the awkwardness.

“Was this how you imagined it?” You asked, trying to sound cold but your voice cracks with emotion the moment you see him turn to meet your gaze. “When you lead me on, did you think it would come to this?”

He looks down in shame, lips curling downwards. You want to reach out to touch him but you stay in place, feet glued to the ground. Your free hand is squeezed into a fist, white knuckled and all.

“I always knew you were going to make it,” he says, smiling softly, “but no, I didn’t think of-” he gestures to the room, “this.”

Fair enough, you thought.

Another painful bout of silence.

“I didn’t want to hurt you, you know,” he confesses, your jaw ticks at the mention of this. “I didn’t mean for things to end the way they did.”

You nod your head in acknowledgement.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” you say. “You tried to keep me from it but I figured you out—maybe try harder next time.”

The two of you know there won’t be a next time.

After this, it’s over. You won’t see him again. Ever. Still, the two of you laugh—maybe as an attempt to soothe the sting of loss—you hear his laugh and you are struck for the millionth time by just how beautiful it is.

Have you ever felt it? The moment before the feeling catches the memory? For a second, your mind pulls you to the surface and, like a snapped rubber band—whiplash. The echo of his laugh brings that all too familiar ache that rippled through you like waves, something that you know will haunt you for the next few years as you tried to erase whatever memory of him you had left. But before the pain was that haven of neutrality, the millisecond of peace where, instead of feeling the pang of loss, you felt nothing—and before nothing, the slightest memory of happiness.

For a moment, before the goodbye, the sound of his laugh transported you back to a time where all the two of you looked forward to was the sight of each other. You laughed over scenes together, discussing movie theories and playing make believe. You dreamed of a future where things had been better, nicer, where the world had been gentler with the two of you—a future where the two of you had been allowed to stay together, for a little bit longer at least. You were reminded of the time, cuddled up in bed, you heard him slip a little confession of an ‘I love you’ in the midst of his exhausted haze. Did he mean it? You wouldn’t know. And he hadn’t known it then but you said those words back, kissing the top of his forehead affectionately before joining him in sleep.

After this the two of you will never meet again.

The mention of the other during an interview will be quickly brushed off, only answered with a tight smile and a shake of the head. You will move back to the countryside in pursuit of a more peaceful environment for you to write your days away in, Ken will stay in the city and win game after game. The tabloids will cease the stories of you, and the news that the both of you had once been a thing will fizzle out—the public will forget of the fervor and the two of you gone back to strangers that will never cross paths again.

But sometimes, sometimes, you would wake up from such vivid dreams that you are drenched in tears and sweat, your cheeks flushed against the cool summer air. In your dreams you are back in your tiny apartment, chasing after Lassie and Strauber, singing in the shower while Ken brushes his teeth—a life so domestic and sweet that if a stranger were to peer in they would have said that the two of you were a happily married couple. Of course, this was before the world knew, before disaster struck—back when you lied your head against his chest and neither of you had ever said a word about leaving.

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author’s note: ITS THE END OF THE DOGHOUSE AAAAA💥💥💥 I’ll be honest this one was hard to go through (as evident by my burnout 💀💀) because it reminded me too much of my past (failed) relationship(s) 😭😭😭 but as always we thank our exes and we move on and write successful story about them for hundreds to enjoy 🥰🥰🥰 thank you everyone who has been so sweet and so supportive throughout it all 🫵‼️ I never would have imagined that so many of you guys would actually like this weird story I wrote 😭😭😭 and as mentioned previously the doghouse will be my last kenji fic and I will be moving on to writing for other fandoms :”))) it’s been an honor and I am so happy that you guys enjoy what I put out there, I hope to continue being able to put out things you guys enjoy 🙏🙏 until then—thank you as always and—MITSKICAIN OUT‼️‼️🗣️🗣️🔥🔥🫳🎤 💥💥

taglist: @luneariaa @moonjellyfishie @sweetcheeksbby-deactivated20240 @shittingonyourgrave @shauu @witcwitchy @fcklxnaa @despacito-uwu16 @mqshido @miffysoo @ybbayk @hore4ken @mochminnie @femmefqtqle @miratastic @lovingyeet @mythicalmo @yourfellowmarzipan @softdumplingposts @strayy-kidz @floppy-aura-koi

[etherealising]

🍑: i saw u have nathan scott as one of ur characters ur intrigued to write for and me as a oth!stan had to ask for a blurb for him,, i can’t rlly think of an idea maybe like a first i love you!or some angst lol idk like an argument 😪

i could hold you forever

a/n: bestie, bestie, bestie, my seasonal rewatch of OTH has pulled me out of writing retirement lol. no but i’ve been binge watching and then i remembered your request and i just got so inspired!!! i hope you love this as much as i loved writing this, i def wrote this for the two of us cause idk any other nathan scott girlies so sad lol 💕 also now that i think about it this is giving very much that clay and quinn arc from the later seasons lol

warning(s): r.e.m infidelity (lol) | angst | hospitals | minimally edited |

wc: 2.2k

The silver of sunlight irritated him as he lay in bed, the curtains were not pulled tight enough, and even if they were it wouldn’t matter anyway the sheer white curtains were more for decoration than practical use. His eyes opened with a sigh, squinting at first before blinking the ceiling into focus, hands moving to swipe the sleep from his eyes. There was no point in laying there any longer, he knew he wouldn’t find sleep again.

He stood up allowing one big stretch, his movement stopping as he spotted a figure on the deck, back to him as they stared out at the beach. Doing his best to be quiet he made to move outside his body on autopilot once he stepped over the threshold, arms automatically wrapping around the waist of the person standing before him.

It was natural the way you relaxed back into his chest, hands gripping the mug in your hand as you stared out at the waves cresting against the sand. You allowed your head to fall back against him relishing in the safety that his arms brought you.

“You missed the sunrise.” The sound of your voice was soft as it reached him, the cadence of it caressed his ear canals like that of a symphony.

A noncommittal hum left his lips before he bowed his head allowing it to find purchase on your shoulder placing light kisses on the exposed skin of your neck, a smile stretching his lips at the quiet giggles escaping you.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” He felt your shoulders lift in a shrug, one of your fingers tracing the rim of your mug.

He watched you for a moment with an unnameable feeling sparking in his chest as he leaned down to press a loving kiss onto the crown of your head, his hands moving from your waist to your forearms to spin you around in his grip. One hand reached out to grab the cup from your hands and set it atop the wood of the deck before grabbing your hands to wrap around his neck, his own falling back to your waist.

You smiled up at him, your grin doing little to contain the happiness coursing through you as your eyes darted around tracing the roadmap of his face, fingers running through the hair at the nape of his neck. “You always look so calm when you sleep,” your voice trailed off as one of your hands moved to cup his cheek. “I just wanted to remember you like that before we leave.”

Nathan turned his head, his soft lips grazed across the pressure point on your wrist before dropping his forehead against yours. His eyes instinctively closed as the two of you stood on the deck the breeze wafting off the ocean and whipped around the two of you. You stood in each other's embrace just relishing in the safety the two of you brought each other.

The Scott beach house was filled with laughter and music as you and Nathan moved around the kitchen the two of you attempting to cook a late breakfast, far more goofing around going on than any actual cooking. Nathan profusely apologized every time he flipped a pancake too early, the two of you finding joy in the simplest of things.

Upon his relegation to chopping the fresh fruit the two of you picked up from the farmer’s market, he found that the majority of his energy was spent watching you dance around the kitchen as opposed to actually doing the task he was given.

No matter how long the two of you had been together he still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that you had chosen him, chosen to spend these past couple of years growing and learning with him. Oftentimes he found himself reminiscing on the first time the two of you met in the art studio junior year, how long it took the two of you to warm up with each other even though you’d been subjected to a yearlong partnered project. The relationship between the two of you was slow growing, neither of you particularly happy with the partnership until it blossomed into a friendship and then something more he hadn’t even realized he was silently yearning for.

The two of you didn’t get time like this together often anymore with you at Juilliard and his hectic basketball schedule at Duke, it was either emailing back and forth or long-distance phone calls and even being able to hear each other's voices more than once a month were few and far between considering how high it ran up the phone bills. It was harder than he thought it would be, his mind always racing back to that night years ago when he dismissed your concerns trying to convince you how easy things would be. The longer he sat there thinking about it the more he was starting to understand he said all those things to convince himself more than you.

