#but then when i was reading some of his dialogue i was like

[goodpointsandbadpoints]

yesyesyes. I think that some people try for interiority a bit aimlessly. Just nailing it to the story without knowing what it's for.

Some of my favorite interior moments are memories, or describing when a character likes or dislikes something! It tells us about the character, maybe a bit of backstory, AND it can point towards something in the future! Later on, maybe something happens that the reader can connect to that moment of interiority. I love that.

An author whose prose I love is Donna Tartt, because she's simultaneously so good at putting us in the narrator's head AND giving lovely descriptions of the setting. Her stories feel like someone is sitting down across a table from us and retelling their memories. I love that. We get to learn about her snooty, defensive, curious, apathetic, or naive narrators. We read them as they decide something is tacky, or that they've never been as hungry or cold as they were right then, or that they recall a relevant memory about their father. It's very fun. (And sometimes there are pages of nearly-completely-just dialogue. with hardly any sections of prose. She changes her method depending on the type of scene.)

I'm loving the way Nevil Shute did interiority in On the Beach. Not only does it help us keep track of whose POV we're in, but it also builds up the mood and tension for what's to come. Moira feels sad about the way Dwight talks about his family, which reinforces both of their pitiable, hopeless states, and makes me question once more, "what REALLY happened to everyone??" (Granted, Shute's use of interiority is much more sparse compared to authors like Tartt, but I like his style for this particular story and genre. It feels utilitarian.)

A lot of fiction these days reads as if—as I saw Peter Raleigh put it the other day, and as I’ve discussed it before—the author is trying to describe a video playing in their mind. Often there is little or no interiority. Scenes play out in “real time” without summary. First-person POV stories describe things the character can’t see, but a distant camera could. There’s an overemphasis on characters’ outfits and facial expressions, including my personal pet peeve: the “reaction shot round-up” in which we get a description of every character’s reaction to something as if a camera was cutting between sitcom actors.

When I talk with other creative writing professors, we all seem to agree that interiority is disappearing. Even in first-person POV stories, younger writers often skip describing their character’s hopes, dreams, fears, thoughts, memories, or reactions. This trend is hardly limited to young writers though. I was speaking to an editor yesterday who agreed interiority has largely vanished from commercial fiction, and I think you increasingly notice its absence even in works shelved as “literary fiction.” When interiority does appear on the page, it is often brief and redundant with the dialogue and action. All of this is a great shame. Interiority is perhaps the prime example of an advantage prose as a medium holds over other artforms.

fascinated by this article, "Turning Off the TV in Your Mind," about the influences of visual narratives on writing prose narratives. i def notice the two things i excerpted above in fanfic, which i guess makes even more sense as most of the fic i read is for tv and film. i will also be thinking about its discussion of time in prose - i think that's something i often struggle with and i will try to be more conscious of the differences between screen and page next time i'm writing.

[gothcsz]

final part of the neighbors series. well, everyone... we made it to the devastating end of our beloved neighbors! did i think we'd get here so fast? absolutely not, but alas we must face the truth that these two were doomed from the beginning 💔 thank you to everyone who has stuck around for this little series, i so appreciate it more than you know! please let ya girl know what you think hehe happy reading 🖤 thank you to @persephone-girl, @myownwholewildworld and @ovaryacted for helping me along the way 🥹

javier peña x f!reader. ~16k word count. the angst we've become familiar with, some new years vibes, canon typical violence (please proceed with caution), speaking of canon the timeline is way out of wack but we don't care okay (?), spanish heavy dialogue at times because i love writing in spanish (translations included), character death (bye bye mateo), reader has a mild case of agoraphobia, smut (hopefully it makes up for the heartbreak), unprotected p in v sex (this is fiction be smart irl), oral (f receiving), creampie kink!!!, hurt/no comfort?, guess what: javi is a piece of shit, no happy ending!!!, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay thanks.

The days bleed into one another in a haze of pain, anxiety, and Javier’s unwavering presence.

His apartment has become your sanctuary as your body mends—slowly, achingly—but the weight of the world outside these walls makes every step toward recovery feel like a climb up a mountain.

He hovers without smothering, a balance that only someone as attuned as him could manage. He cooks poorly, though his effort is enough to warm your heart. 

And when dinner inevitably becomes charred beyond recognition, he humors you with a begrudging sigh before ordering takeout from a local spot.

Connie checks in as often as she can. Her competence is a balm in itself, bringing company in the form of the orphaned baby girl they’ve taken in, and gentle scolding when you try to do too much too soon.

You’re definitely going stir-crazy on top of all the other shit you’re still processing.

His bedroom is practically yours now, the space filled with your things from a hurried list you’d made after he went to clear your apartment, ensuring it was safe and untapped. 

You could go back, but you don’t want to. Not yet. Not when every shadow feels like it’s going to swallow you whole, and not when the thought of leaving Javi’s protection makes your stomach tighten with anxiety.

Tonight is no different, the silence of his apartment familiar. Javier is sprawled on the couch in the living room, his gun within arm’s reach on the coffee table, the TV playing some late-night soccer game at a low volume.

You’re in his bed, wrapped in the blankets that carry the scent of him.

The nightmare rips you from your sleep and into a cold sweat. Your screams shatter the quiet, piercing through the walls like a siren. Javier is on his feet in seconds, gun in hand, his instincts sharp as ever, heart pounding as he rushes into the bedroom.

He bursts through the door, his eyes scanning for threats before they land on you. You’re sitting up, clutching your head in your hands, your body shaking with sobs.

Javi approaches slowly, cautious yet reassuring as he sets the weapon down on the nightstand. “It’s me, cariño. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

The sound of his voice breaks through your panic, and you look up at him with tear-streaked cheeks, your breathing ragged. Without thinking, you throw yourself into his embrace, your face burying into his chest as his strong arms wrap around you.

“I can’t… I can’t do this,” you sob into his shirt, your fingers clutching at the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart entirely.

Javier keeps you cradled in his lap, feeling helpless as he tries to console you, resting his chin on the top of your head, rubbing your back soothingly. He doesn’t know what to say, and he hopes you don’t take his wordless comfort the wrong way.

Your tears don’t stop, but the steady thumping of his heart and steadying breaths begin to calm the overpowering emotions that stab at you all over. “They k-keep finding me,” you whisper hoarsely. “In my dreams. Mateo, his men… They hurt you, Javi. They kill you, and I-I can’t stop them.”

His jaw tightens, the familiar strike of anger igniting deep in his chest. But he controls it, his focus entirely on you. “That’s not going to happen,” he says with quiet intensity. “I won’t let it. You’re safe here, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way. They’ll never touch you again.”

Even though the fear still lingers, you nod against him, your tears finally slowing. “I’m scared,” you admit in a hush, as if the city can hear you.

“I know,” his lips replace his chin with a soft kiss placed at the crown of your head. “You’ve got every right to be, but not for much longer. Te lo prometo.” (I promise you)

He holds you close, his mind racing. He knows the nightmares won’t stop until Mateo is dealt with, and the thought of you living in fear makes his blood boil.

Tomorrow, he decides, he’s going to make a move. Berna’s contact information has been burning a hole in his wallet, reminding him of the quickest way to get his justice.

Whatever it takes, whoever he has to call in, Mateo will pay for what he’s done.

He stays with you, his arms a fortress around your trembling body as you finally begin to drift back into an uneasy sleep.

When your breathing finally evens out and sleep welcomes you again, Javier doesn’t move right away. He keeps you in his embrace just a little longer, as if afraid that letting go might wake the nightmares again.

Eventually, he carefully shifts, lowering you back onto the bed. He tucks the blanket snugly around your shoulders, his movements unhurried. For a long moment, he doesn’t leave, his gaze fixed on your face.

Your lashes rest against your cheeks, still damp from tears, and your lips curve downward in a soft, unconscious pout. There’s a faint crease between your brows, as if even in slumber, you’re holding onto the pain. His heart aches at the sight.

Even like this, fragile and hurting, you’re still so beautiful.

He leans in without thinking, pressing a feather-light kiss to your forehead. His lips linger there for just a moment longer than they should, as if willing his affection to seep into your dreams and chase away the darkness.

With gentle fingers, he smooths the furrow from your brow, hesitating as he straightens. His eyes trail over you one last time before forcing himself to turn away and leave, returning to his spot on the uncomfortable couch.

Every step he takes toward the usual meeting spot feels heavy, hindering, like the universe is daring him to find another way; a constant reminder of the ethical line he is about to cross yet again.

He’s not about to let what happened to you fall into the cracks of this crumbling country.

Does this really make him any better than Mateo? Than the rest of the assholes he’s spent his career hunting? The question whisks around in Javier’s mind, relentless and accusatory, every time he looks in the mirror or stares down the barrel of another wasted day.

He tells himself the same justification every time: You’ve got to do bad things to catch bad people. You have to stoop to their level to get the job done. Get your hands dirty alongside them. 

But the words taste bitter, even as they leave his mouth. It’s not a mantra—it’s an excuse. One he clings to, because if he doesn’t, he’d have to face the man he’s become.

It’s a betrayal. Of the ideals he once believed in. Of you.

You wouldn’t say it, wouldn’t dare accuse him outright of something so low, but he can see the questions in the way your eyes search his when he comes home in the middle of the night, reeking of sweat and moral compromise. 

He’s doing this for you. It’s about justice, about making things right. But deep down, he knows it’s not just that.

It’s about vengeance.

He steps into the shop, the smell of authentic Colombian food and coffee hitting him all at once.

Berna is already seated, a bulky figure crammed into a chair that seems too small for him, like a predator disguised as a civilian.

His beady eyes flick up as Javier approaches, a greasy grin spreading across his face. “¿Nos volvemos a reunir tan pronto? ¿Me extrañas o qué, Peña?” (Meeting again so soon? Do you miss me or what?) he asks, lifting the tiny cup with fingers that seemed more suited to take lives than hold porcelain.

Javier slides into the seat across from him, the legs scraping against the tile floor. “¿Obtuviste la información que te pedí sobre el banquero?” (Did you get the information I asked for about the banker?) His voice is clipped, wasting no time on pleasantries.

He reaches into the inner pocket of his leather jacket, pulling out the photograph of Mateo to remind the other man why he’s here. The paper is crumpled from how many times he’s clenched it in his fist, a physical manifestation of his frustration.

He unfolds it carefully and places it on the table, sliding it between them.

Berna doesn’t even blink, his gaze dropping to the photo with all the urgency of a man just leisuring about. He stirs his coffee lazily, adding another spoonful of sugar. “¿Y yo que gano?” (What’s in it for me?)

Javier’s jaw ticks, the muscle feathering beneath his stubbled skin. He knows this game, has played it too many fucking times—it grates on him. “Lo de siempre,” (What it always is) he replies gruffly. “Esto no es diferente a nuestros otros acuerdos.” (This isn’t any different than our other agreements)

Berna leans back in his chair, his bulk shifting the chair with a creak. “Seguro?” (You sure about that?) he asks, patronizingly, as he taps the edge of the photo with a stubby finger. “Javiercito, ¿sigues dejando que las mujeres dirijan tu vida?” (Javiercito, still letting women run your life?) He tuts, “Pero no te culpo. Una buena perra debilita hasta al hombre más fuerte.” (I don’t blame you. A good bitch debilitates even the toughest man)

He curls his fists under the table, blunt nails digging into the skin of his palms, willing himself to stay seated. His patience is running thin, making his leg bounce rapidly. 

“No se trata de eso,” (That’s not what this is about) Javier grinds out through clamped teeth.

Berna barks out a laugh, leaning forward slightly. “Esto no funciona si nos decimos mentiras.” (This won’t work if we tell each other lies) His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper now, though his smug smile remains wide. “Lo estás buscando por la orden que envió.” (You’re after him for that call he sent out)

Javi’s irritation is momentarily replaced by intrigue. He straightens slightly. “¿Cual orden?” (What call?)

Berna’s grin grows wolfish, pure amusement bubbling into an obnoxious, rumbling laugh that fills the small space. “¿Ves? Lo sabía.” (See? I knew it) He wags a thick finger at Javier, like a teacher scolding a disobedient student. “Tu banquero hizo una llamada para deshacerse de su mujer. Una empleada de la embajada. Americana. Vos lo sabes mejor que nadie cómo se sienten estos tipos cuando matan a un Americano, especialmente a una tan insignificante… y muy bonita, por lo que he oído.” (Your banker made a call to get rid of his girl. An embassy employee. American. You know better than anyone how these guys feel about killing an American, especially one so insignificant… and very pretty, from what I hear)

Javier’s gut twists at the confirmation of something he practically already knew.

“Emputó a muchos con ese truco. Huyó como un cobarde. Supongo que por eso estás aquí. Por ella.” (He pissed a lot of people off with that trick. Ran away like a coward. I guess that’s why you’re here. Because of her)

Javier flicks his tongue across his teeth.“Eso no importa,” (That doesn’t matter) he retorts lowly. “Sólo necesito saber dónde está... el y esos hijos de puta que cumplieron la orden.” (I just need to know where he is... and those two motherfuckers who followed through with the order)

Berna hums as he strokes his chin like he’s considering it. “Cartagena,” he finally gives him a location, something to fucking work with, as simply as if he were giving directions to el mercado. “Ahí se esconde. Sin embargo, consiguió protección, pero no es nada que los gringos no puedan manejar.” (That’s where he’s hiding. Got himself some protection, but it’s nothing the Americans can’t handle) That last bit said mockingly to purposely annoy the agent.

“¿Y los otros?” (And the others?) Javier presses, not letting him ride his nerves so easily.

“Santos y Rico,” Berna supplies, shrugging nonchalantly. “Siguen en Bogotá. Frecuentan un club allí sobre los barrios. El Flamenco. Bebidas baratas, música de mierda... tu tipo de lugar, ¿eh?” (They’re still in Bogotá. They frequent a club near the barrios. The Flamingo. Cheap booze, shitty music—your kind of place)

He doesn’t rise to the bait again, simply nodding as he stands, swiping the photo of Mateo off the table and back into his pocket, switching it out for his trusty pack of cigarettes.