He remembered how softly you spoke to him, the way you tried to get him to understand just how drastically your lives would change once college hit. The way you subtly tried to talk him into calling it quits, not that either of you wanted to, but you knew what came with athletic stardom in college and although it initiated a days-long argument between the two of you he’d finally come around to understand just how selfless you were being by offering to give up the happiness you’d found in him so he could chase his dreams uninhibited.

Nathan was pulled from his reverie as you approached him, your hand stealing a banana off the cutting board before you sat down on his lap, arms wrapping around his neck as he found your waist basketball-calloused fingers tracing small patterns through the thin fabric of your shirt.

“Wasn’t aware cutting fruit took so much brain power.” Nathan furrowed his brows at your words, one side of his lips tugging up in amusement as he allowed you to feed him a blueberry. “You’ve been focusing pretty hard, I’ve been calling you for minutes.”

“Just lost in thought is all.” You nodded eyes wide as you encouraged him to continue, the gesture ignored as his eyes languidly gazed across your face bookmarking all of his favorite little traits that made you…you.

The kitchen was silent as you watched him watch you, getting lost in the abyss of his blue eyes doing your best not to shy away from his intense gaze. “When you look at me…like this,” your hand moved up fingertips gently caressing the beauty mark under his eye. “It's almost like the love I have for you overwhelms me.” The words were whispered through your lips as your eyes searched between his.

Nathan’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, eyes never leaving yours as he slowly, almost hesitantly leaned in. His forehead pressing against yours breakfast long forgotten as the two of you basked in this moment, he leaned forward first lips delicately tracing along yours before hungrily pressing against your. Your lips slotted against his almost perfectly the softness of them singing to his soul, each moment of his lips against yours was deliberate; his hand moved to the back of your head to press you further into him although there was little to no space.

The movement of your lips was simultaneous as Nathan’s tongue softly traced across your bottom lip, you parted them for him allowing the lasting taste of blueberries on his tongue to lavish yours and gently sucking on the appendage any chance he’d given you.

Nathan was sure the two of you shared dozens of kisses before, but he couldn’t help but feel like he released years of pent-up yearning onto you the moment his bottom lip first caressed yours. If oxygen wasn’t a factor he would’ve held you there against him for eternity just relishing in how it felt to physically connect with you in this moment.

You began to pull away eyes hooded as you watched Nathan’s mouth chase yours, before giving into him your lips pliant against his once more, your tongue gently slipping into his mouth this time, the blunt edge of his nails digging into the skin of your neck. Kissing you was something Nathan didn’t think he’d ever get used to, the calmness your presence brought him was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, a part of him afraid to never experience all the ways you made him love you if he were to ruin this.

Whether it was minutes or hours of your lips pressed together and your tongues enjoying the warmth of the other, the two of you finally pulled apart a string of saliva connecting the two of you where your mouths once met, the skin of your foreheads finding solace in each other.

The syllables of your name left Nathan’s lips so quietly you almost didn’t hear him, both of his hands now holding your face, his grip not too harsh but just tight enough to let you know he had no intentions of letting you go.

“I love you.” Nathan’s eyes were wide as he searched yours, watching as they lit up before dimming just slightly, your smile faltering only moments after.

He watched on in confusion as your eyes closed almost painfully, a heavy sigh escaping you before you pulled your head back looking into his eyes once more before leaning forward and planting a lingering kiss on his forehead.

A small sad smile graced your lips as your eyes darted around his face, hand still pressed against his cheek as your thumb caressed back and forth across his skin. “Nathan,” he watched you nervously as you paused. “You have to wake up.”

Nathan’s frown deepened as his eyes flashed across your face, whatever joke you thought you were playing on him wasn’t the least bit funny. “What the hell are you talking about?” The frustration in his voice was tantamount as he blinked at you.

He watched on in a panicked stupor as you rose from his lap, every attempt he made at grabbing you was feeble, his fingers somehow slipping through you although you were right in front of him. His confusion increased as he watched you lean in before pressing a lingering kiss against the top of his head, the fact that you were able to touch him sent his panic to the edge as he continued trying to touch you, your wrist, the material of your shirt but none of it mattered as you rose to your full height taking a few small steps back at a time.

“I love you too Nathan. But you need to wake up, we’re all worried about you.” The smile on your lips felt like it would forever be imprinted on his mind as he watched you turn on your heel and walk away, not once looking back at him.

Nathan’s confusion was at an all-time high as he fervently pushed himself out of the chair, bare feet padding across the hardwood as he ran through the beach house in search of you. There was no trace of you, every room he checked remained empty no matter how many times he retraced his steps to double-check them.

His heart raced in his chest as he found himself back at square one in the kitchen, frustrated tears surfacing in his eyes as he looked around, all that was left of you was the stack of pancakes you’d made. Not even the lingering trace of your scent left behind to comfort him.

A hoarse groan escaped Nathan’s mouth as the stitches in his abdomen pulled taut. He did his best to maneuver to a comfortable position in the lumpy hospital bed, doing more bad than good as he felt the aches and pains begin to shoot through his body. Rustling in the chair by his bed caused him to open his eyes, the sight of his mom awkwardly asleep in the uncomfortable hospital chair elicited an exhausted sigh from him.

As Nathan groggily readjusted to the real world everything began to slowly come back to him, the accident, the edges of an initial dream he could hardly remember, and then the sight of you looking into his eyes as though he was the only person worthy of your time. A sight he would wish to remember forever.

But the truth of the matter was that the two of you weren’t in college yet, or spending a romantic spring break week at his parent’s beach house. And if the gold band fit snugly around his ring finger was any indication of this life being different from the life he led while sleeping, he would bet anything your hand wasn’t adorned with a matching band.

And that you certainly weren’t the person he should’ve been dreaming about a future with.

a/n: i’m starting a nathan scott series because of this bouta start writing things for fun atp. this is inspired by nathan’s hospital dreams in s2e20 please enjoy 🫶🏽

[saintmurd0ck]

lakeside dreamin'

masterlist

pairing: jedi general anakin skywalker x f!reader

summary: anakin reminisces about your lives together while he's away fighting in the clone wars

warnings: heavy angst, mentions of canon events in TCW, canon typical mentions of warfare, some smut/spice, mentions of sex, minors DNI 18+ only

a/n: to the one anon who requested this maybe a year ago? i saw clone wars anakin and it was over for my brain 🫠 anyway love you guys and leave a comment or reblog if you liked this! 🥺

song pairing: love on the brain (rihanna)

The war was taking its toll.

Day after day, planet after planet, all Anakin knew now was his place on the battlefield. And his role in leading the victory for the Jedi and the Republic, even though their dogma preached peace, not violence. Every skirmish brought a new kind of horror to his once uncomplicated life, whether it was watching Separatist droids and clone troopers alike, cut down as easily as marsh reeds, or the simple fact that his relationship with the Force was dwindling towards something impure. Something he couldn’t make sense of, and would surely raise more questions than answers if he were to confide in his Masters. It wasn’t that he contemplated reaching towards the Dark side, or thought of the kind of evil only the Sith could endure; it was more like an isolating numbness that spread from within, and before long, Anakin felt the cloud settle over his mind.

He was tired of seeing smoke — the kind that billowed in every direction, stinking of despair and lost hope on his front, despite the war turning to the Republic’s favour. It was the sound of unending blaster fire and the repetitive ignition of his lightsaber that haunted his nightmares, and with only the company of his clone legion, his Padawan Ahsoka and the occasional appearance from Obi-Wan, he felt himself starting to slip.

He was overwhelmed, and encumbered with burden. 

Never before had he experienced such guilt, anger and suffering — towards his army, towards the civilians caught in the crossfire, and towards his relationship with you. 

The secret life the two of you led, away from the Order, felt like something out of another galaxy, another lifetime. It was as if eons had passed since he’d last seen you, and yet the world was constantly evolving — not towards freedom, but into a more destructive version of its past. Even for a Jedi General (and, one could argue, because he was a Jedi General), Anakin had little comfort, and much less sway in which systems he visited and what he took part in. Seeing you was absolutely out of the question, but it wasn’t like he bothered to even ask, out of fear of inviting a lecture from Obi-Wan, or Maker-forbid, an audience with Master Yoda. 