“Ten cuidado, Peña,” (Careful, Peña) Berna calls after him, his tone still mocking. “No dejes que te vuelva estúpido.” (Don’t let her make you stupid)

Javier doesn’t look back as he walks out into the crisp night, his mind already focused on the next steps. 

The capital for Santos and Rico. Cartagena for Mateo. But first, back to you.

He isn’t sure how he’d explain this to you… or if he even would. All he knows is that he has to see your face, remind himself why he’s doing this, using you as an excuse to help justify the violence that has tainted his soul.

Javier is gone. A lot. You try not to let it get to you, especially after he promised to not leave your side ever again. Though, you should have known better than to take that literally.

The rhythm of his comings and goings is erratic, like a broken metronome that keeps you off balance.

At first, it was just a couple of days here and there—late nights bleeding into early mornings, his tired eyes explaining everything and nothing all at once. Then the days stretched into weeks, his absence carving a yawning void in the already fragile sanctuary of his apartment.

Your ribs mend. The bruises fade, the cuts scab over, but none of it feels like progress. Healing should feel like a triumph, not this hollow ache of emptiness of what you’re left with.

You are in Javier’s apartment like a ghost confined in purgatory, aimless and haunted.

You’re supposed to be dead right now.

The thought comes at odd moments—while folding the laundry, when washing the coffee mug he used one morning before he was urgently called back to work, standing at the edge of his bed staring at the empty space where his body should be.

You can’t stop it. It circles you like a vulture, picking at what little resolve you have left.

Connie’s gone too. She had been your lifeline for a while, popping in and offering comfort when her own world was crumbling. But her absence was inevitable, torn between spontaneous parenthood and a marriage fraying at every seam because of the job.

Now it’s just you. Alone with your thoughts, the muffled chaos of the world outside seeping through the walls. It’s a torment you never imagined possible, let alone one you’d find yourself living through.

The country seems to be devouring itself. The news on the small TV mutters of violence that is neverending.

Sometimes, you’ll stand by the sliding glass door that leads to his balcony, fingers brushing the edge of the curtain. You tell yourself you’re just looking, but the nagging fear of being watched creeps up your spine.

The blinds never stay open for long, your courage retreating as quickly as it came. Javier has trusted agents dropping groceries and meals off for you at the doorstep, and even then you’re very cautious about opening the door to bring them inside. 

Loneliness, paranoia and insomnia have become your closest companions. The reflection in the mirror becomes a stranger with a melancholic expression and sleepless eyes.

You collapse onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this is who you are now: a woman afraid to live.

The rare moments Javi manages to call leave you clinging to the landline, his rough voice over the static of the phone your only escape.

His words are rushed, heavy with exhaustion and tension. Sometimes it’s just an update—he’s okay, thinking of you. Other times, it’s the smallest sliver of intimacy:

“I miss you. I’ll be back soon.”

It’s selfish, you know, to want him here when you know the stakes of what he does for a living. The weight of what he deals with is an unwanted companion in his life.

But that doesn’t stop the longing, the ache to have him wrap his arms around you and make the world feel safe again.

The memory of his love confession that night in the bathroom is all that keeps you going. You cradle it like a fragile ember, feeding it with every shred of optimism you can muster. Which isn’t a lot as of late.

One day, you tell yourself. One day this will all be behind you. The darkness will lift, the scars on your heart will heal.

Until then, you have to endure. Love is a painful and ugly thing.

He gets all three of them in the end. It’s not clean, not quiet, but it’s done.

Berna’s information leads Javier straight to the first two—a pair of low-rent sicarios who’d been dumb enough to let their guard down in a hole-in-the-wall bar back in Bogotá.

The two were slouched over the counter, their laughter slurred and careless, oblivious to the shit storm about to hit.

He didn’t even have to lift a finger. The group moved swiftly, their boots loud against the grimy floor, and in seconds, the sicarios were on the ground, bloodied and begging.

Javier didn’t stay to watch them get dragged out into the alley, their pleas echoing in the narrow space before two distinct gunshots were heard.

He was already planning his next move: Cartagena. Mateo.

No time is wasted when he touches down in the coastal city, greeted by Berna and some of his men. 

Flanked by the grim crew, they make their way to the luxurious safe house perched in one of Cartagena’s wealthiest enclaves.

Criminals like Mateo always hide out in opulence after orchestrating such violence.

The assault begins the moment they breach the front gate. Chaos erupts. Gunfire cracks like thunder, tearing through the pristine silence of the night. 

Bullets shatter glass, ricocheting off marble columns and embedding themselves in the cream-colored walls. Screams echo as Mateo’s protective detail fights back hard, but they’re outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and out of luck. 

It’s ruthless yet efficient, and Javier moves through the pandemonium suavely, his focus singular, expression stern, as he searches for the asshole he is here for.

By the time he kicks in the door to Mateo’s hiding spot, the man is cornered. He’s standing by the balcony, sweat dripping down his face, his silk shirt clinging to his torso. A pistol is gripped tightly in his hand and pointed right at Javier.

“Suelta el arma,” (Drop the gun) Javier sneers, his lips curled, weapon steadily trained at the other’s chest. 

The temptation to end it all here—one clean shot—burns in his veins. He could do it, drive a bullet straight into the bastard’s heart and paint the wall behind him red.

But no. He won’t give him the ease of a quick death. Not after what he did to you.

Mateo scoffs as it dawns on him that he’s standing off against the DEA agent that’s been shadowing him since the moment he met you.

“Tú primero.” (You first)

“No estás en una posición para pedir ni mierda.” (You are not in a position to ask for shit)

Their eyes lock, and the room feels impossibly still despite the carnage wreaking outside.

Mateo’s hesitation is all the opening Javier needs. He lunges forward, disarming the man in one swift motion and landing a punch squarely across his face. The force sends Mateo sprawling, his pistol clattering uselessly to the floor.

It’s a struggle and Mateo fights back, dirty and desperate. They grapple, fists flying, grunts filling the air as they roll across the polished floor. Javier takes a few hits to his ribs and jaw, but his anger drives him forward. 

Every punch is laced with the memory of you—of what this fucker had done, of the fear in your eyes and the pain in your voice, how he broke you.

Finally, with a grunt of exertion, Javier manages to force Mateo onto his stomach, wrenching his arms behind his back. The cuffs click into place, metal biting into his skin.

“¿Crees que eres un héroe o qué?” (Do you think you’re some hero or what?) Mateo spits out, blood mixed in his saliva landing with a glop on the floor and Javier yanks him up. “¿Qué va a pensar tu preciado gobierno cuando les diga con quién lluegaste? Me estás arrestando sin ningún puto motivo factual.” (What is your precious government going to think when i tell them who you showed up here with. You’re arresting me with no real fucking cause)

Javier laughs, the sound bitter and hollow, devoid of humor. As he walks him towards the opulent front doors, he makes sure to twist Mateo’s wrists in the restraints until the jagged metal digs enough to make him bleed.

“¿Crees que esto es un arresto?” (You think this is an arrest) The rhetorical question is asked condescendingly, “No, Mateo, no voy a arrastrarte tras las rejas para que te pudras. Ese es un futuro demasiado misericordioso para malparidos como tú.” (I’m not going to drag you behind bars to rot. That’s too merciful of a future for bastards like you)

With a shove, he pushes Mateo forward. The armed men are waiting at the bottom of the marble steps, and they move quickly, forcing a black bag over his head. His muffled curses are cut short by a sharp blow to the gut.

They throw him into the waiting van like cargo, slamming the doors shut before the engine roars to life.

Javier exhales, his hands flexing at his sides as he watches the vehicle pull away into the darkness. He’s about to tail it, his mind already running through the long night ahead, but then his thoughts veer to you and the way you look at him like he’s more than the monster he feels he’s becoming.

Berna steps up beside him, his presence as calm and calculated as ever despite the massacre that has occurred. His hands are clasped neatly behind his back, but there’s a flicker of something—amusement, perhaps, or curiosity—dancing in his dark eyes.

“¿Y ahora qué?” (And now what?) he asks, his tone deceptively casual, like he doesn’t already know exactly what Javier’s next move is going to be.

Javi doesn’t even glance his way. “I’m going to kill that motherfucker.”

The basement reeks of damp concrete, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood. The single bulb overhead swings with a slow, almost hypnotic rhythm, casting broken shadows that dance across the cracked walls and the man tied to the chair.

Mateo’s head hangs low, chin resting against his chest, blood trailing from his broken nose, pooling on the stained floor beneath him. His chest rises and falls unevenly, each breath a wheeze as pain ripples through his bruised and battered figure.

Javier leans against the base of the stairs, his leather jacket discarded over a rusty chair nearby. His sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, revealing forearms taut with tension, veins bulging beneath his brown skin.

His knuckles are raw, split open from earlier blows, and they throb with a dull ache that he’s long since chosen to ignore. His dark eyes are devoid of their usual sly charm; instead, they smolder with a cold, relentless fury. 

Mateo coughs, spitting blood and phlegm onto the floor. “Todo esto... ¿por ella?” (All this… for her) His voice is weak, rasping, but the mockery in his tone is unmistakable. “I don’t believe it.”

Javier pushes off the wall, his boots echoing on the concrete as he takes measured steps toward the chair. He grabs a stool and pulls it up, straddling it directly in front of the other man. His face is inches away, close enough to make him flinch.

“You don’t get to talk about her,” Javier reaches out, gripping his jaw with one hand, forcing him to meet his gaze. Mateo winces as Javier’s thumb presses hard against a fresh bruise, the pain blooming anew. 

Still, he manages to huff out a wet and gurgling chuckle. “Realmente te tiene envuelto alrededor de su maldito dedo. Estás haciendo todo esto para qué, ¿vengarla? (She really had you wrapped tight around her fucking finger. You’re doing all this to what, avenge her?) Some gringa who barely gave it up. Podrías encontrar una puta mejor en la ciudad, eso sería más creíble que esto—” (You could find a better whore out in the city, that would be more believable than this)

The crack of Javier’s fist connecting with his cheekbone cuts him off mid-sentence. Mateo’s head snaps to the side, and more blood spatters the floor. Javier shakes out his hand, fidgeting his fingers.

“You tried to have her killed.” He spits, voice trembling with restrained rage. “And now you’re going to reap every second she’s had to live in fear because of you.”

Mateo lifts his head weakly, shooting daggers at the agent despite his beaten state. “And this rights the wrong? Makes you better than me? Us? Look at you. Torturing a man in the dark. Working with killers.” 

Javier steps closer, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and yanking him forward, their faces inches apart. “You’re goddamn right it doesn’t make me better,” he growls. “But I don’t give a fuck anymore. My moral compass? That broke the day I realized just how low you motherfuckers get. The day I realized the only way to protect people like her is to become just like you.”

He shoves him away with enough force to send the chair rocking precariously, the screech of its legs grating against the hard floor.

Javier’s hand closes around a nearby crowbar, it’s cold metal chilling against the heat radiating from his palm. He grips it tightly, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he stalks forward.

He presses the tip of the bar against Mateo’s knee, letting it rest there just long enough for the man’s wide eyes to meet his. The anticipation thickens the air like smoke, and then Javier swings.

The impact is sickening, the crack of bone like a firework detonating in the basement, followed by Mateo’s shrill and desperate scream.

It’s a sound that would make most men hesitate, flinch even, but Javier doesn’t stop.

He brings the crowbar down again and again, obliterating both knees and then moving downward, snapping tibias and fibulas like kindling. Mateo’s pleas are incoherent now, sobbing gasps and wet, broken cries of “Stop!” and “Please!” that Javier doesn’t hear—or perhaps chooses not to.

The cool iron gleams under the dim, swaying light. Blood trickles down it, some of it spatters across Javi’s shirt, his arms, but it doesn’t faze him.

It all becomes a distant hum, drowned out by the roaring in his ears. He doesn’t see the man in front of him anymore; he sees your pain, the fear etched into your face, the scars you’ll carry forever because of this piece of shit.

When Mateo’s legs are little more than pulp, Javier tosses the crowbar aside, the clang of metal on concrete echoing like a death knell.

He doesn’t stop, though. He doesn’t even hesitate. His fists take over, slamming into the other’s face brutally.

Mateo’s head lolls to the side, his breaths coming in ragged, wet gasps. Javier pulls back only when he’s sure the man is teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, his face swollen and unrecognizable.

Breathing heavily, Javi staggers back and pulls his pistol from its spot tucked at his lower back. The deafening click of the safety switching off snaps Mateo out of his stupor, his swollen eyes flying open in panic. 

He tries to speak, but his words dissolve into choked sobs. His ravaged legs twitch uselessly, bones jutting through torn skin, his face an unrecognizable mask of swelling and gore.

Javier steps closer, raising the gun. The barrel points squarely at Mateo’s chest, unwavering.

There isn’t anything left to say.

The first shot rings out, deafening in the enclosed space. Mateo jerks in the chair, blood spraying from the wound. Another shot follows, then another. Every pull of the trigger is cathartic, each bullet an exclamation point to the anger and anguish he’s carried for too long. 

It feels like ripping a piece of his soul away, but he doesn’t stop. Not until the clip is empty and Mateo’s body slumps forward, lifeless.

Silence falls, heavy and oppressive. Javier’s chest heaves as he lowers the weapon, tasting the burnt sulfurous in the air, his fingers trembling slightly. Blood pools around the chair, a deep crimson stark against the dull gray of the concrete.

He stares at the heap for a moment, his body and soul untethered. There’s no satisfaction in his expression, only exhaustion and a shadow of something darker—loathing, maybe.

He tucks the gun at his lower back again and turns away, his boots crunching over spent shell casings as he heads for the stairs, grabbing his jacket on the way out.

He doesn’t look back as he ascends out of the basement, men trailing in to clean the mess up. Javier doesn’t let himself linger on what he’s done. 

You’ve been pacing the apartment for hours, too restless to sit still, too wired to even think about sleeping.

“I’m coming back tonight.”

He sounded different when he called. Blank, almost, but you told yourself not to get hung up on it. You haven’t been feeling like yourself lately, either. 

The only thing that mattered was that he was coming back to you.

By the time the doorknob rattles at one in the morning, you’re wide awake, perched on the edge of the couch with your legs tucked beneath you. Your heart leaps into your throat as the door creaks open, and there he is.

Javier’s silhouette fills the frame, outlined by the dim light spilling in from the hallway. His broad shoulders are hunched, the leather duffle dangling limply in one hand. His jean jacket hangs off him like it’s too heavy, his hair mussed, his face unshaven.

The grim line of his mouth and the absent look in his eyes tug at the emotions you harbor for him.

You don’t even realize you’ve moved until your feet are carrying you to him, the silver of the moonlight pours in from the glass doors that lead to the balcony, illuminating the room. “Javi…” you whisper, the name leaving your lips before you can think. 

You throw yourself into his arms without hesitation, wrapping yourself around him like if you hold him tight enough, it will make all this despair go away.

His duffle hits the floor with a dull thud as his arms come around you, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

He doesn’t deserve this, he thinks, as you cling to him. Your affection, your tenderness. Still, that doesn’t stop him from being selfish and bathing in the warmth of your body pressed against his.

His embrace is crushing, pulling you so close you can barely breathe, but you don’t care. If he could press you into his skin, you’d let him. If you could crawl inside his chest and be near his heart, you would.

“I missed you,” you murmur against him, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his jacket. His grip tightens in response, but he doesn’t say a word. His silence makes your throat tighten.

You pull back just enough to look at him, cupping his face in your hands. His skin is rough beneath your fingers, the scruff on his jaw rasping against your palms. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you see it all—the weariness, the anger, the shame, the pieces that make him who he is. 

He opens his mouth to respond, but whatever he’s about to say dies on his tongue when you lean in and kiss him.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate, like you’re trying to pour every word you haven’t said into the press of your lips on his.

They’re softer than you’d imagined in your countless daydreams, but the way he moves them against yours carries an unmistakable authority. Even as you take the lead, it feels like he’s in control.

Javi’s hands rise, cradling the back of your head as he holds you steady. His mouth moves like he’s been waiting for this, needing this, as much as you have.

You are his sanctuary and his torment, the single thread keeping him whole in a world that threatens to disentangle him. 

It’s vaster than love, more potent than lust. It’s the way his heart pinches every time you look at him, as if no matter how far he falls into the darkness, you’ll always be there to pull him back.

Your fingers curl into the denim of his jacket, tugging him closer while you take small, shuffling steps backward. He tastes so forbidden and intoxicating. You’ll never get enough.

As you guide him further into the apartment, he follows without question, mouth never leaving yours, until you stumble slightly over the sunken step into the living room.

His hands move to your waist to steady you, the brief break in the kiss filled with a shaky exhale against your lips, your name leaving him so softly, you almost miss it.

“What are we doing?” His question is rough around the edges, like gravel under silk. He swallows hard, the muscles in his neck moving. His touch remains on your hips, as if he’s caught between holding you close and pushing you away.

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you surge forward, capturing his lips again as your hands fumble with his jacket. He hesitates, just for a split second, before shrugging it off and letting it fall to the floor.

You’re already tugging at the hem of his shirt as you guide him toward the couch with a determined push, his legs folding beneath him as he sits.

You climb onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips.

“Wait,” he says your name, this time a little more sternly. “We can’t—” His fingers flex against your curves, tone strained with the conflict that’s written all over his face.

“Javier, please.” Your plea wavers with emotion, your hands balling into the fabric of his shirt. “I just… I need to feel something else. Make me feel something else.”

His brown eyes meet yours, and the anguish he finds there strikes deep within him. It’s a look he knows all too well, one he’s carried in his own reflection more times than he can count.

It hurts him to see it mirrored back at him, to know that you’ve reached the same depths he’s had to endure.

He should say no. He should tell you that fucking him won’t fix anything, that it won’t make the hurt disappear. If anything, it might make it worse.

But as he takes in the sight of you—your pleading eyes, your trembling hands, the way your lips are still swollen from his kisses—he knows he can’t resist. Not when he’s wanted this, wanted you, for so long.

“Are you sure?” Your noses brush and the heat between you is almost unbearable.

“Please fuck me, Javi,” you whisper, the raw need in your voice obliterating the last shred of his trepidation.

His lips find yours with renewed fervor, hands roaming your body with reckless abandon, no longer hesitant.

Your own are just as eager, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt as you rock your hips against his bulge. His sharp inhale tells you he feels it too—the spark, the friction. 

Clothes begin to fall away piece by piece, the space narrowing until there’s nothing but the press of your bodies and the sound of ragged breaths as you expose more to the other’s hungry gaze.

The moonlight filtering through the blinds casts Javier in a way that makes him look otherworldly. You’ve seen him shirtless more times than you can count, but tonight, under the spell of the lust simmering between you, his body appears almost unreal—every ridge of muscle, every faint scar, illuminated and tempting.

Your touch moves at its own accord, spreading over his firm chest, tracing the curve of his pectorals, feeling the rapid rhythm of his heartbeat. You move to cradle his face once more, his skin warm and taut under your palms as you guide him down to your neck.

Javier presses his lips to the delicate skin just below your ear, the scrape of his facial hair making you keen. His teeth nip at your pulse point, eliciting a gasp from you, and his tongue follows to soothe the sting.

His kisses blaze a trail lower, past the hollow of your throat and down to the swells of your tits, where he pauses, his breath fanning over your charged skin.

Your breath catches softly as his tongue flicks across the sensitive flesh, and then one of his hands slides up from your waist to cup the other. His thumb brushes over your nipple, teasing it until it peaks under his touch, and then his mouth is on you again—hot, wet, and maddeningly skillful.

He sucks the tender nub gently and you arch into him, whimpering from how good it feels.

“Javi…” you moan, your fingers burying themselves in his hair. His tongue circles your pebbled nipple, flicking it with just the right amount of pressure before he grazes it with his teeth, sending a shockwave of pleasure straight to your core, slickening your cunt with each lick.

He doesn’t neglect the other for long, moving over to give it the same attention, making you feel like you’re coming undone one nerve at a time.

His mouth feels delicious against your skin, and your skin tastes delicious on his tongue.

Even as his desire threatens to consume him, he’s cautious. He notices how you flinch slightly when his fingers press a bit too firmly into your soft skin and guilt prickles at the edges of his hunger; but it only makes him gentler, more intent on making you feel good without causing any more pain.

Javier kisses his way back up until his lips are at the corner of your mouth. Then, with a fluid motion, he shifts your position, guiding you onto your back. The worn cushions cradle you as he hovers over you, his broad frame shielding you from the world, one hand planted firmly beside your head as he kneels between your parted thighs. 

The sight of him above you, his polished amber eyes smoldering with want, makes your stomach flip.

Your hips tilt instinctively, seeking more, and the throbbing at your pussy grows insistent. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, the denim of his jeans rubbing tantalizingly against your inner thighs.

He doesn’t speak, but the tension in his jaw, the way his breath is ragged as his fingers find the waistband of your sleeping shorts, says everything.

You lift your hips to help him ease them off, the cool air brushing against your damp skin making you shiver. He undresses fully, and you watch in anticipation as he rids himself of his jeans.

The room is almost fully dark, shadows swallowing the details, but you feel the heat of his cock as it presses against your slick folds.

Your head falls back against the couch, a shaky moan escaping your lips. “Oh…” you whimper, thighs trembling as the blunt head of his length glides along your throbbing seam, gathering your arousal. 

The rough pads of his fingers slither down, brushing through the untamed curls at the apex of your thighs. Your upkeep has been the last thing on your mind, given the chaos of your life lately, but Javier doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t falter. If anything, the unfiltered, raw intimacy of it seems to spur him on.

He strokes your pussy gently, his touch reverent, as if every part of you is something to be savored.

The pearl of precum that leaks from the slit on his cock smears against your thigh as he brings his hand up, licking the tips of his fingers, tasting you. 

Your heady taste is an aphrodisiac that almost has him pouncing on you like a rabid dog.

There’s a glistening sheen of his spit on the pads of his digits as his hand descends again, sliding between your folds.

His touch is confident, and when he circles your clit with the calloused texture of his fingertips, the sensation hits you like a jolt of electricity, bending your back off the couch as his name tumbles from your lips.

“You ready?”

You nod eagerly, your hands reaching for him, pulling him closer. “I need you.”

He tries not to let those three simple words affect them as much as he knows they can. Instead, he adjusts, making sure you’re both comfortable, bringing you up onto his lap, steadying you by cradling your lower back in his large hand as you loop your arms around his shoulders.

Your thighs tighten at his waist as he aligns his dick at the mouth of your pussy, slowly sinking in, which has you shivering and him hissing out. 

You cling to his wide frame as he fills you completely. The world narrows down to nothing but the feel of his cock.

Having you in his arms feels like a paradox—so right and yet so wrong. It’s a storm of conflicting emotions that Javier barely has the bandwidth to process, but all those doubts dissolve with every inch of his length that slides into your wet, tight heat.

The feel of you gripping him so snugly makes his head tilt back slightly, lips parting with a soft groan.

The stretch is both foreign and delicious as your body adjusts to the thickness and size of him.

Your nails bite into the taut muscles of his shoulders, your breath catching in your throat before spilling out in a desperate, trembling moan as he buries himself into your body.

The subtle burn gives way to an irrepressible wave of pleasure when he begins to move, slow at first, testing your limits, before he finds a rhythm that has your head spinning.

“Javi,” you gasp, his name falling from your lips repeatedly as you hold onto him.

Your hips begin to move with his, grinding down in a desperate attempt to take him deeper, to feel every inch of him claiming you.

He groans as he leans forward, his forehead pressing against yours. The hand at your lower back moves up to sprawl at the middle, keeping you steady, as the other cups your ass and guides your movements to match his thrusts.

His head nudges yours, his silent request clear, and you pull back just enough for your mouths to collide in a messy, hungry embrace. His tongue slips past your lips, tangling with yours, the kiss as consuming as the rest of him.

Every powerful stroke of his hips wipes away the hollow ache that had rooted itself in your chest. In its place is a blissful sensation that threatens to engulf you.

You can feel the intensity of his passion in every thrust, every growled exhalation of your name, every flick of his tongue against yours.

Javier has a way of making the world disappear, of pulling you so completely into him that there’s no room for pain, for doubt, for anything but how good he’s fucking you. 

In his arms, with his body wrapped around yours and his cock filling you to the brim, you feel more than safe. You feel wanted. Protected. Cherished. Taken care of.

“Did you really mean it?” you whimper as your hips grind steadily against him, taking him entirely with every downward roll of your body.

Your fingers tangle in the soft curls at the nape of his neck, tugging slightly. The wet, obscene sound of your arousal meeting his cock fills the air, a symphony of lust underscoring your whispered question. “Do you actually love me?”

Javier groans, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as your walls flutter and squeeze around him. 

He doesn’t answer immediately, too lost in the sight of you—your furrowed brows, the sweat glistening on your skin, the way your lips part on every gasp and moan.

And you, despite being desperate for his assurance, can’t bring yourself to stop riding his dick.

I’ve killed for you, he thinks, but doesn’t dare say aloud. Instead, his rough voice finally breaks. “I do,” he rasps, his hands gripping your ass possessively, continuing to guide your pace as his strokes grow frantic. “So fuckin’ much. You’d never—shit— you’d never understand.” His mouth latches onto your collarbone, licking and biting with a feral need as if he could brand his love into your skin.

“Make me understand,” you demand in a breathy moan. Your pussy quivers as he adjusts his angle, his cock dragging against a spot inside you that evokes something new. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your head falling back, exposing the arch of your neck to his ravenous kisses.

The ecstasy isn’t just centered at your pussy anymore—it conquers your entire body, an all-encompassing euphoria.

Javier doesn’t waste time with more words. Where they fail him, his actions overcompensate.

In a blink, he shifts, pinning you beneath him on the couch. His hands slide under your thighs, hitching them high around his hips as he starts to thrust with unrelenting rhythm. The head of his cock feels like it’s brushing against your heart, making you cry out incoherently.

Each roll of his hips is a declaration, a confession. This is how much I love you. This is how much I need you.

“Oh my god,” you mewl when it starts feeling like too much. Your hands scramble for purchase, one landing on his cheek while the other claws at his back. Your eyes roll back, and sounds you didn’t even know you could make spill from your lips.

Javier’s face is tight with concentration, his brow pinched together, beads of sweat rolling down his temple. He leans in closer, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that’s as nasty and desperate as his love making.

You can taste the impending bliss on your tongue as your orgasm begins to crash over you. “I love you, Javier,” you moan, high pitched and sweetly.

Your declaration is his undoing. With a loud grunt, Javier pulls out swiftly, his fist wrapping around his cock as he pumps himself. His release comes in hot, thick spurts, painting your stomach as he shudders above you, hips jerking reflexively.

“God damn,” he mutters hoarsely as he collapses forward. His forehead rests against your chest, peppering kisses all over, as the two of you come down together, tangled and spent.

When he regains his composure, he moves off the couch, tugging his jeans on in a practiced, effortless motion before disappearing into the bathroom. You remain sprawled against the cushions, your body still humming from the pleasure he gave you.

A haze of contentment blankets you, leaving you feeling like a new woman. For the first time in weeks, the suffocating mass on your chest feels lighter—his touch, his presence, the way he fucked you—it all feels like a salve on your wounded spirit.

He returns swiftly, a damp, clean rag in hand. His movements are gentle as he crouches beside you, wiping away the sticky remnants of his release from your stomach.

The care in his actions is almost as endearing as the passion you just shared, and you find yourself watching him, entranced. The lines of exhaustion etched into his face don’t take away from how devastatingly handsome he looks in this moment.

It’s only when his hand brushes yours as he adjusts the rag that you notice the state of it—knuckles battered and scabbed over. You’d been too lost in the zeal of your coupling to notice, but now it has a pang of worry cutting through your post-coital haze.

“Javi, your hands—” you start, softly yet concerned. As you slowly sit up, a subtle twinge in your back reminds you just how thoroughly he’d fucked you into the couch. You grimace but press on, your brows knitting together as you reach for him.