At least things like facilitating training for the Onderon rebels allowed him to feel more of himself, and to an extent, a sort of unity with the Council, but all of that was quickly replaced by the more sinister side of the Separatist Alliance, such as the trainwreck on Zygerria. Liberation didn’t exist there. Not until Anakin showed up.

It was these events that really compelled him to look inwards, to not just seek the Force’s guidance, but to use it in tandem with a coping mechanism that would get him through the war. 

And so the vignettes began. Slowly, at first. 

It started off as little glimpses of your life together, slices of euphoric nostalgia that weaved their way into Anakin’s being. He didn’t realise just how much he yearned for you; not simply the way your skin felt on his, but the pureness of your energy, the reminder that good truly did exist in this world. As much as these images were a solace to his sanity, they brought about a sense of malaise. Contrition, actually, if he sought the Force for the purpose of clarity. Even though it all existed in his head, allowing himself these indulgences felt like once again, he was breaking Code. 

But could it really have been that bad, if it honed his focus? If it drew him back to the bigger picture, of the why? Reminding himself of who it was he fought for didn’t erase the atrocities, but it gave him that flicker of hope, knowing that the sum of his actions equalled a better world for you. 

And some selfish, miniscule part of him figured that if he could lead the victory, he’d be pardoned when the Order inevitably found out about the life the two of you shared. It isn’t as if no-one already knew. He was sure Ahsoka was aware. Rex, too. He doubted when it came to Obi-Wan, but then again very little got past his Master. 

While the memories of you lay fresh before his eyes, they seemed to sharpen at specific points throughout the day; often in the thick of battle, or when he woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in a cold sweat, nothing but thin shafts of moonlight illuminating his body. It’s like they were stitched perfectly amongst the real action, scattered at perfect intervals that jerked his body into manoeuvre.

The sweetest images had always featured the lake. 

Armed with nothing more but his wits, his back pressed against the cold, wet stone in a cave on Vanqor, he reminisced about that first night with you by the lakeside. The sweet smell of wildflowers carried in the breeze, heightened by his affinity for the Force. He recalled the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore, and how the two moons cast their milky glow upon the shimmering surface of the water. And you — radiant, almost ethereal in the soft light, and the way your lips brushed against his neck, filling him with the kind of heat that flooded all at once. Not even the screech of the pursuing gundark could have interrupted this moment in time. He felt his breathing go ragged, because he remembered what happened next. He gritted his teeth, thinking about the way he moved inside you, and how you tangled your fingers in his hair, pressing chaste kisses to his mouth, his chest, whispering his name in sinful bliss. The gundark didn’t stand a chance. Not when Anakin’s motivation for getting out alive laid in sweet promise, embedded in these visions.

His name felt the most natural rolling off your tongue, nevermind that that was truly the last real thing he possessed, unmarred by time and the influence of the Jedi. In that moment, when you’d taken him over the edge with you, crying his name so loud he swore someone had heard, he knew he’d give it over to you if you’d asked.

He thought of the lake again when he was in Felucia, crouched low amongst the sillum. His lightsaber grew heavy in his hand, the ridges suddenly awkward in his palm, but the grip he’d started to lose on his lifeline gave rise to something he couldn’t ignore. 

It was another temperate day and the sun had created the most brilliant reflections on the surface of the lake. With the grasses and trees swaying in the wind, Anakin closed his eyes, reaching out with the Force. He didn’t prod or poke, but rather he cast a wide net, a delicate caress, to connect with the life that teemed. It sang to him in a multi-layered harmony, acting as a prominent reminder that the Force flowed in all living things. And when his eyes fluttered open, he watched you carefully as you walked towards the water, your feet crunching on the smooth pebbles that made up the beach. You turned around to give him a dazzling smile, moving with deliberation to slip off your clothes. Your laughter echoed in the crisp air as you dived into the lake, disappearing under a swathe of emerald green, only to resurface in the middle with a large grin plastered to your face. He didn’t hesitate to jump in, to shed his clothing on the spot. A shudder ran down his spine at the thought of what happened shortly after. 

Sometimes it was hard to return to the present, to remember that he’d sleep alone that night while you were only just waking up, systems away, most likely after another fitful slumber.  There were times where he thought these visions would serve no other purpose than to derail him, when the temptation of your touch shadowed his desire for victory. These moments guided him to channel the Force within, so as to remind himself of why he was doing this in the first place. Because it was more than just a coping mechanism. It was an anchor. A thrumming pulse point. A gentle acknowledgement of the life he wanted to come back to.

It’s then that he wondered when enough would be enough, when the war would come to a stalemate, as it so often did in their history. The tide was turning, and he knew it.

And there it was again, that kernel of hope, that ember of light that shone in the depths of his soul. Even reduced to a ghost in his memory, you were tangible, so tangible now. He wouldn’t let the Separatists win. He couldn’t, because there was too much at stake. And so if thinking of you, in these ways, helped him remember that, he wasn’t going to stop. 

Not for anyone. 

[circe69]

𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥! - 𝐒𝐄𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄

❤︎ simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader ❤︎ wc: 2.4k ❤︎tw: mentions of gore, suggestive ❤︎ tags - snowy valentines, heavy making out, pining, drunk confessions, aggressive!simon, but sweet as well :)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

"You know today's Valentine's Day, right L.T?" Your words slurred together like pudding, and Ghost could smell the faint scent of whiskey, along with the remnants of some strawberry dessert, on your breath as he leaned down to hear you better.

He'd brought you up to the rooftop from the raging party downstairs, figuring it be easier to avoid any questions from Soap or Price about just why the two of you were standing so close. He looked up, stretching and rolling his neck from side to side, and was taken back by just how clear the sky was. It'd been months since he'd been able to make out any sort of constellation, and just about everyone had gotten used to the gunpowder-filled clouds and polluted air, but Ghost hadn't.

"What about it?" He said firmly, looking down at you and watching how you ever so slightly fisted the hem of his t-shirt in your hands, and every so often, your knuckles would graze the skin of his stomach, making his whole-body tense.

You smiled, your doe eyes and dilated pupils staring up at him with the most drunken affection that he'd seen in a while, "Do you have anyone?" You bit down on your chapstick-doused lips, enjoying the slight cherry flavor. Ghost watched you work; he could almost feel your tongue moving around on his just by watching your lick your lips.

He sighed, not annoyed, but a little anxious. He just didn't know how to act around you, he didn't know why you made him feel so different from everyone else. It'd been years since he had a friend, let alone a woman, an attractive one no doubt, clawing at him for more, practically begging for him to just pick her up and take her to a random closet to show her just how much he was willing to give. At this point, Ghost couldn't care less about the fact that you'd forget most of this in the morning. He loved the way you made him feel, even if there was a chance you didn't mean it.

"You're drunk, soldier." He gently pried your wandering hands off his body as you grimaced at the fact that he just called you soldier. You whined in response, hands instinctively shooting up to hug him around his neck, and Ghost allowed it, because he wanted it so badly. He wanted you so badly.

"Come on, just tell me already! You're no fun when you keep secrets." You were practically hanging off of him, your toes barely touching the ground, and even though he could've wrapped himself around you and lifted you up even higher, his hands stayed in fists planted at his sides. You leaned even closer to whisper,

"Do you have a valentine or not?"

A small smile stretched across Ghost's face, and for once, he was actually thankful for that thin piece of fabric covering it. Precious, he thought. You were the one thing that could unlock Simon's buried affection, and whether you knew it or not, you were the ticket to making his entire being feel better. He was bloodthirsty on the field, a man-killing machine known for his deceitful tactics and disgusting tricks for cracking a neck just right, but it disappeared in your presence. Not because he had to hide it, but because he would just much rather focus on you, the most perfect thing, right in front of him.

Ghost's hands hesitantly moved to the small of your back, but then slowly dropped them again before raising one to pinch the bridge of his nose as you let go of his neck, crossing your arms in annoyance at the fact that he just won't grab you.

"I know you're pouting because I'm not paying much attention to you, but I have to be gentle with you for now. You've had drinks, yeah? Maybe a few too many. Even if I wanted to, I can't touch you."

You looked up at him, the grimace resting on your face was a little more relaxed, "But" you started, "Do you want to?"

Ghost looked back at you, and his lungs felt like they'd burst into flames if you spoke one more sentence in that voice, the voice that's dripping with desire and demand, for him and only him. He whispered, "Of course I do. Of course, I want to touch you, I want to touch every part of you." His voice grew louder at the end of his words, making your eyes widen at the volume.

"Just because I'm being gentle right now, doesn't mean I always will. The things I want to have happen, the things I want to do to you, aren't sweet things. They aren't nice, they wouldn't be beautiful or sentimental. I wouldn't be careful. Do you understand?"

You craned your neck up at him, in a certain way that made your cheek bones shine perfectly from the dim light of the moon.

"I understand, Lieutenant," your voice was nothing more than a quiet sigh.

"Get some sleep. Tomorrow's role call is an hour earlier," Ghost said as he started to walk back to the door to the stairs, "Be there."

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

You groaned in pain as an alarm rang through your room, off the walls and into your ears. Every part of you hurt, from your toes to your shoulders. I couldn't have done that much, right? You thought, slowly slipping out of your covers and top quilt before walking to the bathroom.

6 AM, and for what? Breakfast and a flag? Couldn't they wait an hour? I sure could. Your hair wasn't as dirty as you'd thought it be, thankfully, and it was easy to manage into a tight bun before tugging on boots and a warm winter coat and heading to the main hall. As you walked, crunching on a small layer of snow with every step, you tried to think back to last night. What even happened? You were kicking yourself, because you knew this would be the case. It happens every time. You're just more of a lightweight than you'd like to admit, and you remember it every morning after you drink.

You could remember the rooftop, being escorted up there by none other than Ghost, which wasn't out of the ordinary, but there were some parts of your conversation that just didn't make sense. It was all a blur but, there was something about being gentle? And Ghost mentioning that, sure he's being gentle now, but if you let him, he'd be the farthest thing from gentle with you.

But there was no way that happened. Fever dreams, drunk dreams, they're all the same. They're all vivid, and scarily accurate, but fake, nonetheless.

Once you arrived at the hall, a wooden door creaked open upon your entrance, along with the sound of your boots hitting the floor in attempt to shake the ice off. The room was packed to the brim with people, rescue dogs that didn't behave, and squeaking chairs moving round for roll call. Hot coffee was being poured and whistling kettles being turned off for tea were some of your favorite smells in the world. The dim fluorescent lighting woke you up fully, and if it were any brighter, it may have set you over the edge. No matter how hungover you were, snowy mornings were like a restart.

You made your way down the precise middle aisle, eyeing an open chair by Ghost and speedwalking to grab it before anyone else.

Once you sat down, you started shedding your large coat and draped it behind you. Ghost finally noticed and took a double take once he saw just who was sitting next to him.

Somehow, by some crazy unearthly miracle, even after a terrible hangover, you were still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He was almost frustrated at this point; you looked like you'd never drank a day in your life. Your hair was perfectly pinned, clothes beautifully ironed, which allowed for every curve to be hugged like a glove and shown off to every man in the room.

Ghost was borderline salivating. You smelled like you always did, lavender; and your morning voice as you said hello to him was just raspy enough to make him crazy, almost like crackling firewood. Even in the snowy, freezing weather, just by you being there, he felt perfectly warm.

"Morning," he said back, adjusting his pants that had somehow shrunk a few inches since you took your place by him.

The cup of coffee in his hand looked minuscule compared to the one in yours, which let your mind wander to other places, thinking about things that you shouldn't be. Like how small your body would feel enclosed in arms, and how those very same hands that were inches away from yours could destroy you within seconds.

Before you knew it, one of Ghost's arms raised and placed itself on the back of your chair, making you dizzy just at the contact. His skin wasn't even on yours, but you could feel the weight of his heavy forearm on the chair, and the way it gently ruffled the sleeves on your shirt. His breath was closer, practically pouring down the side of your neck, which made you automatically lean in closer to him. You could feel your heartbeat and was sure he could see it popping out of your chest every second.

"Hey," he whispered in your ear, making your eyes flutter at the deep tone speaking from a mouth inches away from you.

"If I left, would you follow me out?"

You looked at him, eyes wandering all over his face until resting in deep eye contact. You could tell all he needed was one word, one nod, and he'd stand up.

"Yes," you whispered. Breathed, more like.

Ghost stood, his height growing like a giant tree, from his seat and stomped out of the large dining room, and into a small hallway towards the back. You discreetly watched every move, every step he took, every nod he gave to the unsuspecting soldiers, and the exact turn he took to start his descent in the hallway.

You sat for a minute before moving. I could just stay, avoid any unnecessary confrontation, and tell him he misheard me, you thought. Your legs fidgeted for a few more seconds, trying to decide, but in reality, your answer from the start was genuine.

You shot up, faster than you intended, and started walking in the same path that Ghost did. Nodding to the soldiers, shooting smiles and quietly opening a door that led you into the same dark hallway that he entered.

There were a few small windows lining the hall, and the snow falling made it seem brighter than it was. You walked a few paces slowly down the walkway, looking in empty rooms and peeping your head in open doors, wondering where he could've gone.

All the sudden, when you were looking towards the opposite direction, a strong pair of gloved hands grabbed you by the hips and pulled your body into a room before slamming the door with his foot and pinning you to the back of it.

Ghost's face was inches away from yours, "Mm, finally," he groaned, his hands desperately running over and under pieces of your clothing. He tugged at hemlines, the belt loops of your pants, anything he could grab to signal he wanted more, and he hadn't even started yet.

"Finally?" You teased, trying not to whimper at the feeling of his hands squeezing the meat of your thigh, "You act like you've been waiting for this or something." Your words got breathier with every second, and so did his. All he did was hum in agreement, words weren't ever truly necessary for him, especially when he'd rather communicate in touch.

He quickly lifted up his mask just enough so his lips were available to you, and you took the opportunity to utilize them as fast as you could. Once you saw them, plump and slightly wet lips, your eyes drowned in the sight of them. Your arms shot up to his neck, and you pulled him down to your level so you could kiss him properly.

It wasn't sweet like a first kiss, or something that you'd want to take a picture of and frame it, it was like a secret. His mouth opening against yours, the air between you mixing like it was never meant to separate, the two of you were hungry, hungry for each other and only each other. The pads of his fingers rubbed your collarbone, making you shiver underneath his calloused touch, and he loved it. His tongue gently massaged yours, sliding his lips back and forth and your teeth gently bit down on his lip slowly before the two of you broke the kiss and slowly opened your eyes again.

Ghost moaned against his closed mouth, shutting his eyes before resting his head in the crook of your neck. His long arms wrapped around you as if you were a present from Christmas, something that he'd always wanted but never believed he'd get. He almost needed a breather from the aftermath of it all. He couldn't stop, and he knew he'd never stop for as long as you were in arms reach.

"Do you remember last night?" He said from his spot in your neck, to which you started to nod. "Too much to not be slightly embarrassed forever."

You could feel his chest vibrate against yours from the huff of air he let out, and after he lifted his head to meet yours again, straightening his posture to tower over you, "Ask it again." He demanded as his hand planted itself behind your head on the door.

The smile on your lips was enough to make his knees buckle, all it did was remind him that every part about you was made beautifully, was made to its most perfect potential.

You sighed before rolling your eyes slightly and dropping your head in your hands for a minute out of embarrassment, "Do you have a valentine, Lieutenant?"

Ghost allowed himself to just bask in the silence, to soak in what you just said like a warm bath. How wonderful, that he was able to hear you say that same question twice?

"Yes, I do," he started, before taking your hand in his and carefully kissing the center of your palms, "And I think I'm set for life."

[idkwhatimd0ingatall]

Will Story Event Translation (forgot the name)

// - is an alternate translation T/N: ignore my changing translation style, trying different things out to see what works. Also these translations aren’t accurate so the official translation will most likely be different T/N: Gave up on trying to fix the images

"I want you to kiss me."

The moment I entered the room and pleaded with Will, he gave me exactly what I desired.

After sitting on the bed together, Will traced my palate with his gentle tongue, and my body trembled with joy.

However,

William: ...

Suddenly, Will stopped kissing, and my body, left hanging, throbbed with a sense of longing.

Kate: Will?

William: For someone who pleaded for a kiss with such intensity, you seem distracted, Kate.

Kate: N-no, it's just...

William: Can't focus on kissing me, got some other 'business' on your mind?

Kate: No, it's not that! There's no other business... but...

I hesitated to tell him about the unfortunate incident.

(...Oh, but sooner or later, Will will find out.)