Out of habit, he flexes his fingers, his lips tugging into something meant to be reassuring but doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he answers with a nonchalance that brushes off the concern in your voice.

Rising from his crouched position, he tosses the rag aside, going through the motions of lighting a cigarette. He sits beside you, pulling you close and wrapping the familiar, colorful quilt around both your bodies, blowing the smoke away from your face.

You don’t give up so easily. Curling into his lap, you nuzzle your nose against the crook of his neck, planting a featherlight kiss against the birthmark there. He smells like sex, tinged with the fading scent of his cologne.

Wordlessly, you reach for the arm around your shoulder, cradling his hand gently. You bring it to your lips, brushing them against his injured knuckles. Your eyes stay locked on his, the act full of care, as if you’re trying to kiss away the pain written in every crack and abrasion.

“It’s over,” He announces steadily, his words sinking like a stone dropped into water.

You blink at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

He pauses, taking another drag then licking his lips with a flick of his tongue. His gaze is fixed on where your fingers are still curled around his hand. “Mateo.” The name makes your body tense instinctively at the mention of it, and he brushes his thumb over the back of your hand in a soothing gesture. “The intention was to bring him in alive, but… he got caught in the crossfire.”

It’s a lie built on necessity and self-preservation, but a lie nonetheless. His dark eyes search your face, gauging your reaction. 

Your lips part slightly as you process what he’s just said: Mateo. Dead.

You can finally be in control of your own life again… good riddance, right? You should feel relief, maybe even vindication.

And yet, the feeling is muted, tangled up in something you can’t quite place. 

Is it the lingering haze of sleeping with Javier clouding your judgement? Or is it the unsettling knowledge that this death, even while deserved, will find a way to sneak back into your mind when you least expect it? Will it resurface in the future, leaving you grappling with emotions you don’t want to feel for a man who tried to have you killed?

You look up at Javi. His eyes are a deep, earthy brown of aged mahogany—steadfast, enduring, yet weathered by time and trials. You search them, hoping the steady intensity might offer you some clarity.

Instead, all you find is an intangible burden. What would it take, you wonder, to dim that tragic glint that eclipses his beautiful eyes?

Still, you nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “Good.” You tighten your grip on his hand, your smaller fingers pressing against his rougher, calloused ones. “Thank you.”

Javier’s molars grind together at your quiet gratitude. It’s like chewing glass, and he has to toke on the cigarette to ease the feeling. 

Would you still feel this way if you knew the truth? If you knew that Mateo’s death wasn’t just a convenient win, but a calculated decision with the help of bad men just like him.

Would you still be thankful then?

Your fingers slip from his hand to his cheek, tilting his face toward you. The softness in your touch undoes the tension at his jaw. “You don’t have to carry this alone,” you say quietly, like you’ve somehow caught onto the turmoil simmering beneath his stoic exterior. “Not with me.”

He closes his eyes briefly, leaning into your touch despite himself. You have no idea just how much shit he’s already hauling, how much he’ll never let you see. “You’re safe now,” is all he can bring himself to say, and it feels like both assurance and a deflection. “That’s all that matters.”

Javier stands in the lone office, his mind weighed with the heaviness of recent conversations. Stechner’s words reverberate like a stinging slap.

“For everything you know, you’re extremely naïve.”

The condescension was thornier than he wanted to admit, piercing through his frustration more sharply than the looming fallout.

He’s been fired. Reassigned. Whatever bureaucratic label they slapped on it.

The scandal of his ties with the vigilante squad has finally blown up in his face. By morning, he’ll be on a flight back to Laredo with nothing but his duffel bag and a bruised sense of self.

He should have seen it coming. Hell, he did see it coming, but he still walked straight into it, didn’t he?

This is what happens when you gamble with drug traffickers and criminals, people whose loyalties shift like sand.

Trusting them had been an obvious mistake. But trusting the U.S. government to have his back? That was downright foolish. Those assholes were playing their own games under the guise of diplomacy.

Stechner was right—he is naïve, thinking he could wrest something just out of this mess on his own terms. Justice could never be carved out of deceit and bloodshed.

There’s no victory to claim. Just dirtied hands and sleepless nights.

Well… it wasn’t all for nothing. There’s you. The one silver fucking lining in this entire shitshow.

But even that was about to collapse under the weight of his failures. He’d have to tell you. But how the hell could he look into your eyes and explain everything he’d done? The compromises, the lies, the violence he had incurred. 

That he’s leaving?

Javier drags a hand down his face, the lines on his brow deepening with each thought.

Disgust. That’s what he expects to see when he tells you. Maybe judgment, too. 

He knows himself too well. The moment he looks into your eyes, he’ll falter, take the coward’s way out and give you only half-truths wrapped in feeble excuses.

The clock ticks on the wall behind him, each second louder than the last, a metronome counting down to his own undoing. If he doesn’t get out of here soon, he’ll drown in his own misery and ruin the night before it even begins.

You have been looking forward to the New Year’s Eve party. The embassy’s farewell to another tumultuous year, held at some ritzy bar downtown.

Javier would have skipped it without a second thought if it were up to him. But you’d been excited, your eyes lighting up at the prospect of something normal, craving it, so he agreed to be your date.

The timing couldn’t be worse. The night should be about new beginnings, but all Javier can feel is the heaviness of his impending departure. And he has no idea when—or how—he’s going to find the words to say goodbye.

His body moves on autopilot until he’s standing outside your door, his hand clenching and unclenching at his side before rapping his knuckles against the wood.

The door swings open, and there you are—radiant, with that smile that could light up even the darkest corners of his life. It’s so warm, so genuine, it hurts more than it soothes him.

“Hey,” you greet cheerfully, stepping aside to let him in. “That was a lot quicker than I expected. Is everything okay?”

For a moment Javi hesitates, an explanation stuck in his throat. He crosses the threshold, shutting the door behind him.

His eyes sweep over you almost involuntarily as you turn and head back toward the bathroom. The skirt of your dress sways with each step, modest in length but criminal in how it hugs your figure. His gaze locks onto the swing of your hips, hungry and selfish, his feet moving as if tethered to yours.

“Everything’s fine.” The words come out clipped, his tone consciously flat. He doesn’t want to invite more questions, doesn’t want you to see through the cracks forming in his wavering facade.

You don’t press him, too preoccupied with the mirror, inspecting your makeup. You swipe another dab of blush across your cheeks, leaning in closer to scrutinize your reflection. “Too much?”

He stands in the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly filling the frame as he leans against it, watching you with an enamored look he doesn’t bother hiding. “Looks perfectly fine to me,” he replies gruffly, though he means it.

Things between you two have settled into uncharted waters. That night on his couch had been electric, a collision of want and need that left you both reeling. But since then, you’ve held back, keeping the boundaries undefined.

It’s not that you don’t want him—every time he’s near, your body remembers the way he felt inside you, the way he made you feel whole again.

However, there’s something he’s holding back, and you can feel it in the way his gaze lingers on you for too long. You've decided not to push, not while you’re still piecing yourself back together, taking cautious steps on your own journey of healing. 

Still, the love between you is undeniable. You feel it in the way he holds you at night, his arms firm yet tender as you drift off to sleep. It’s there in the softer timbre he uses when you talk over the phone while he’s stationed in Medellín. 

Even though you’re been back in your apartment now, every night he’s in the capital, he’s either at your place or you’re at his.

You’ve returned to work, and while it’s helped you settle back into a sense of normalcy, it doesn’t feel the same. 

The small routines you’ve fallen into do bring you comfort, despite the bigger questions that loom in the background. 

You find yourself wondering if it’s time to leave the clerical work behind and seek something greater, something that aligns with the new version of yourself you’re trying to uncover.

Then there’s the question of where you’ll go from here—literally. Colombia has become more than a temporary home, and you’ve realized there’s little waiting for you where you’re from. Truthfully, you could go anywhere. But do you want to?

The answer is clear: the only person you want to be with is standing in your hallway.

“Thanks for coming out with me to this. I know it’s not exactly your kind of night.” You glance at him over your shoulder, adjusting the last details of your appearance in the mirror. “Want a drink?”

“It’s not,” he concurs, his voice carrying a teasing lilt, “but there’s no way I’m letting you go out there alone looking this beautiful.” His gaze sweeps over you once more as he follows you back out into the living room, his flattery leaving no room for misunderstanding.

The compliment lands as intended and you feel the apples of your cheeks tingling warmly. “You’re sweet,” you murmur as you pour both of your drinks at the bar cart. 

A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the crackle of the record player in the corner, spinning a soft tune you both half recognize. For a moment, it feels easy. Natural.

When you turn back to him, you hold out his glass with a small, shy smile.

Should he tell you now? Get it over with and rip it off like a bandaid. But as you take a step closer, your voice breaches his spiraling thoughts.

“¿Estás seguro que todo está bien?” (Are you sure everything is alright?) You ask, your brows knitting with quiet concern.

His grip around the glass tightens slightly. He swallows the bitterness lodged in his throat, the words forming in his mind before dissolving into silence. Instead, he forces a half-smile, his tone turning light, almost flippant.

“De mí no te preocupes cariño,” (Don’t worry about me) he tells you softly. “Debemos celebrar el Año Nuevo sin ninguna mamada.” (We should celebrate the New Year without any bullshit)

You search his face, sensing the weight he’s trying to hide, but when his hand lifts to brush against your cheek, your resolve falters. The back of his knuckles are rough, calloused, but his touch is achingly gentle. You lean into him instinctively, your eyelashes fluttering as a sense of calm washes over you.

He’s right. Whatever weight he’s carrying, whatever darkness lingers behind his eyes, it can wait until tomorrow. Tonight is about enjoying the fleeting moments of joy.

“Okay.” When your eyes meet him again, there’s gentleness there, a silent agreement to leave the worries behind.

Javier tips his glass toward yours in a silent toast, a half smile pulling at his pouty lips. “Salud.”

“Salud,” you echo, clinking your glass against his.

From his spot at the bar, Javier’s eyes stay glued to you, the knot in his chest tightening with each laugh that escapes your glossed lips. You’re standing with a group of your coworkers, your head tilted back as you throw yourself into some joke he couldn’t hear.

The sound of a countdown filters through the bar, and the announcer’s voice booms that there are five minutes left until the new year.

As if on cue, you start making your way back to him, your expression alight with excitement.

“They’re setting off fireworks on the roof! We should get up there before it gets too crowded,” you suggest, the words spilling out with the eagerness of someone who’s had just enough to drink.

Javier nods, his lips twitching into a faint smile in one of those rare moments where his amusement is genuine and unguarded. He finishes the last sip of his drink, sliding off the barstool suavely. 

Before you can take more than a step, his arm loops around your waist, pulling you closer.

The haze of the drinks and his steady warmth make you feel like you’re walking on air as he guides you to the stairs leading to the rooftop.

When you step outside, the cool night air nips at your bare shoulders, making you shiver. You turn on your heel, already halfway to suggesting going back for your coat when Javier beats you to it.

“Just take mine,” he says, shrugging out of his leather jacket gallantly. He drapes it over your shoulders, the weight of it heavy but comforting, the potent scent of him wrapping around you like a second skin, making you giddy.

The sleeves fall far past your hands and you let out a contented laugh. “Gracias, Javi,” you angle yourself to press a kiss to his cheek.

With his hand in yours, you tug him toward the edge of the rooftop, where the city sprawls out below in a sea of twinkling lights.

“You know, despite all the violence and corruption, this country really is so beautiful.”

Javier doesn’t respond right away. His gaze shifts from the city to you, longingly. “Yeah,” he agrees in a raspy timbre, “it is.”

But his words aren’t meant for the city. They’re meant for you.

An eager, ill-timed firework crackles in the distance, a single streak of light exploding into a shower of gold and white over the skyline. 

“Look at that,” you whisper, the sound barely audible over the growing cheers and whistles of the crowd.

Javier doesn’t look at the fireworks. He can’t. His gaze is glued to you, the way the vibrant colors illuminate your features, casting you in a kaleidoscope of light. 

He’s memorizing everything about this moment: the tilt of your lips as you smile, the slight raise in your brow as you lose yourself in the spectacle, his jacket draped over your shoulders.

The countdown begins, voices around you picking up in excitement.

Ten… nine…

You glance up at him, your face glowing with the anticipation of a fresh start with the only person you want by your side. “Javi,” the way his name rolls off your tongue jabs at his crumbling walls.

Eight… seven…

He manages a fleeting smile, the corners of his mouth tugging upward despite the leaden weight of his turmoil on his back.

Six… five…

Your free hand comes up to rest lightly on his chest, your fingers brushing over the fabric of his shirt. “Thank you for being here.”

Four… three…

“Always,” he replies, even though it’s a lie.

Two… one…

You both lean in at the same time, as if pulled by some invisible thread. Your lips meet his in a kiss that feels as inevitable as the sunrise. It’s soft at first, tender and unhurried, but it shifts quickly, urgency fueling it.

The rooftop erupts in cheers as the first moments of the new year are ushered in with a thunderous cascade of fireworks. The sky is alive with bursts of red, white, gold.

For you, it feels like the perfect moment, the start of something good. You can’t imagine wanting anything else but this—him, here, now.

For Javier, it feels like a bittersweet end. Laced with his unspoken heartbreak, a desperate attempt to memorize the taste of your lips, the way your body fits so perfectly against his, before everything comes crashing down.

When you finally pull back, your cheeks are hot, your smile radiant as you look up at him. “Feliz Año Nuevo.”

He forces a smile, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Happy New Year, cariño.”

You surge forward again, the pull of him irresistible. Your hands cradle his jaw as your tongue teases against his bottom lip, a silent plea he answers without hesitation. His mouth parts, letting you in—hot and enthralling, making your toes curl in your heels.

His fingers slide lower, grabbing a possessive handful of your ass. A soft moan escapes you, muffled against his mouth, and your thighs instinctively press together, trying to quell the thrum of arousal beginning to pulse at your cunt.

“Take me home,” you whisper desperately as you break away, all shaky and breathless. Your eyes meet his dark and hooded ones, mirroring your own need.

For a second, Javier doesn’t move, caught in the crossfire of his own thoughts. But as he looks at you, sees the way, your pupils are blown wide with desire—any lingering hesitation crumbles.

“Let’s go.”

He leads you through the crowd, his broad shoulders parting the sea of people like he was made to shield you from the chaos.

Your pulse races, anticipation coiling tightly in your stomach as the fireworks continue to explode above, unnoticed by either of you.

You love how his weight settles over you, his hands traveling in hunger across every inch of your skin. The way you grind against him feels like second nature, your body responding to his every move with an unrelenting need. 

You hadn’t expected him to take his time like this, stretching out every moment of foreplay as if he’s trying to make it last forever.

It’s the third time tonight he’s taken you apart with his mouth, but this time, his fingers are joining in, plunging into your soaked heat while his tongue flicks over your clit in a rhythm that makes you see fireworks erupting against your vision.

Your legs tremble uncontrollably, your body twisting against the damp sheets as you struggle to stay present.

Javier’s tongue drags slow circles over your swollen nub before he sucks it into his mouth, the gentle pull sending sharp jolts down your spine. 

His fingers curl inside you, brushing against that devastating spot that has your back arching clean off the mattress.

“Javi!” you cry out, hips stuttering against his face as the wave of your climax crashes over you. His hooked nose presses against you as you fall apart.

He doesn’t stop. He’s utterly lost in you—your sweet headiness, the way your walls squeeze around his fingers. You have to yank hard on his hair to finally pull him away, your breath coming in shallow gasps as he looks up at you, mouth glistening with your release.

He licks his lips slowly, savoring every last bit. There’s a desperate intensity in his eyes, like his palate is memorizing the taste of you.

Javier kisses his way up your body, stopping to worship your breasts, his tongue and teeth teasing each peak until you’re squirming, your pussy continuously drooling for him.

When his lips finally crash against yours, it’s messy as he lets you taste yourself on his tongue.

Your hands roam over his broad back, tracing the curve of muscle and sinew, appreciating the feel of his skin against yours. You sigh softly, content to be pinned beneath him.

“Turn over. On your stomach.”

A shiver runs down your spine at the order, and though your body feels overwhelmed from his attention, you obey without hesitation. Your desire for him outweighs everything else.

Javier shifts back, giving you room to move. You reposition yourself, chest and stomach pressed flat against the mattress while your hips lift, aided by the pillow he slides beneath you.

The cool air kisses your exposed skin, and you hear him groan behind you—a deep sound that has your pussy clenching in anticipation.

“Tan hermosa,” he whispers hoarsely, his rough hands caressing your ass before delivering a playful smack that makes you gasp. The flesh jiggles under his touch, and he leans down to place a tender kiss on your shoulder, biting softly as he aligns himself behind you.

You feel the head of his cock drag through your folds, gathering the slick mess he’s drawn from you before pressing against your wet entrance. He pushes in slowly, the stretch making your mouth fall open in a silent cry.

“Javier,” you whimper, your fingers clutching the sheets as he fills you inch by inch.

The angle is devastating, reaching places you didn’t even know existed, and all you can do is hold on tight.

His strong thighs cage yours, while his broad frame looms over you, his toned arms braced on either side of your head. Each measured thrust sends his heavy balls slapping against your puffy, soaked clit.

“Puta madre, you’re so fuckin’ tight like this.” He lowers more of his weight onto you, pressing you further into the mattress, his thrusts growing more delirious.

The force of his movements pulls unrestrained moans from your lips, each one echoing with pure, unfiltered satisfaction.

Your trembling hands fumble over the sheets until they find his calloused palms pressing firmly into the sheets. 

Without hesitation, you intertwine your fingers with his, your softer touch setting off something feral inside him. He starts to pound into you, his hips snapping hard and fast as though the world outside this room doesn’t exist.

Your pussy clamps around on him in response, helplessly succumbing to his pace. Your hips instinctively try to push back against him but his weight over you, so dominant, keeps you in place, forcing you to take the entirety of his cock.

“I-I—” The words tumble out, but they’re incoherent, your mind too clouded with the way he breaks you open, your sex swallowing him in even deeper.

“Another one already? I should’ve taken care of you and this perfect pussy a long,” he thrusts hard, “time,” another sharp snap of his hips, “ago.”

“Ah!” you shriek, your nails digging into his hands where your fingers remain entwined, your vision crossing as he hits that spot inside you that flares your orgasm. “Just like that. Don’t stop, Javi.”

He doesn’t falter nor considers easing up, inducing another wave of stickiness from your cunt.

The obscene sounds of your bodies meeting—wet and raw—fill the room, punctuated by the shameless cries spilling from your throat. Your climax slams into you with breathtaking intensity, your pussy spasming and gripping him so tightly, it pulls a scratchy groan from his lips.

Javier finally stills, buried to the hilt, letting you ride out the aftershocks as your shaking body collapses beneath him. He peppers soft kisses across your damp shoulders and down your spine, his mustache bristling deliciously against your skin.

When his lips find the curve of your neck, he lingers, licking at the delicate flesh there as though he can’t get enough of you.

Four orgasms in, your body feels utterly spent, your thighs trembling as the weight of exhaustion begins to set in. You turn your head, your voice soft as you murmur, “Javi.”

He lifts his head, his eyes searching yours with concern. “You okay?”

“Mhm,” you hum, a lazy smile curling at your lips. “Just… hold me.”

His chest rises and falls with a staggered breath, the weight of his departure lingers like a shadow over the moment, threatening to sour it. But he pushes it away.

He pulls out of you slowly, the wet slide drawing a hushed whimper from your lips. He rolls onto his side, gathering you into his arms and tucking you against his chest. His still-hard cock, satiny and heavy, presses against your stomach, impossible to ignore.

You glance up at him, fingers trailing down his sternum toward his length. “Do you want me to…?”

He catches your wrist gently, stopping you. “No. Not yet.”

You hum your understanding, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. His arms tighten around you, his lips brushing the top of your head as the two of you settle into a lull of lazy, unhurried affection.

Kisses are exchanged between whispered words, hands mapping the planes of the other’s body.

Everything about him is so damn addictive. 

The lust that simmers reignites, pulling you under its spell, and this time, you don’t wait for permission. Your palm wraps firmly around his cock, tugging him languidly.

Javier’s lashes flutter, his head falling back slightly, exposing the strong line of his throat. A low sound escapes him as his hips move instinctively to match your strokes. “Fuck,” he groans, strained, “Así mero.” (Just like that)

Your thumb brushes over the bead of precum glistening at his tip, smearing it down his length, making him shudder. His jaw tightens, a muscle in his cheek twitching.

The whisper of his name is laced with need as your lips trace his neck. “I need you again.”

He hooks one of your legs over his hip, the other tangled with his in a side-styled missionary, your bodies pressed so tightly together that you can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your breasts.

Your pussy lips part open, eager for him, and the anticipation buzzes through your body. You guide him where you need him and he lets his hips take over, the thick, spongy tip sinking into you until he’s fully seated.

A gasp escapes your lips as he starts to move, slow and purposeful.

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he keeps them hidden, burying his face against your throat, engulfing you in his arms entirely.

The thought of losing you cleaves at him, and a desperate idea flits through his mind—if he could just open up, let you see the broken pieces of himself, maybe you’d understand. Maybe you’d come with him to Laredo, let him show you, and himself, the quiet beauty of a life together on his family ranch.

The fantasy swells in his chest, making his thrusts grow more passionate. His teeth sink into the curve of your shoulder, almost enough to hurt.

You’re barely human anymore, lost in the voracious sensation of his cock stretching and filling you; just a mass of feverish energy.

Your fingers dig into his back, nails raking across his sweat-slicked skin as you cling to him, completely uncaring of the sticky warmth where your bodies connect or the thick scent of sex that permeates the air.

“Oh god, Javier,” you cry out, your voice breaking on a moan as you tilt your head back. “Keep doing that—oh my god—I love you.”

Your words are a jolt to his system, breaking down every defense he has left. He groans your name as his mouth trails up your throat, leaving a broad stripe of his tongue in its wake before nipping gently at your jaw.

“Say it again,” he breathes heavily as his hips grind deeper, the motion pulling an uncontrolled cry from you, your body jolting against his.

“I love you,” you babble as his movements turn rougher, more desperate.

He presses his forehead to yours, his gaze dark and wanton. “Kiss me,” he rasps.

You obey without hesitation, your lips finding his in a feverish clash of need and devotion.

Tongues tangle and teeth graze as if you’re trying to devour each other, your bodies writhing, desperate to become one.

“Where do you want it?” Javi grits out, hovering on the edge of his release. His chest heaves, feeling your nipples brushing his skin while his muscles turn taut as he tries to hold himself back for your answer.

You’re quivering from the aftermath of what feels like your fifth orgasm, maybe sixth—you’ve lost count.

Your mind is hazy, clouded with exhaustion and bliss, that his question barely registers. Your fingers clutch at his forearms, nails leaving crescent moons in his skin as you look up at him.

You manage a soft pout with trembling lips. “Inside,” You need it badly, your pussy instinctively clenching around his cock at the prospect of him filling you. Then, with more desperation, you plead. “Please, Javi.”

The way your lips purse, the edge of tears in your voice have his instincts taking over. A greedy, lustful desire too overpowering to resist.

He has to give you what you’re begging for.

“Fuck,” Javi groans, his head dropping against your shoulder, his voice muffled as curses and ragged breaths spill from his lips. He finishes inside of you in hot, shuddering waves.

The heat of his cum stuffing you has a blissful mewl escaping your lips. Your pussy insatiably holding onto every drop, milking him as though your body can’t bear to let him go.

He remains there, his cock twitching inside as the both of you ride out the ecstasy.

Javi makes no move to pull out, instead his arms wrap around you tightly, holding you close as his spend drips out around his cock and down to his balls.

Time feels like it bends and stretches, the minutes melting into hours as you lose yourselves in each other.

You fuck, you make out, you touch each other so tenderly that you’re certain you somehow managed to retrieve a slice of heaven right here in your bedroom.

The night gives way to the distant glow of dawn. The room is bathed in a soft, golden light as the sun peeks over the horizon.

You’re both exhausted, your bodies aching from the endless push and pull of pleasure, yet neither of you seems willing to stop.

Javier hovers above you, half lidded gaze locked with yours. Your legs are loosely wrapped around his middle while his hips move suavely. 

“Just one more,” he’s practically begging as those brown eyes of his bore into yours. He just needs one more. “You can do it, pretty girl. I know you can. Been doin’ so good all night.”

His lips finally find yours in an ardent kiss, swallowing your moans as your body tightens around him yet again. You’re lost in all he’s given you, your world spinning as your final orgasm tears through you.

He follows shortly after, his hand wrapped around your jaw as he holds you steady while he pumps you full of his cum.

Javi turns gentle as he plants sweet kisses on your forehead, your nose, your lips. He caresses your thighs then up your side as your breathing slows.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. Just relax.”

He continues to knead and fondle, murmuring soft praises until you’re completely at ease, melting into him.

You’re drifting toward sleep, limbs heavy and utterly spent, your body glowing in the soft light of early morning. The faint sheen of sweat glistens on your skin, catching rays as they filter through the curtains.

Javier leans against the headboard, eyes tracing the length of your body beneath the sheets. The serenity in your expression tugs at a longing so profound, it’s painful. When his gaze flicks to the alarm clock on the bedside table, the time glares at him in bold red numbers.

His flight boards in a little over three hours.

The lump in his throat swells, a heavy, choking pressure that makes it feel like it’s going to explode and rupture his neck. He prays you can’t feel the way his heart beats erratically or how his body seems to radiate a fever level temperature as the anxiety settles in. 

Fuck.

He moves slowly, not wanting to wake you. Carefully, he shifts your body, rolling you to your side. You’re so pliant, so exhausted that you murmur something unintelligible before nuzzling into the pillow. 

He hesitates, watching as your breathing deepens again.

His jeans are tugged on first, the soft rustle of fabric barely audible in the quiet room. He doesn’t bother buttoning his shirt, draping it over his shoulders as he moves around, collecting his belongings. 

Maybe this is the cleanest way, he thinks bitterly. To just leave. Slip out before the inevitable fallout. You’ll hate him either way—better to make a quick exit than to sit through the heartbreak, to explain the compromised morals that led him here.

But as he tugs his boot on, you stir. Your arm stretches across the empty space where he once was, craving his warmth. When you feel nothing, you open your eyes, squinting against the pale light.

“Javi?” You call out drowsily and a little confused.

For a moment, he considers staying silent, waiting to see if you’ll fall back into slumber. But then you sit up slowly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes with the heel of your hand.

You don’t care about the mascara smudged beneath your lashes or the eyeliner smearing your waterline. All you care about is the sight of him standing there, half-dressed, looking like he’s about to bolt.

“Why are you getting dressed?”

Javier licks his teeth, buying time he doesn’t have. His fingers flexing as if searching for something to hold onto. You catch the pained set of his jaw.

“I’m leaving.”

You blink, slow and disbelieving, as if the action will somehow help you make sense of what he just said. “Leaving? Where are you going?”

“To the airport.”

“Airport?” You’re more awake now, moving to the edge of the bed and reaching under where your robe lies in a heap.

The soreness in your muscles makes you wince as you bend to grab it, slipping it on as you stand. Your legs are wobbly, the remnants of the all nighter making themselves known. “Why? Did you get called back to Medellín?”

Javier watches you silently, his teeth grinding when you walk to him, your expression expectant and confused.

“I’m going back to Texas,” he finally answers.

“Texas?” The frown on your face deepens. “Is your dad okay?”

For you to assume his departure is over his father’s wellbeing somehow makes this worse. His lips press into a thin line, eyes darting away. “He’s fine.”

“Then why are you—” You pause, exhaling sharply, exasperation bubbling at his curt replies. You hate when he gets like this. You figured you’d be past it now.“Why are you going back?”

He struggles to form but a few words at a time. “I got suspended,” he tells you. “Indefinitely. Flight’s out at nine.”

The room falls silent. That’s the last thing you expected to hear.

“How long have you known?”

“Found out this afternoon.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You glare at him. “You were just going to leave without saying anything?” That hurts.