(Given Will's nature, he might already know... maybe he's deliberately asking to hear it from my mouth.)

Above all, because I want to face Will with a free and unburdened heart, I decided to confess today's events.

Kate: Actually...

William: ...'Kissed by a stranger'?

Kate: Yes, on my way back from today's mission, I was confronted... unable to escape it, just once.

The man I encountered on the roadside seemed drunk, persistently bothering me.

No matter how clearly I rejected him, he forcibly took my hand and brought his lips close.

Kate: Harrison and Liam, who came later, managed to drive him away, so there were no further consequences.

Kate: But... I can't forgive myself for allowing anyone other than Will to touch me.

I washed my hands repeatedly when I got home, to the point where my skin felt irritated.

Yet, the disgust from being touched couldn't be completely washed away, tormenting me.

Kate: ...I want to dedicate my life to Will as his servant.

Kate: My body and heart exist for Will alone, and I don't want to surrender them to anyone else. But... I allowed a kiss, and I regret it.

Feeling frustrated with myself, my fingertips trembled as I tightly clenched my fist on my knee.

William: Did you plead for a kiss to forget?

Kate: Yes... I'm sorry. I made you deal with my own issues.

William: No need to apologize. The one at fault is the man who forced himself on you, isn't it?

Will took my hand firmly and laid a kiss on the palm.

(...I heard somewhere that a kiss on the palm is a plea.)

Not something taken by force, but a kiss filled with respect, like showing that I have value worth pleading for. It warmed my heart.

(Even without using the cursed ability, Will's words have a mysterious power.)

(The inability to resist, the discomfort from being touched, all slowly melted away...)

The man who forcibly approached me is the only one at fault, and I finally forgave myself.

Kate: ...Thank you, Will.

William: Just stating the obvious. Now, there's nothing to cloud your mind, right?

Kate: ...Can I ask for a little selfishness?

Kate: I want you to kiss me. Many times, enough to make today's events fade away.

In truth, my heart is already healed with the words Will gave me.

I won't even notice if that man passes by me in the city; Will must understand my inner thoughts.

(So this is just... an invitation, a line used just to kiss my lover.)

William: If you wish, as much as you want.

With a seductive smile, Will embraced me from behind.

Kate: Will...?

In this position, isn’t it difficult for our lips to meet?

I tried to turn around, calling his name in confusion, but

William: Stay like this.

I was restrained, and a kiss was dropped behind my ear.

Will's tongue crawled along the curve, making a wet sound.

Kate: ...Ah, n-no.

William: Kate... don't suppress your voice.

William: After hearing it so many times, there's nothing embarrassing about it now, is there?

Kate: But... to feel so much from just the ear... isn't it strange?

Just being embraced from behind and kissed on the ear, warmth accumulated inside my body.

William: It's not strange. Kate, it's cute how you react so honestly to your feelings.

Will lightly nibbled on my ear, and his tongue slid into my ear canal.

William: Mmm... haah...

Kate: Mm... ah... haah...

Trying to endure the sweet throbbing, I hugged the cushion tightly against my knees.

William: ...Should have changed the position.

Kate: Eh...?

William: If our bodies were facing the other way, you would have clung to me, right?

Kate: Hehe... it's like you're jealous of the cushion.

William: I can get jealous. I can't catch you as softly as a cushion.

// I get jealous too. Softly catching you like a feather is something my body can't do.

As Will joked, I couldn't help but laugh.

(Normally, if someone is jealous, it would be of a person, not a cushion, right?)

(I can't imagine Will being jealous, but that's okay.)

Will's jealousy will probably remain forever unexplored, and that's fine.

As long as we understand that we love each other more than anyone else, there's no need for jealousy.

Releasing the cushion that became the target of jealousy, I faced Will directly.

William: Do you know this saying?

William: A kiss on the hand is a kiss of respect. On the forehead, a kiss of friendship. On the cheek, a kiss of satisfaction.

William: On the lips, a kiss of love. On closed eyes, a kiss of admiration/yearning. On the palm, a kiss of pleading.

William: On the arm and neck, a kiss of desire... any other kiss is considered 'madness,' according to the whims of the poet.

Kate: I heard this in a play once. It was titled 'Kiss,' wasn't it?

Will nodded and pulled me close again.

William: When I remembered this poem, I thought of choosing one and giving it to you, Kate... but I decided against it.

William: Narrowing down my feelings for you to just one is more challenging than any mission.

Kate: ...In that case, give me all of them.

William: Of course. That's the plan.

William: Whether you're ready to accept all those emotions... there's no need to ask.

As if engraving all the emotions into me, Will continued to kiss me following the poem.

Liam: Mission complete! ...Although, we probably didn't need to come. Will pretty much took care of everything.

Harrison: The illegal organization has been completely wiped out. Whether the headcount matches or not, let's count the bodies.

Liam: Okay! 1, 2, 3, 4... 4?

Liam: ...Huh? Hey, Harry, doesn't this guy look familiar from somewhere?

Harrison: Even if you say he looks familiar... His face is all messed up, isn't it impossible to identify him?

Liam: Hmm... this build, the shape of the head, that plain-patterned shirt... I feel like I've seen him somewhere, though...

Liam: ...Ah, got it! This is the guy who was pestering Kate not too long ago!

Liam: You know, grabbed her hand forcibly, made a loud smooching sound, kissed her forcefully!

Harrison: Oh yeah, I remember now. That guy...

Liam: Will, you didn't say anything when you saw the target's information. But did you know about him?

Harrison: Knowing Will, he probably planned this method of killing, right?

The man had used a knife to cut off his own lips, leaving a gruesome sight.

Liam: Kate, you're loved.

Harrison: To speak of love in this situation... not the best sight, I think...

FIN~

[eskymoos]

Levi Ackerman- The Richest Man in the World

You wanted to make a normal date with Levi more fun and unconventional, but you forgot that he can read you like an open book. Word count- 1409 Female reader x Levi Ackerman SFW

Dating Levi Ackerman can be very exciting. From under the sheets to simple, humble dinner dates. He always has a way of making it memorable for both of you. There is one occasion in particular, however, that will never slip your mind.

It was a hot summer day in Trost when the two of you headed for the heart of the city. There was no end goal other than to put your responsibilities aside and save up some time for each other. You were having an amazing time when a great idea came to your mind. 

There was a tall building on your left– a multifloored store for dresses of all sorts. Green, red, blue. Short, long, exotic. All of it in one place. You weren't surprised considering that many wealthy people lived here and most of them could easily afford to fill their wardrobes with clothes. Your eyes turned to stars and your jaw dropped.

''Hey, why don't we go inside?''

You suggested that and Levi, who was holding your arm to his chest like a gentleman, glanced over at the entrance. ''Hmmm? You like something?''

''Not yet. Come on.'' You urged and he didn't set you back. The Captain followed right after you, curious as to what you had in mind.

The place really was huge and the store owners gladly welcomed you inside, inviting Levi to sit over at a sofa and observe for now. You began looking at every dress, mesmerized at how amazing all of their designs were. 

But there is another thing that you couldn't ignore. You wondered if the reason you never wore dresses is because your body type just didn't allow it or because your budget was too small. Nonetheless it all made you hesitate a bit. You went quiet for a moment.

''Are you okay?'' Levi inquired, already sipping on a cup of tea he was brought while you were zoned out. 

''Yeah.'' You clicked your tongue and resumed the search.

It was best you kept your worries to yourself. You knew Levi was always one to watch over you and be sensible. You didn't want to feel like you've wasted his time so you chose to pretend that none of the dresses were up your alley.

The first one you tried on was truthfully ugly. You didn't have to fake the reaction. The color made your nose scrunch in disgust.

''I feel like a disco ball. There are too many beads,'' you murmured and your gaze ran to your quiet boyfriend. Levi was silent but his eyes were burning right through you. He took another long sip and said nothing. No sign of any emotion. 

Then you tried another one on. It was very beautiful but too long and tripped you over a couple of times. 

''It's my style but too long. I would need them to shorten it.'' You looked down and realized that not even your legs were visible through the material.

Levi was still watching and still saying nothing. You're beginning to wonder if this is boring for him.

Then your interest was piqued by three others. Unlike the first ones, you actually had luck this time. The dresses were the perfect size, shape and color. In fact, they resembled the ones you used to read about in your books. It was a fantasy brought to your reality. 