“I didn’t want to ruin your night. I was trying to make it easier.” He stupidly answers.

“Easier?” Your voice rises slightly, incredulous. “Sneaking out after spending all night with me makes this easier? For who, Javi? You or me?”

His expression blazes with guilt. “You don’t understand what this is—what I’m trying to… protect you from.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” you fire back, your hands trembling as you tuck them into the pockets of your robe to keep from reaching for him. “You tell me that you love me and give me all these empty promises only to sneak out after you’ve fucked me.” He winces. “What are you protecting me from now? From you? From us?”

Javier’s nostrils flare, his breathing ragged. Every point you make is so valid and it crushes him. “From the mess I’ve made.”

“Then tell me what the hell happened.” You can’t help him if you don’t know what’s killing him. “Be direct. Stop shutting me out and just talk to me! I deserve that much.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to deflect again, to retreat into the same cagey silence. But then he exhales sharply, like the words are being dragged out of him against his will.

“I killed him.”

The simplicity of it leaves you puzzled. “Who?”

“Mateo.”

Your chest tightens, trying to recall what he’s already told you about the other’s demise. “You said he died in the crossfire—”

“I lied.” The admission lands with the force of a hit, and Javier’s eyes meet yours, pleading for understanding but knowing it’s a futile hope. “I found him. Holed up in Cartagena. I dragged him out myself. Took him to a warehouse.” He grows quieter with each word, but the confession barrels forward. “I beat him. Then I emptied the entire clip into his body.”

The room goes deathly still, the echoes of his words lingering in the air. Even the rhythm of your breathing slows, like your body needs time to process what you’ve just heard.

“You… you dragged him out,” you repeat, as if saying it again might change its meaning. “You took him to a warehouse.”

He nods once, a sharp, curt motion, feeling as if he’s watching this outside of himself.

“And you—” The words burn in your throat. “You killed him. Like that. You… tortured him.”

“I had to.” The anguish bleeds through his words.

Had to.

It feels like the ground has just given out beneath you. Your lips part, but no words come. You’re staring at him like you’re seeing someone entirely different.

“Had to?” you can’t help but parrot, the excuse tastes bitter on your tongue. “Why couldn’t you just arrest him?” Mateo deserved all his suffering, sure, but it wasn’t up to Javier to enact it as so.

You’d made peace with the idea of his death when you thought it happened in the chaos of a raid. But this? This is something else entirely.

“It’s not that simple,” he tries, his voice rigid with frustration, but it feels like an insult to your intelligence. 

“Is this why you got fired? Because they found out you killed him?”

Another pause. His hesitation only stokes the fire burning in your chest.

“No.”

Now you’re spiraling, your mind racing to conjure something worse than killing a man that could’ve cost him his career.

You take a step closer, toe to toe now, your robe hanging loosely off your frame, his shirt still unbuttoned and exposing his chest. It’s hard to believe you were just entwined in carnal bliss. “What did you do, Javier?”

There’s so much hurt laced in your question, it’s a wonder the room doesn’t shatter around you. He looks away, his lips rubbing absentmindedly, mustache twitching as he struggles to form a response.

“I cooperated with them,” his confession feels jagged. “The cartels. The paramilitary assholes. Get Escobar—that was the goal.”

Your legs move on instinct, a shaky step backward, and Javier follows reflexively, his hand half-reaching for you before he thinks better of it. His presence only makes it worse, his body too close, his words too loud in your ears.

It’s like every fear wrapped into one devastating realization. After everything you went through—after the pain he watched you try to claw your way back from—he still went out there, trading his soul for deals made in blood.

“You knew what they did to me,” disappointment strings your words together, and while you understand that it wasn’t the same men who jumped you—they are all still cut from the same cloth. “You saw what they took from me, and you still…”

“There wasn’t another way,” he insists, desperate now, the plea in his eyes almost unbearable to look at. “I did what I had to do to bring him down.”

“There’s always another way!” You yell, the words ripping from your throat like they’re trying to drag the hurt out of you with them. “But you didn’t care. Not about the innocent people they killed or the lives they ruined.”

His face twists in anguish, as if he hadn’t been beating himself up for all the civilians that became casualties, but you don’t stop. The distress boils over, spilling out of you in a torrent. “The job always takes priority. Above everything—above everyone.”

Your hands act on their own, shoving at his chest as if the force could make him feel even an ounce of the pain you’re carrying. Javier doesn’t resist. He lets you push him, lets your palms land against him over and over, taking it all because he knows he deserves it.

“How am I supposed to look at you the same?” You demand, tears streaming freely down your face now, each one a testament to the betrayal sinking its claws into you. You shove him again, harder this time, backing him toward the living room. “How am I supposed to trust you when you’ve been lying to me this whole time?”

His own eyes glisten, cheek tensing in distress, but he doesn’t say a word because he can’t.

“You’re no better, Javier. You’re just like them.”

You begin to get flashbacks of your confrontation with Mateo. His callous words echo in your head, overlapping with Javier’s explanations. The two begin to blur together, their justifications eerily aligned, like different faces of the same haunting coin.

“This world isn’t all black and white like you think it is. People like me—we do what we have to, to survive.”

You stare at him, and for a moment, he’s not the man you love anymore. He’s another wraith from the nightmare you barely escaped.

“I know.”

He’s such a self-aware asshole, and it makes you livid. The way he stands there, bracing himself like he knows he deserves everything you’re throwing at him—like he’s already written himself off as the villain in this story. It’s infuriating.

The morning light streams in through the windows, slicing across the room in uneven beams. It’s amplifying everything: every emotion, every movement, every goddamn look he gives you as you stand off in the middle of the living room.

“Despite it all… you still found the time to fuck me. And I let you.”

You can feel the fire licking up your neck, but it’s not from embarrassment—it’s from the sting of humiliation. How you let yourself be fooled twice by two different men. 

You tighten your robe around you, the soft fabric suddenly feeling like sandpaper against your skin. Everything feels wrong now.

He watches you, his expression etched with guilt for making you question your worth. Despite it, he doesn’t regret taking you to bed.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” you continue, more to yourself than to him, carrying anger and self-loathing. “For trusting you again. For ignoring every single red flag you waved in my face. You weren’t just a shitty friend, Javi. You were a walking disaster, and I still let you back in.”

He flinches, but it’s not enough. You want him to feel it, to feel the way your heart aches and how your trust, fragile and carefully rebuilt, crumbles to dust at your feet.

“You should’ve stayed gone,” you state with another shove, forcing him closer to the front door. He continues to comply, stumbling backwards in silence, letting you release it all.

“If you cared about me at all, you would’ve stayed away. You just had to come back, had to get your hands on me again. And I was so desperate—so fucking desperate to believe you’d be different.”

You laugh tearfully, hands falling to your sides as you stand in the short hallway that leads to the entrance. “But you’re not different. You’re just a man with nothing but a big ego that’s drowning in his own penitence.”

He swallows hard, your words reverberating with the sickening truth and he wills himself to speak.

“Nothing was getting done,” Javi begins, the weariness of it all finally breaking him. “No one fucking cared. That motherfucker kept killing people, bombing the streets all while getting richer and untouchable. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I worked, it wasn’t enough. And then—” His voice tapers, gaze dropping for just a moment before moving back to yours.

“And then you got hurt. That was one thing I could fix. I could right the wrong, make you feel safer. I did it for you!”

“For me?” You scoff out a doubting laugh. “So, what, you decided you’d be judge, jury, and executioner? You think killing him—brutally, no less—makes any of it better? That it erases what he did to me?”

“It was a start—”

“You didn’t do this for me, Javier,” you cut him off, your voice teetering with fury and hurt. “You did it for you. To ease your guilt, to feel like you had control.”

His breathing grows ragged, his hands trembling at his sides. “You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to get so fucking lost I couldn’t tell the good guys from the bad anymore? I did what I had to do!”

“Stop saying that!” 

“I don’t know how else to fix this,” he fires back.

“And I don’t know how to believe you,” you whisper, the fight draining from your voice as tears spill freely down your cheeks. “All you do is hurt me, Javi.”

Javier steps back, his shoulders slumping, his entire frame caving in. Desperation flickers in his eyes as he reaches for the only card he has left to play—the last, sapped attempt to salvage what little remains.

 “I’m sorry,” he breathes, though it’s barely audible. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your body freezes when he gets closer. His large hands tremble slightly as they cup your face.

“I never wanted to hurt you. Te amo.” He murmurs, his voice soft and pained as his forehead presses against yours. His lips brush yours, and it sends a jolt through your body, a cruel reminder of all the ways he’s managed to slither his way back into your heart and mind. 

Your lips quiver, salty wet trails streaking your cheeks. “No,” you whisper, shaking your head and pushing against his chest, your palms meeting his bare skin where his shirt falls open. You manage to break away, the distance between you offering only the barest reprieve.

But Javier doesn’t stop. He steps forward again, crowding you, his desperation palpable. “Please, cariño,” he implores. “I love you. I need you to know that. I’m sorry—so sorry.” The words tumble out of him in a desperate loop, growing more frantic each time, as if sheer repetition might somehow undo the damage. 

And fuck do you hear the genuine ache there, but it doesn’t matter. You’ve heard it all before—the apologies, the promises, the declarations. None of it fixes this. 

Despite your actions, your body betrays you. Even as you try to shove him away, you feel the magnetic pull, the infuriating draw that keeps you tangled in his orbit. It’s a push and pull, your hands shoving at his chest while your heart screams at you to stop.

And you hate him for it. For the way he makes you feel. For the way his arms still feel like home even as your love for him falls apart.

“All I hear is excuses. Like always. Get off me, Javier.” Your voice shakes, but the resolve in it is ironclad, each word laced with finality. You swallow back your sobs, forcing yourself to sound strong—for him, for yourself. He hears it too; the end is in your tone. You’re done.

His hands linger on your waist for a moment longer, the satin of your robe bunched helplessly in his grasp. Reluctantly, he lets go, his back brushing against the doorknob as if the exit is pushing him to leave.

Javier’s gaze lingers over you one last time, absorbing every detail like a man cataloging his losses.

The swollen redness of your eyes and how you seem to fold into yourself as if shielding your heart from further harm. Because of him. The betrayal etched deep into your expression cuts deeper than any wound he’s ever felt. Because of him. It all screams painful vulnerability, lowered self-esteem you didn’t have before.

All he’s done is hurt you. Him and his inability to separate his good intentions from his devastating habits. Him and his selfishness, pursuing you when he knew better.

Now you get a good look at him: disheveled, bags shadowing his weary eyes, faint bruises staining his jawline, his heaving chest exposed and slick with the sweat of desperation.

You both stand in silence, weighed down by words unspoken because there’s nothing left to say. The air between you is charged with the knowledge that you despise what he’s become.

He reaches for the door and opens it, the sound of the bolt sliding back loud in the tense silence.

Time marches on, indifferent to your heartbreak, and Javier hesitates, his boots heavy as they meet the threshold.

Gathering every ounce of strength left in you, you find your voice. “Please leave… and don’t come back.”

Your voice prompts him, cold and resolute, and it takes everything in him to obey. He steps out, the apartment door left wide open behind him.

He turns, desperate for one last look, the soft daylight framing him like a man on the edge of a cliff. “I love you.”

You grip the edge of the door, willing yourself not to fall apart further. “Not anymore,” you whisper, venom interwoven through the statement. “Never again.”

And with that, you shut the door in his face, turning the lock with trembling hands.

The weight of it all crashes over you now that you’re alone and you stumble back, collapsing right there on the floor. You bury your face in the crook of your elbow to muffle the sobs racking your body as you begin to mourn the loss of the man you loved.

On the other side of the door, Javier stands frozen, the loss sinking into his bones. The worn numbers of your apartment stare back at him, mocking him with their permanence.

He blinks slowly, a single tear leaking from his eye as his fingers brushing the wood one last time before he turns away, dragging his feet next door, knowing that he’s lost you forever.

Months later, you receive a letter.

The envelope is creased and smudged, the handwriting unmistakably his—slanted, hurried, like he couldn’t get the words down fast enough. You almost toss it, but that small, unhealed part in your heart with his name carved on it keeps you from doing so.

I’m sorry. For everything. I think about you every day, and I know I have no right to, but I do. I hope you’re happy. You deserve that much…

You read it over and over until the words blur.

You never write back. There’s no reason to.

Some love stories don’t end with a clean break or a tidy resolution. Some just… linger, like a wound that scabs over but never truly heals.

And that’s what you and Javier become: a scar, a memory that neither of you can fully let go of, no matter how hard you try.

tag list for my works can be found here, so if you're interested— pls check it out 🖤

🏷️ : @almostempty . @auteurdelabre . @thundermartini . @miss-oranje-disco-dancer . @pepperstories . @greenwitchfromthewoods . @maiamore . @pedrohoe04 . @natalieispunk . @thewisesalmon . @bitchesuntitled . @puddles221b . @swankyorange . @bbyanarchist . @thottiewinemom . @heyhihello-4771 . @danaehldy . @sunflowerfive . @libre-sol . @harriedandharassed . @untamedheart81 . @moel-jiller . @honeyedmiller . @alexxavicry . @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff . @almodovarispunk . @southernbe . @readingiskeepingmegoing . @pedrito-is-punk7 . @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal . @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 . @lover-of-books-and-tea . @mysterious-moonstruck-musings . @almostfoxglove . @pigeonmama . @piercethevic03 . @marisemonteiroo . @picketniffler . @getitoutofmymindwrites . @penascigarette . @bunniboo0015 . @kirsteng42 . @ivuravix . @joelmillerisapunk . @theestorm . @pasc4lfuzz . @biapascal .

[aventurineswife]

helos fre :3 random but any thoughts on self aware hsr 🙏🙏 ngl it's absolute peak to me cuz the fics I've read about it is so good I wanna digest it into my blood cells 😍🥰🥰/hj /lh

AHHHH I HAVE FEW BUT ITS PROBABLY NOT GOOD 😭🙏 (I might need to write a series about it in the future lmaoo)

The Express itself, and the crew aboard it, start referencing an "observer" that influences their journey. They might leave cryptic remarks like, "We wouldn’t have made it here without a guiding force…" or, "Are you out there, watching us?"

Himeko and Welt have deep discussions about the metaphysical implications of being part of a "game." Welt's past in other dimensions makes him particularly reflective.

Occasionally, your Trailblazer might break the fourth wall and stare directly "out" of the screen. They’d ask questions like, "Why are you helping us? What’s in it for you?" Or even, "Do you think you’re doing the right thing?"

Their dialogue changes subtly depending on your in-game decisions, showing that they’re paying attention.

Kafka is one of the few who seems fully aware that you’re pulling the strings. She might tease, "How long will you keep playing this game? Or is it playing you?" It’s unclear if she means it literally or as a metaphor.

Pela starts digging into the concept of "higher dimensions" where powerful entities (like the players) influence their world. You might find hidden journal entries speculating about the possibility of unseen forces guiding their lives.

Characters start commenting on how often you farm the same materials or run the same domains (?). For instance, Dan Heng might say, "You’ve had me fight this exact enemy over fifty times… What are you preparing for?"

When summoning characters, some of them might react to being "chosen." For example: Silver Wolf might say, "Took you long enough. Were you saving for someone else?" While Seele could mutter, "You really wanted me, didn’t you?"

As beings tied to the metaphysical order of the universe, the Aeons might perceive your existence. Xianzhou scholars hypothesize that you are an entity akin to an Aeon of "Control" or "Fate."

The Stellaron within the Trailblazer seems to have an awareness of you, treating you like an ally—or a potential threat. It might whisper cryptic messages about your choices or consequences.

Herta becomes suspicious of the odd behaviors in the universe and starts referring to you as a "prime variable." She might even try to communicate directly through simulated events, asking for your cooperation.

Some characters, like March 7th or Natasha, might express gratitude for your care and attention. "You always bring me along… Do you think I’m special?" they might ask, breaking the fourth wall.

Certain antagonists, like Cocolia or Jade, might break from their usual dialogue to challenge your decisions. "You think you’re the hero? You’re just another player, aren’t you?"

A secret cutscene or dialogue could play if you act in unexpected ways, revealing that the characters have fully realized their reality. It could be bittersweet, with them either embracing or lamenting their lack of agency.

Aventurine might acknowledge your influence subtly. After completing a mission for the IPC, he sends a message: "Noticed your knack for efficiency. You deserve a little bonus for all the extra effort you 'inspire.' Don’t let it go to your head." He attaches an unusually large amount of credits, as though recognizing you directly for optimizing his profits.

Argenti might kneel before the screen during a heartfelt moment (or after a battle): "O noble guide, it is your divine hand that shapes my path! I dedicate my blade not just to the people, but to you. May your will continue to shine upon us!" He also gifts you rare items or sends messages of gratitude, as though you're a divine figure he serves.

AHHH I wanna write fics for certain characters or something (this could also lead to yandere themes depending if the person/anon reqs for it).

[hollowed-theory-hall]

I'm writing my first fic, so are there any tips to write Harry so I don't Butcher his character, lol

Like, I can try and give advice, but writing is such a personal journey, and it can work very differently for every writer. Like, what works for me and helps me to stick to his character might not work for you.

What I can tell you is that the first HP fic I ever wrote had a Harry I will now consider OOC.

It's not the worst I've seen, but I know I'm better at it now than 4 years ago when I wrote that story because I know him better, and I became a better writer. But that first story has an OOC Harry, an OOC Voldemort, and, well, a lot of other characters are OOC there, too. I'm pretty sure Sirius is the only one I consider somewhat in-character in that story, lol.

I can explain what I do, which again might not work for you. The only way you'd know what does work for you is if you try different methods, experiment, and learn. Becouse if you know what you're doing and you're a good enough writer, there aren't a lot of rules you can't break or characterization you can't pull off. And to become a good writer there is no way other than writing. And reading. A lot.

You just gotta start writing and figure out what methods work for you to get the characters the way you envision them.

Also, please remember fanfic is supposed to be fun. I might be super picky about Harry's characterization, but I promise you there are a lot of readers who aren't and would be happy to read a good story even if Harry isn't characterized perfectly. As I said, I wrote some bad OOC fic in my life (40+ bad wips that would never see the light of day). These bad fics were necessary so I could get good. Becouse to get good, you need to start somewhere. So, as I said, write, don't be scared of making mistakes, figure out what works for you, and trial and error your way to victory.

That being said, this is my list of what I do to write any character consistently and in character, not just Harry, (and some writing advice in general, really):

1. Get the mannerism right

What I mean by that is that characters, like human beings, are capable of a lot under the right circumstances. When writing a fic a character isn't going to stay the same as in canon if their situation changes, so I find it more useful to think of how characters do/say things rather than what they do. Basically, any character can do anything and it would feel in character if the circumstances and how they go about it make sense.

For me, I know dialogue is one of my strengths as a writer, and I put effort into learning characters' dialects and speech patterns. Harry would use the word "bloke" and not "guy". He never uses "Bloody hell" or "Blimey". Harry's swears are often censored from the books, so I take it Harry says "fuck" or "sodding hell". When he thinks mid-sentence he says "er..." often. Harry, in general, doesn't speak as often as Ron or Hermione.

Ron, on the other hand, says "bloody hell" and "Blimey" often. He also says "mate" a lot. Hermione rarely shortens words. Often in the books, she would say "we are" rather than "we're" and is generally more formal in her speech. She also uses more words than both boys to get the same point across.

All these little patterns of speech add a lot to the characters feeling like themselves. The choice of words matters more than what they're actually saying, a lot of times. The what can be heavily influenced by the circumstances but the how should be familiar.

Let's take a reaction of surprise to the same good thing happening:

"Blimey, I can't believe it," said Ron, grinning from ear to ear.

"Oh, that's wonderful," Hermione said, smiling and turning to Ron and Harry, "You can see this too, right?"

"That's brilliant," said Harry, grinning at the sight of [thing].

So, these sorts of details just add a lot to characterization and I find that if you can pull the voice and mannerisms off, you can pull off almost any actions, and the character would feel in character as long as it's not outrageous.

2. "Character Bible"

I usually have a little "character bible" which is like 6-10 commandments of how the character needs to behave (key personality traits and behavior), and when I'm editing, I go back to it. What you choose to put in your "character bible" can change depending on what matters to you more as a writer. For Harry, my character bible is something like this:

Says more in his head than outside his head.

Snarks back when threatened, hot-headed when in emotional distress, doesn't say anything if it's a possibility (unless he likes who he's talking to).

Wit. Wit. Wit. (add witty remarks in narration or dialogue if the opportunity arises. Sarcastic humor is good for Harry's narration).

Very talented and smart, very low self-worth

Awkward, but no one but him knows this

"I won't!" (He does not do well with authority or direct orders. The quote is from GoF when he resists the imperious curse)

Trust issues galore (he doesn't really trust anybody besides Sirius. Only in HBP does he start to tell Ron and Hermione everything).

Selectively observant (Harry observes what he cares about. If he doesn't care, it might as well not have been there) and super judgmental in his narration.

Wants to be left alone and be content and safe.

3. Edit.

I'm sorry to say it, but reading through your own writing again and again and fixing it up every time helps so much. After I finish writing a chapter I take a break to go to bed and then come back the next day and reread the chapter with new eyes and correct everything that seems out of character, any phrasing that feels awkward, spelling and grammar errors if I notice them. But this first go-through immediately after is mostly for characterization, voice, and plot.

In general, during a first draft, your goal is to get it written, making it good is what editing is for. That's why my mantra during the process of writing the first draft is: "I'll fix it in post".

4. Let the character take the wheel

This is more specific to my own writing method, but, you know how there are method actors? So I'm a method writer. Sorta, I'm half-joking.

What I mean by this, is that I get to know a character by writing them (a lot) and then I don't really need to think about it. Like, I just write what feels right to the character. Like, whenever I'm unsure about a scene, I'd go: "Harry take the wheel" and just type what the character thinks, in my mind. It's kind of hard to explain, but it's sort of discovery writing in small limited doses, essentially. I sort of let the character take over for the scene. Like I'm not writing the story, just typing it. Kinda like demonic possession, just, not.

I know it's not really the characters and that I'm writing it, I just find this process hard to explain. When you write a character a lot and often, you can become capable of writing them naturally. Almost like breathing. Like writing your own narration, except, it isn't. But it takes effort to get to this point.

Again, this won't necessarily work for everyone, but it's what I found works for me.

5. Unsure? Open the books

The books exist and if you're unsure how Harry would react to something, just, check. I have an ebook version of GoF open when I'm writing my fic, which takes place in GoF. So, if I'm unsure how Harry would phrase something or react to something, I just check.

6. Get a Beta Reader

My best advice though, is to find a fandom friend to beta read for you, someone you trust to tell you if you're writing OOC and help you fix it (preferably they would also be a writer). Becouse sometimes you don't see it yourself after you just wrote it. My beta for my fic also helped me write my novel, and she knows me as a writer, I know her as a writer, and she knows what sort of things she needs to pay attention to in my writing and vice versa.

That first OOC fic I mentioned? I let her read it, and she told me that the pacing is crap and Harry is acting off (in nicer words, she was very polite about it, but that's what she meant). And that sort of feedback is invaluable for improving and I'm incredibly grateful to her.

Sometimes, you need to hear the truth, even when it's unpleasant, that's how growth happens.

(Now she practically never comments on characterization or pacing, improvement!)

7. Perfect is the enemy of good

I don't think my characterization of Harry is perfect. I don't think my writing is perfect. Whenever I go back to edit, I always find more stuff to fix. But there is a point where you gotta stop fixing it and just post it. Because you'll never know how it will go if you don't do it.

At some point, after all the editing, you just need to declare your work is "good enough" (having a beta really helps in telling when "good enough" is, especially at first, since most writers tend to be hyper-critical of their own work). You'll always reread your work and think "oh, I could've wrote this line better" or "oh, that sounds wrong" even after you post it (but so could the best authors to ever live, I'm sure. It's just how it is).

So, It won't be perfect, nothing ever will. But it can still be great and amazing and make someone's day, even if it isn't "perfect".

So, don't be scared to make mistakes or butch it up on your first attempt, you're human, you're learning, and you can improve. But that can only happen if you start writing because nothing teaches better than hands-on experience.

[middle-earth-mythopoeia]

While I agree that not everything can be effectively translated from page to screen, I don’t buy that in this case. I just recorded myself reading these lines, not rushing, but reading them how I’d like to hear them spoken, and it took me 12 seconds. 12 seconds. It might take me one or two seconds longer if I really slowed down for emphasis. More on this in a minute.

Why do you think it would be comical? Not if it were done well, and Miranda Otto would certainly have done it well. Not if it were allowed to have the same importance that some of Tolkien’s other canonical dialogue had in the movies. This scene has nothing in common with a real emergency situation or a real combat situation, even if it’s depicting one: what it actually is is art, and the rules are different.

Was there time for Théoden to make his speech before the Battle of the Pelennor Fields? In a real emergency situation, shouldn’t they have just charged? Yes, but the thing is, it isn’t a real situation, it’s a story. It works for Théoden to make that speech. It makes the scene infinitely better. In fact, it’s one of the best scenes, if not the best scene, in both the books and the movies. This should have been treated no differently. Cutting down Éowyn’s dialogue didn’t make her scene work better, it removed the full gravitas that it could have had.

Théoden’s speech in the movie takes a long time. First he gives commands to Éomer, Gamling and Grimbold, and I’m not going to count that part, because it’s the most “realistic” part of his speech in the sense that it’s necessary for winning the battle. That takes about 11 seconds, for reference. Then this takes him 18 seconds to say: “Forth, and fear no darkness! Arise! Arise, riders of Théoden! Spears shall be shaken! Shields shall be splintered! A sword day, a red day, ere the sun rises!” After a pause, he says: “Ride now! Ride now! Ride! Ride for ruin, and the world’s ending!” That’s 11 more seconds of dialogue, not counting the pause. This is already significantly longer than Éowyn reading those lines would have been! And this is all before they start chanting “Death!”

Between “Forth, and fear no darkness” and the time they charge, more than a full minute passes. Is that realistic? Is that what you should really do in an emergency? No! But it's REALLY REALLY REALLY GOOD IN A STORY. If this speech had been cut down for brevity or so-called realism, the scene would have been much, much poorer for it.

Movies get a lot of criticism, often rightly, when opponents talk to each other during a fight, because it can seem absurd to talk while actively exchanging blows. But dialogue during a fight is different that dialogue before a fight. When Éowyn confronts the Witch-king, they’re not actually fighting yet. Théoden has just fallen beneath Snowmane and the fell beast has landed on it. He’s trapped. The Witch-king is in no hurry, and not only that, he’s used to being unopposed: most mortal Men fall to the ground in terror just at the sound of his voice. He has no expectation that anyone will try to challenge him, let alone kill him.

There’s actually even more dialogue before the quotation we’re talking about:

‘Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in peace!’ A cold voice answered: ‘Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.’ A sword rang as it was drawn. ‘Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may.’ ‘Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!’ Then Merry heard of all sounds in that hour the strangest. It seemed that Dernhelm laughed, and the clear voice was like the ring of steel. ‘But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.’

Note that the fighting happens after this. She kills the fell beast and they fight after all this is said. Now the dialogue is long, and I understand cutting it down, and I get that there are changes that need to be made from page to screen. But we’re talking about 12 seconds, the part at the end right there, just 12 seconds, give or take.

Now let’s talk about the movie scene for a minute. It’s quite different:

Éowyn says, “I will kill you if you touch him.” The Witch-king says, “Do not come between the Nazgul and his prey.” She kills the fell beast. They fight. He chokes her, which didn’t happen in the book, and I really hate it because it was completely unnecessary. He says, “You fool. No man can kill me. Die now.” Merry stabs him in the leg. Éowyn says, “I am no man,” and kills him.