But you couldn't have Levi know that or else you'd have to tell him how this entire time you didn't have the money for any of this. You know he wouldn't mock you but the guilt would eat at your heart.

''It's…something. These are getting progressively worse, don't you think?'' You asked for his input, finding his sitting reflection in the mirror. Once more his mouth didn't open to speak but his focus went up and down on you. Was he eye fucking you or judging your horrible taste? 

After a few minutes of doubtful thoughts and inner regret, you shrugged your shoulders.

''Well it's fine. I'm glad that we came here at least. Maybe next time I will buy myself something.'' You explained, sighing deeply. What nobody knew was that if you could, you'd collect every single piece of clothing in this building. That dream owned your soul. 

You put on your casual clothes and walked out the fitting room to Levi who stepped closer to you and brushed the hair out of your face. For a moment you got the idea that he was telling you something telepathically but you didn't know what.

''You are beautiful.'' He leaned in to tell you, his voice raspy yet smooth. 

The two of you left, saying goodbye to the workers inside. Your gut shrunk a bit. You didn't know what to feel about what just happened.

And so, the arrows of the clock kept looping and two days passed by. You heard a knock on your door.

You opened it to see Petra and Oluo– two very loyal members of Levi's squad. He had told you many times about them but you rarely saw them.

''Is everything okay?'' You rush to ask, already overthinking what could be happening.

''Oh yeah.'' Petra grinned warmly and lifted a strange, enormous bag in her hands. ''The Captain told us to bring this to you. Enjoy.''

The two nodded respectfully, deserting you there with your own thoughts and a lot of confusion. Why exactly would Levi send you something? The two of you lived together so wouldn't it make sense that he directly handed it to you?

You brushed off all questions and checked the contents of the delivery. Your eyes turned big and round when you saw the three exact dresses you fell in love with the other day. But how? You gave it your best to hide what you felt and even acted repulsed but somehow Levi saw through your disguise. Now it makes sense why he was looking so attentively at you. He was studying your face bit by bit as if it were some kind of science. He knew just what you had on your mind.

All of them were crazy expensive which made you freak out a bit. The Captain went out of his way to purchase them without even looking at the price tag? The idea that he went back for that made your heart melt. It also angered you a bit that this entire time he kept quiet and acted natural while you put up an act.

What a foxy man.

A small note fell off the bag onto the ground and you picked it up to see what was written on it.

Come to my office when you can. Bring the dresses.

Levi

Excited to hear from him, you did just that. You flew out of the house wildly and mounted your horse, heading for the location.

When you arrived, you opened the door to find Hange and Erwin inside, having a conversation with Levi.

Levi looked at you instantly and a spark began dancing in the coldness of his blue eyes. 

''Hange, Erwin, see yourself out,'' he commanded in a reserved tone. Erwin gave him a nod and greeted you idly before exiting. Hange did too, but not before leaning in to whisper in your ear.

''Don't know what you've done to him but he's not himself today.''

You gave them a baffled look. 

''Is that good?''

Hange just grinned, not elaborating any further. They stepped out and shut the door which left just you and Levi in the room. The air turned thick and hard to breathe for a moment.

''Levi, you spent all these money on–''

''Try them on.'' He cut you off, standing up from his seat and approaching you. ''Put them on again. This time be genuine with what you think.''

You sucked in your lower lip and try to formulate a sentence. ''It's too much. It's just too much. I can't possibly pay you back.''

He reached out and pulled you in his arms, his intonation full of sheer affection and pure devotion. ''That's not for you to worry. I want you to try them on and tell me if they need any adjustments.''

You put both hands on his shoulders, ''Are you sure?''

His face moved closer, his mouth caressing your ear. ''Why would I say it if I don't mean it?'' He chuckled. And before you could do what he requested you to, he took your hand and stole your attention momentarily to speak what was on his mind this entire time: ''You make me the richest man in the world, you know that?''

🌹

[mari-lair]

Kou's perception of Mitsuba, and how it changes, is fascinating to me.

(Quick note: I’ll be calling the human ‘Sousuke’ and the supernatural ‘Mitsuba’ to make it less confusing)

Let’s rewind to Mitsuba’s introduction in Hell of Mirrors: Kou leaped at the idea that Sousuke was back. Even after Tsukasa told him this isn’t the same person he used to know, merely an "artificial ghost with part of Sousuke's soul", Kou subconsciously rejected the idea.

Mitsuba’s existence brought his grief back full force, and while he could sense that Sousuke’s memory doesn’t perfectly match reality, logic was never his strongest motivator in hell of mirrors, he is so full of hope and desperation: He wants Mitsuba to be Sousuke so bad.

He can’t let go of the past, he is not seeing Mitsuba, just shadows of Sousuke.

Kou wasn’t able to tell this is not his old friend, simply perceiving Mitsuba as an amnesic Sousuke.

Kou wants Mitsuba to 'remember' him when we know from Mitsuba's empty mirror that he has no life to remember. Kou calls him what he had called Sousuke and gives him Sousuke’s photos, visibly desperate to get his friend back.

Even when they get out, Kou did not allow himself to face reality, talking about Mitsuba as if he was Sousuke, pushing what Tsukasa had said away.

“I thought he was gone for good” “I didn’t think I’ll ever see him again” “Because I couldn’t save him” Is all about Sousuke, which, as Tsukasa explained, “Sousuke doesn’t exist anywhere in this world anymore”

Kou only starts to realize what he has been doing and face reality in picture perfect, when Mitsuba shows him Sousuke’s life on the windows, calling Kou out for only focusing on his dead friend, ignoring Mitsuba, and using him for his own selfish reasons.

Kou is reminded of his trauma when Mitsuba breaks the window with Sousuke’s memories in it, but it does serve as an efficient wake up call.

Kou actually looks at Mitsuba here. He is dazed and shocked but he pays attention to what Mitsuba is saying: he is able to sees him as his own person. 

Mitsuba is confident no one cares about him, so after venting, completely breaking this world's facade, he sucks up his tears and goes back to his human form, offering Kou his dreams.

This time Sousuke’s image isn’t overwhelming. Kou doesn’t want to believe in this fake world now that he can see through it: Now that he can see Mitsuba.

He understands this is his own wish, not Mitsuba’s.

He can see that this lie is hurting Mitsuba.

Kou understands that there is truth to Mitsuba’s words. During all the fun times they spent together, he had been picturing Sousuke by his side, he wanted to have Sousuke back so badly that he never considered Mitsuba’s feelings, or how his wish to replace him would be hurtful.

Kou is a selfish person full of genuine kindness: He still wishes Mitsuba was Sousuke and he feels guilt for ignoring Mitsuba.

“You can’t find happiness in a fake world” is a message to both Mitsuba and himself. Once Kou snaps out of his dream, he realizes it would only lead to ruin and tries to drag Mitsuba out of his own delusions, and while he has some points, he doesn’t understand that promising a better reality, giving him hope, is cruel.

Kou genuinely wants to understand Mitsuba, so he hears him out, and pays full attention to his distress.

There is still the solid weight of his failure with Sousuke in Mitsuba’s very essence, but despite them looking the same and being very tied together, Kou is determined to focus on Mitsuba, he doesn’t want to do the same mistake again.

I won’t go in depth on Kou’s lack of care about his own life in this analysis, but I think it is worth noticing this offer was for Mitsuba, not Sousuke, and Mitsuba could see that.

Mitsuba doesn't believe Kou can make him human, but he understands that he is serious, and that Kou will try.

He gets the feeling that maybe, hopefully, Kou cares about him too, not just Sousuke, so it freaks him out that his possible friend throws himself out of the fucking building.

The last thing Kou wants is to hurt him, so he apologizes for being reckless and trying to sort out his own feelings without considering how Mitsuba would feel.

Despite this determination to be closer to Mitsuba, he subconsciously puts a distance between himself and the supernatural. He accidentally keeps ignoring him.

Remember this:

It’s about Kou’s wish, but it shows one of Mitsuba's own wishes, one weaker than his burning desire to be human, but no less real: The wish for friends.

Friends are one of the reasons he went along with faking to be Sousuke, friends are one of the many reasons he wants to be human in the first place.

But unfortunately, this is a wish he shares with Sousuke, so Kou blocked it out, not wanting to overlap the two, even if wanting to be friends is a part of Mitsuba too.

It’s complicated.

Being friends meant so much for Sousuke, and Kou doesn’t want to be reminded of him.

Kou understands seeing Mitsuba as Sousuke is an insecurity of Mitsuba and truly believes that the supernatural deserves better, he should be his own person instead of a shadow of Sousuke. Kou recognizes this difficulty separating the two is his issue, not Mitsuba's, so he is determined to make sure it doesn't become a problem again.

This need to separate the two makes it so he can’t see Mitsuba as a friend, or if he does, he can’t voice it. He has never called Mitsuba a friend unless he was thinking of Sousuke or mistaking him for Sousuke, whose friendship he treasures. Even when Mitsuba had expressed he want Kou to stay in this world as his friend, the wish didn't register, and Kou focused instead on the far less achievable, but completely detached from Sousuke, dream of turning him into a human.

Mitsuba’s dream is important to Kou, and Mitsuba noticed that, since his vent was a moment were he had Kou full attention on him instead of Sousuke, so Mitsuba eventually used his dream to distract Kou from Nene’s lifespan and their dilemma in Mei’s world.

Unfortunately, this is, at its core, just a distraction: Mitsuba may believe in Kou’s determination, but he doesn’t believe Kou has the power to grant his wish, he isn’t expecting Kou to find a solution, and he never pressures Kou about it after, he only said this because he doesn’t like to see Kou in distress, it makes him uncomfortable, and so he needs him to snap out of it.

Mitsuba has no idea how huge this is for Kou, how important it feels, cause Kou feels as if no one had ever expected anything from him before.

Even when Hanako expected him to save Nene, Kou had no idea so much trust was put on him, because Hanako only told him this:

And Kou was frozen in time, unable to hear a thing, when Hanako added this:

So in Kou’s point of view, Mitsuba is the only one that expects something from him, the only one that depends on him. (which is diferent from people depending on his role: like his siblings needing a housekeeper)

Kou talks big but in the end, he is just an overwhelmed 14 year old: while he is determined to make Mitsuba’s dream come true and fully separate him from Sousuke, he has no way to help him, and it is hard for him to not see Mitsuba as Sousuke. It’s incredibly hard.

It may have been presented in a comedic manner, but we know this haunts him all the way to his dreams.

Add in all the romantic undertones of his interactions with both Mitsuba and Sousuke, and Kou really has a big crisis.

He only fully comes to terms that Sousuke is gone when he visits his mom and sees first hand the impact of his death.

He processed and mourned Sousuke's death, he can truly separate them now, but things are still far from simple.

What exactly is his relationship with Mitsuba? It isn’t as easy to understand as his relationship with Sousuke.

Let’s see how his wishes manifest to illustrate it. This is his wish with Sousuke:

It's the wish to have been a good friend to Sousuke while he was alive. Depending on where you read, the translations may be ‘you were my friend’ or you ‘are my friend’ but regardless, it has Sousuke wearing his death clothes and thanking Kou, which shows that Kou has moved on. He has accepted his death, no longer wishing for Sousuke to come back to life.

His wish with Mitsuba may start simple enough: Kou wants to be missed, to be wanted.

But grows out of control very quickly.

It’s strange. Dangerous.

It’s important that when the Fake shows up in the red house he is a supernatural, not a human like Mitsuba wishes to be. The fake also wants Kou to fulfill his promise from picture perfect and die so they can be together, which is something Mitsuba rejected, angry with Kou for his reckless behavior.

This wish to stay by his side forever is purely Kou, though it's not as simple as Kou wanting to die: Keep in mind that many of the house wishes are merely things Kou subconsciously wants because it would give him an easy answer to a dilemma he is being troubled by: Like when the house materialized an evil Hanako telling him to “exorcise me before I kill everyone” because all his problems would have been easier to solve if the world was more black and white.

If dying, ending it all, really was a deep wish of his the house would have shown him an easy way to die: For better or worst, the house is very straight to the point with its temptations, when Kou wished for a legendary weapon that would ‘save senpai in a flash’ the house gave him exactly what he asked for, when he got hungry it showed him food, so if he seeked death itself, even if subconsciously, the house would offer him a noose or a drop as high as a school building, not something so tied to the idea of being wanted, to Mitsuba trusting and believing in Kou.

Kou has very little self-worth and sees his own life as a disposable tool for others, but I do not believe being willing to die and wanting to die are the same. He mostly wants an answer about what to do with Mitsuba, he wants to be the one with the solution to his problems more than he wants to make Mitsuba human, and the only solution he can come up with is to become a supernatural, so the red house gave him exactly what he wants: a solution of his own making.

Kou is very self-centered, the Fake may be twisted, but Kou had always accidentally distorted his relationship with Mitsuba, the unease he felt facing the fake is likely because it isn’t what he expected to see, but it isn’t alien either, it’s similar to things Kou has thought before:

Now, Kou doesn’t want Mitsuba to be helpless, to consume his life, he have no malicious intentions whatsoever, but he does want to be needed. Kou is desperate to be needed.

He feels like he is never seen as reliable: He had bonding moments with Nene on many occasions but she has Hanako, whose actions are morally questionable at times but he does get results, unlike Kou. Teru loves him but kept him in the dark about the exorcist world for his whole life, Tiara loves him but Kou seems to be under the impression her favorite bro is clearly Teru, and anyone else wouldn’t pick him as their first choice.

In contrast, Mitsuba is very attached to him, Mitsuba has a wish that he had asked Kou to grant him, and Kou had attached himself to Mitsuba just as much as he has grown attached to the idea that Mitsuba needs him.

Kou’s wish to be with Mitsuba and his deep wish to be needed are interconnected, Kou wants so so much to help him, to not be a disappointment again, that he became obsessed. Ironically, while Kou wants to be trusted, he doesn’t trust himself, and this determination to grant his wish blinds Kou from bonding and granting Mitsuba's wish for friends. Kou does have good intentions but he is doing what he wants, he is not paying attention to Mitsuba.

Kou doesn’t want Mitsuba to worry, Kou wants to help, and he can’t see his lack of self preservation hit Mitsuba too. I personally think Kou is aware his selflessness is inherently selfish but he hates that part of himself, because he rejected all his wishes in the red house but was able to admit to himself later they are his wishes.

He seem to acknowladge this but still reject it, cause he keeps doing the same mistakes: He may have apologized for jumping in picture perfect but he keeps missing Mitsuba’s intentions.

He is at his most selfish with Mitsuba and yet, I have no doubts he genuinely cares about him.

When he does see Mitsuba again, he is happy he is ‘good’ and he has both a heavy romantic energy and a noticeable distance. In hindsight, I’m not surprised he called him an acquaintance.

Kou likes him but he isn’t sure if is because of Mitsuba or because Mitsuba reminds him of Sousuke, so Kou had put a mental block on the idea of them being friends. Mitsuba very existence was born out of his failure with Sousuke, and have a big tie with Kou’s self worth. Any romantic feelings he has are being suppressed, and yet they do have a connection outside Sousuke. Kou is so focused on not disappointing Mitsuba he sabotages a lot of chances of connecting with him.

So what are they? It’s not as simple as ‘not quite friends and not quite lovers’, they are deeply affected by each other but know so little of the other they are basically strangers. They put their wishes on each other (”I want friends” “I want to be needed”) and yet misread what they are expected to give. They want connection and are afraid of not being as important to the other as the other is for them: They are a loving and tragic mess.

I am not surprised Kou had a breakdown when Mitsuba told him to exorcise him.

At this point, Kou is able to see Mitsuba as his own person/monster, so I feel like the request to be exorcised doesn’t make him remember Sousuke’s death, but it does bring back Severance trauma: We haven’t seen a Sousuke flashback in ages, but we got plenty of little panels of Mitsuba in the severance from Kou’s pov.

Outside the distress of Mitsuba wanting to die after Kou just got him back, it’s important that Kou focuses on how he needs to eat to survive after the severance, and instead of being disgusted as Mitsuba expected, Kou takes it as a personal attack, as a declaration Mitsuba also has Tsukasa to rely on.

Kou doesn’t care that Mitsuba is a monster, it was one of the main things he used to differentiate him from Sousuke, is old news, but he does care that Mitsuba still wants to be human but have gave up on ever being one. By doing so, Mitsuba indirectly admits that he doesn’t believe Kou can grant his wish, which is a promise that Kou had put a lot of his self-worth in, so it feels like Mitsuba doesn’t need Kou.

The only thing Mitsuba seems to need Kou for is to exorcise him.

Kou needs to handle both the realization Mitsuba wants to die and that he doesn’t believe in him, that’s more than enough to break him. Add in all the repressed feeling he have, both of friendship and romance, and dear lord, please help this kid.

These two have so many communication problems I hope they talk in the next chapter.

[il-miele-che-scrive]

charles leclerc x reader

summary: after a messy breakup and a messier attempt to get back together, y/n gets a text from her ex boyfriend at midnight asking her to come over

words count: 1.6k

author's note: pretty much a 2nd part of drunken mistakes, but if you haven't read it it's fine cause the story is explained

Late night text

It could've been two weeks since Y/n and Charles almost got back together, but ended up on even worse terms than before. Y/n stopped counting, she didn't want to focus on it.

Of course it hurt, but Y/n decided to silence the pain with work. She didn't even contact George in the meanwhile, she wasn't in the mood for hookups. It could probably even worsen her mental state.

Despite working a lot, there still were nights where Y/n wasn't able to fall asleep and that was one of those. The girl was tossing and turning in bed when she heard her phone vibrate on the nightstand.

She grabbed the device. To her surprise, it was a text from Charles. The girl didn't expect him to text her, but at midnight it was understandable. He could be still upset over Y/n sleeping with George during the relationship break, but it didn't mean he wouldn't contact her for a hookup.

Y/n's heart pounded in her chest. A part of her yearned for it and this part of her won. Of course she knew Charles didn't want to meet to talk about their relationship, not in the middle of the night.

Y/n knew what Charles wanted, but before he contacted her she was sure it'll be easy to decline. But when it actually happened, it was difficult. Each text brought memories of their relationship.

Maybe it was just a fantasy that would never come true again. Maybe it was naive but Y/n felt hope that maybe, just maybe, they could revive what once was real.

Her naivety made her agree and so 10 minutes later she was in her car on the way to Charles' house. The night air was cool and the streets were quiet.

Arriving at his doorstep, Y/n hesitated before ringing the doorbell. The moment stretched in time as she questioned if this was the right choice.

"Hey," Charles said, opening the door before Y/n could turn away. "It's good to see you."

"Hi," Y/n replied, not knowing what else to say.

For a moment they stood there in an awkward silence. Charles stepped aside, allowing Y/n to enter. The atmosphere inside was heavy with memories, both good and painful.

They walked to the living room. The air was thick with unspoken words. Charles broke the silence, "I didn't think you'd come."

"Well, here I am." Y/n shrugged.

"I've missed you. I know I shouldn't have reacted the way I did." His words were honest.

The moment Y/n had left his place that day weeks ago, Charles immediately regretted his words. He acted in anger, maybe it was his hurt ego speaking. He was angry because Y/n decided to sleep not with a random guy, some man she would never see again in her life, but instead with another driver. But now Charles knew it didn't matter, because Y/n and him had been broken up.

"Yeah, it was a mess," Y/n admitted, her gaze dropping to the floor. "But we were both hurting."

Charles took a step closer, and Y/n could feel the magnetic pull that had drawn them together in the first place. "I've thought a lot about us," he confessed. "Maybe we can try to make things right."

He gently cupped Y/n's face to make her look at him. When Y/n looked at Charles, she could see the vulnerability in his eyes. The wounds were still fresh, but a part of her yearned for the connection they once had.

"Charles, I… I want things to be different too, but we can't just ignore what happened."

"And yet you're here now."

Maybe this encounter tonight wasn't just a temporary escape. Maybe it was an opportunity for a fresh start.

It didn't take long before their lips met, a desperate attempt to bridge the emotional gap. The kiss held a mix of passion and sadness, two conflicting emotions collided.

The familiarity of Charles's touch, the taste of his lips, and the shared history between them allowed Y/n to let go of the hurt she felt moments ago.

"Maybe we can take it one step at a time." Y/n suggested in a soft voice.

Charles nodded, a small smile forming on his lips. And so, in the quiet intimacy of that night, Y/n and Charles decided to rewrite their story.

Waking up in the morning, Y/n didn't regret the sex they had that night. She knew that what Charles had said weren't just empty words, she trusted him. The night spent together could have been actually a step towards healing.

Y/n opened her eyes. She woke up to their once shared bedroom reflecting the sunshine through the windows. As she turned, she saw Charles still asleep, his features softened by the morning light.

The events of the night before played in Y/n's mind, but they didn't wake any anxious feeling inside of her. Instead, she felt happy for the first time in the past few weeks.

Y/n placed a soft kiss on Charles' cheek, soft enough to not wake him up, and then got up from the bed. She made her way to the kitchen, the kitchen that she used to always drink her morning coffee in.

This morning in a slightly different reality wasn't different. Y/n made herself a cup of coffee and sat down by a table.

When Charles woke up, a feeling of anxiety settled in his stomach. He wondered why isn't Y/n next to him and where could she be instead. He didn't even know when she left.

With a sigh, Charles got up from the bed. Coming to terms with the fact that Y/n most likely went back home when he was asleep, he walked to the kitchen for a glass of water.

In the kitchen, Charles found Y/n, the aroma of freshly made coffee was in the room. Y/n looked up, a warm smile on her face.

"Morning," the girl greeted, her eyes meeting Charles'.

"Good morning," Charles replied, "I thought you left."

Y/n shook her head, her smile never fading. "I wanted to let you sleep. You looked so peaceful."

The tension between them faded away, the air was much lighter and the conversation didn't feel so strange and awkward. The morning held a sense of calm, a contrast to the stormy emotions of their recent past.

"I hope you don't regret last night," Charles said, pouring himself a glass of water. There was a feeling of hope in his heart.

"I don't regret it. If anything, it felt like a step towards something better."

Charles' eyes brightened up at Y/n's words. He took a seat by the table, across from the girl. "I'm glad to hear that," he admitted, his gaze locked on her. "Last night meant a lot to me."

It became clear that the night before wasn't just a fleeting moment. It was a step toward rebuilding what they had lost.

Later on the same day, they went on a walk. They strolled through the streets that were surprisingly less lively and busy than other days.

Charles gently grabbed Y/n's hand, intertwining her fingers with his. She looked at him and smiled.

"I really think we can make this work." The girl said. "Breaking up was the worst idea we've ever made."

"The most stupid one, indeed," Charles laughed, "I can't imagine spending my life with anyone else."

"That's a bold statement."

"You don't know what other things I have up my sleeve," he teased, tugging Y/n to turn right as they continued walking.

"Oh, are we going somewhere specific?"

Charles glanced at her with a grin that hinted at a secret. "Just following the path of... surprises."

As they continued, the familiar streets led way to the iconic Monaco circuit. The atmosphere shifted, and Y/n's eyes widened as she realized where they were heading.

Stopping, Charles turned to Y/n. He took a deep breath and spoke, his voice steady. "Y/n, we've faced our fair share of twists and turns, but one thing has always remained constant. My love for you."

Y/n's heart skipped a beat, realizing the significance of the Monaco circuit. Her eyes widened in realization as Charles got down on one knee, taking out a small velvet box from his pocket.

As the man opened the box, revealing a golden engagement ring with a red stone, the city seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.

"I've realized that life is unpredictable, but some moments are worth planning." Charles continued. "Y/n, will you make this unpredictable journey a forever one?" The glint of the engagement ring matched the sparkle in Charles' eyes.

The question hung in the air, Y/n knew her response would shape the next chapter of their story.

Overwhelmed with emotion, Y/n nodded, tears of happiness visible in her eyes. "Yes, Charles, a thousand times yes."

Charles' face broke into a radiant smile. He slid the ring onto Y/n's finger, sealing their commitment. The city around them seemed to celebrate the moment with a quiet, harmonious hum.

Charles stood up and closed Y/n in a tight embrace. She buried her face in his chest, muttering quietly, "I love you. I'm so sorry."

Charles held Y/n even tighter, reassuring her with a gentle squeeze. "I'm sorry as well, but it doesn't matter now. The past is in the past and you're the love of my life."

As they stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, the pain of the past seemed to fade away, replaced by the promise of a shared future and dreams.

With a tender touch, Charles tilted Y/n's face up to meet his gaze. "No more apologies. We're starting a new chapter, and I wouldn't want it any other way."