In my opinion, the way they expanded the fight part of this scene actually removed some of its drama. Cutting down the dialogue also removed its drama. The part where he choked her was awful and should have been changed. And do you see how in the movie version the dialogue is actually interspersed in the fighting, which is not the case in the book? That also reduced the drama of the scene. Imagine instead a version of the movie that more heavily relies on Tolkien’s dialogue and how the scene actually went:

The fell beast lands on Snowmane, poised to attack. Éowyn draws her sword and says, “Begone, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in peace!” The Witch-king says, “Thou fool. Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey. Or I will not slay thee in they turn, but bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured. No living man may hinder me!” Éowyn laughs and says, “But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.” Then the fell beast attacks her and she chops off its head. The Witch-king attacks her and breaks her arm and Merry stabs him in the leg and she kills him.

This is so much more dramatic and carries so much more weight and meaning than the scene in the movie. Of course some things could be added or subtracted, and there are different ways it could be done, but I’m just showing you that the original dialogue could have played more of a role here. It not only adds to Éowyn’s gravitas, it adds to the power of the Witch-king and makes his defeat more satisfying. And it actually builds to a crescendo. It’s far better to have the dialogue first and the action after rather than breaking up the dialogue with an unnecessarily extended fight scene.

Tolkien knew what he was doing. It absolutely does make sense for Éowyn to verbally challenge the Witch-king this way, and it works within the style of writing and the story that Tolkien created. There were many times when his dialogue translated beautifully from page to the screen, and this could have been no different!

The movie dialogue could never measure up to this:

“But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.”

How could anyone cut this?! How?! How?!?!?!?! These lines are so incredibly stirring, so powerful, so moving. “I am no man” doesn’t even come close.

First of all, I like that the negative statement of “No living man am I” is followed by the positive statement of “You look upon a woman.” It’s direct and definitive. She’s been disguised as Dernhelm up until this point—another thing that was cut from the movie—but now she’s revealing who she really is.

Second, in a similar way, I like that she says, “Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter.” It’s like a challenge. It’s like announcing one’s identity before a duel—which is in effect what she is doing.

Third, “You stand between me and my lord and kin.” This reminds me of one of the most poignant quotes from the book: “I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.” It’s very important that Éowyn did this brave deed out of a desire to protect Théoden.

Finally, “Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.” THIS IS LITERALLY SO AMAZING! THIS IS SO COURAGEOUS! I CAN’T EVEN EXPRESS HOW THIS MAKES ME FEEL! I don’t know which part is better—the fact that she threatens him, or that she gives him the choice to forfeit and flee the battlefield.

There’s an incredible heroic resoluteness to the final line, “For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.” This, right here, is the essence of the courage of mortals in Tolkien’s books. It’s the acceptance of death, but the desire to go down fighting—the knowledge that death is inevitable, but the one thing we have control over is how we meet it.

Éowyn is facing Sauron’s most powerful servant, who is almost a personification of death itself, and she is declaring that no matter what he is, and no matter the outcome, she WILL fight him. When she says these lines, she doesn’t know that she and Merry will vanquish him. It’s sheer determination against impossible odds, it’s extraordinary courage in the face of death—and THAT is why this scene is so powerful.

[milessunflowers]

Hello! Um... lestappen (they aren't together, not because they don't want to be but because it doesn't feel right) being happy about seeing their shared crush again after not seeing him because he decided to go to nascar only for him to switch to formula 1 for 2025 because he accepted the offer the new team gave him and because he missed them too. (Feel like lestappen doesn't tell reader that they have been in love with him since f3 because they thought he was straight, male reader thought that max was straight and charles was bisexual leaning to women and also didn't tell them he was in love with them)

Also! Love everything you've written so far! Love the franco, paper rings, fic its my fav so far!!!

–🍑

thank you so much peach!! that motivates me so much!! also this idea *chefs kiss*

max verstappen x male!reader x charles leclerc

synopsis: when you finally make your debut back in the world of formula racing, max and charles come to terms with how much they loved you, leading to you finally confessing.

author's note: okay so after some practice, i am now comfortable enough that i can write well enough for a driver!reader. for purposes, cadillac will already be a team and reader will be american AND LOGAN IS HIS TEAMMATE BC I SAY SO (miss my american sm😔) EVEN IF IT IS ONLY BRIEFLY MENTIONED. anyways, feel free to request, read the guidelines first ofc! (also apologies for the lack of dialogue in this one. i kinda forgot how to write good dialogue and kinda just let things flow! felt right for the vibes to me idk)

formula one, a true dream come true for you. you had raced in earlier formula series, alongside the likes of now four time world champion, max verstappen, and ferrari golden boy, charles leclerc. you hadn't seen them in a few tears as you had been busy racing in nascar, dominating the tracks at almost every track. you missed them, more than you would ever admit.

when you first heard that cadillac would be joining formula one as a brand new team, you felt sparks of hope erupt deep in your chest. maybe, just maybe, you would finally get the chance to race against your once competitors (and the two men who were your first real crushes).

you hadn't expected to be approached by your manager with a multi-year deal with the american team. without a second thought, you signed immediately, ecstatic that you could prove yourself to those you grew up racing, not including your all-time hero, fernando alonso. you couldn't keep in your excitement, which was clear to everyone in your immediate circle, including your new teammate and mentee (who in reality is a year younger than you), logan sargeant.

when it was revealed you were to be racing for the newest addition to the paddock, max and charles had almost the same reaction: joyful nervousness. they realized all to late the feelings they harbored for you.

but now... now you're back. it was exciting and terrifying for the two men, who have grown accustomed to only really seeing each other and never acknowledging those feelings.

to say that you were all big fat chickens was an understatement.

the first time you reappeared in the busy paddock, charles felt his heart jump to his throat while max just felt frozen. in ways, they each thought you looked better, less stressed and more mature. you seemed genuinely happy, especially in what they always called your natural habitat. you were a social able person after all.

they struck up small conversations during the driver's parade, mainly catching up and swapping jokes. it reminded you three of the old times, even if max and charles back then had some sort of beef. it made you feel even happier and more excited to be back and racing in the formula series.

it took a good few races before the three of you finally shared a podium. you would have never expected to feel more excited about p2 then now. in the cool down room, you chatted heartedly with max, awaiting for the winner to finally arrive. once the three of you were together, it was nothing but subtle flirting and chatter until it was time to go to the podium. even there (save for during monaco's national anthem as well as the italian one ringing) the three would not shut up.

it wasn't until the after party at the club where the three of you drank half of your body weight, confessing with no shame to each other. you couldn't remember the night, having had way too much to drink after celebrating your first podium of the season.

when you awoke the morning, you were in an unfamiliar hotel room, a warm weight behind you. you groan awake, blinking as the morning sun shone bright through the curtains, bathing yourself, max verstappen, and charles leclerc in a beautiful golden li-

wait, max and charles? you sobered up real quick and scrambled out of bed, falling with a loud thud in the process. you curse yourself, trying to grab whatever shirt was closest and pulling it on.

charles was the next one awake, stirring on the farthest side of the bed where he had curled around max. he blinked those beautiful eyes awake, a soft smile gracing your lips before you snapped out of it.

this couldn't be happening. you were half panicked, half happy to have woken up with the two men you had secretly loved for years but never, in a million lifetimes, would have ever thought were anything but into you. charles rubbed the sleep from his eyes, not yet having caught on what was happening. you stood there dumbly, still as a statue as you both finally made eye contact.

you chuckled awkwardly and charles let out a surprised yelp, loud enough to startle the last man asleep awake. you stared at each other for a good, long, ten seconds before max broke the silence with a cough before he sat up, as if all this was casual. it was very on brand for the dutchman.

it was quiet again, charles blinking blankly while you scrambled to collect your belongings. max stops you, sits you back down on the bed, and tries to calm you and charles down. and for some reason, it was too easy for him to.

he was gentle and sweet, carefully explaining what was going (or at least what he thought) before he finally comes clean, opening up about his feelings. after that, it was easy for you and charles to do the same, just in a slightly less organized and calm manner. it was no longer awkward but sweet and caring, soothing each nerve in the three bodies to a nice, warm hum.

you offered to make breakfast while max and charles cleaned up. from then on, it had become routine. from the hotel stays in different countries, to moving into the same apartment in monaco now overrun with pets. it was healthy and well established, the three of you keeping things strictly business at work but at home, leaving raving behind for a nice night in with the lobes of your life.

TAGS! (if you would like to be added, lmk!)

@op-81-lvr-reblogs, @koalapastries, @justaf1girl, @ghostking4m

[callmemonster68]

ENHYPEN - Hot Surprise ( smut )

You decided to surprise him with a nude, detail, he had never seen you naked

Pairing: Enhypen X FemReader

Genre: Obscenity

Warning: Contains explicit content, unprotected sex, suggestive, penetration, explicit language, climax, sex, swearing, loss of virginity, hickeys, messy make-out sessions, dirty talk, compliments, rough sex, touching bruises, handcuffs, chains, sadomasochism , masochism, brands, public sex, oral

Sunoo Scene: Sunoo is taking selfies and sending them to you when you decide to reply with something bolder. Dialogue: Sunoo: "Look how good I look today, Y/N. Admit it, you’re lucky." Y/N: "You look amazing, but... I think I can top that." (You send the photo.) Sunoo: (gasps softly in surprise) "Y/N!!! You just... Oh my God, I don’t even know what to say." Y/N: "Then don’t say anything, just enjoy it." Sunoo: "I did enjoy it. Now, how do I see you like this up close?"

Sunghoon Scene: Sunghoon is at the gym. You know he’s busy, but you can’t resist. Dialogue: Y/N: "Hey, are you super busy over there?" Sunghoon: "I’m on a break. What’s up?" Y/N: (sends the photo) "Just wanted to give you a little extra motivation." Sunghoon: (stares at the screen, speechless for a moment) "Y/N... are you trying to kill me? How am I supposed to keep working out after this?" Y/N: "Maybe you need a different kind of workout with me." Sunghoon: "I’m on my way."

Niki Scene: Niki is playing video games when he gets a notification from your message. Dialogue: Niki: "What is it, Y/N? I’m in the middle of a match here." Y/N: "I just wanted to distract you a little..." (You send the photo.) Niki: (immediately drops the controller) "What was that? I lost because of you!" Y/N: (laughing) "I thought you’d like it..." Niki: "Like it? You just became my only focus. Forget the game, send me another one."

Jay Scene: Jay is alone in the music studio, reviewing some compositions. You decide to surprise him. Dialogue: Y/N: "Hey, do you have a second? I wanted to show you something..." Jay: "Sure, what is it? Is it something important?" Y/N: "That depends... Does this seem important to you?" (You send the photo.) Jay: (chokes and almost spills his coffee) "WHAT?! Y/N, you’re... incredible. I wasn’t ready for this." Y/N: "I wanted to see your reaction... Looks like I got it." Jay: "I can’t take my eyes off my phone. You’re perfect... Can I come over right now?"

Heeseung Scene: Heeseung is practicing guitar when you decide to spice things up. Dialogue: Y/N: "Hee, do you want some new inspiration?" Heeseung: "Of course! What do you have for me?" Y/N: (sends the photo) "How about this?" Heeseung: (drops his phone to the floor) "WHAT? Y/N, this is... I wasn’t expecting this from you!" Y/N: "Is it bad?" Heeseung: "Bad? It’s perfect. You’re perfect. I’m going to need some time to process this."

Jungwon Scene: Jungwon is reading messages before bed when you decide to do something unexpected. Dialogue: Y/N: "Are you still awake?" Jungwon: "Yeah, just getting ready to sleep. Why?" Y/N: (sends the photo) "So you can have sweet dreams." Jungwon: (stares at his phone in disbelief) "Y/N... I didn’t know you were this... Wow." Y/N: "Is that bad?" Jungwon: "Terrible. Now I won’t be able to sleep thinking about you."

Jake Scene: Jake is in the middle of a casual call with you, complaining about his busy day. Dialogue: Jake: "Today was a mess, seriously... I just need something to cheer me up right now." Y/N: "I think I can help with that." (You send the photo.) Jake: (silent for a few seconds) "Is this real? Y/N, are you kidding me?" Y/N: "You don’t like it?" Jake: (nervously laughing) "I LOVE it. You just made my entire day worth it. I can’t wait to see you like this in person."

✿ If you don't reblog and comment, you can be sure I'll be showing up in your dreams tonight... and I won’t be as sweet as in the story ✿

[heavensbeehall]

Letter from Donald Sutherland to director Gary Ross, after reading the script for "The Hunger Games"

Dear Gary Ross:  Power. That's what this is about? Yes? Power and the forces that are manipulated by the powerful men and bureaucracies trying to maintain control and possession of that power?  Power perpetrates war and oppression to maintain itself until it finally topples over with the bureaucratic weight of itself and sinks into the pages of history (except in Texas), leaving lessons that need to be learned unlearned.   Power corrupts, and, in many cases, absolute power makes you really horny. Clinton, Chirac, Mao, Mitterrand.  Not so, I think, with Coriolanus Snow. His obsession, his passion, is his rose garden. There's a rose named Sterling Silver that's lilac in colour with the most extraordinarily powerful fragrance — incredibly beautiful — I loved it in the seventies when it first appeared. They've made a lot of offshoots of it since then.   I didn't want to write to you until I'd read the trilogy and now I have so: roses are of great importance. And Coriolanus's eyes. And his smile. Those three elements are vibrant and vital in Snow. Everything else is, by and large, perfectly still and ruthlessly contained. What delight she [Katniss] gives him. He knows her so perfectly. Nothing, absolutely nothing, surprises him. He sees and understands everything. He was, quite probably, a brilliant man who's succumbed to the siren song of power.  How will you dramatize the interior narrative running in Katniss's head that describes and consistently updates her relationship with the President who is ubiquitous in her mind? With omniscient calm he knows her perfectly. She knows he does and she knows that he will go to any necessary end to maintain his power because she knows that he believes that she's a real threat to his fragile hold on his control of that power. She's more dangerous than Joan of Arc.  Her interior dialogue/monologue defines Snow. It's that old theatrical turnip: you can't 'play' a king, you need everybody else on stage saying to each other, and therefore to the audience, stuff like "There goes the King, isn't he a piece of work, how evil, how lovely, how benevolent, how cruel, how brilliant he is!" The idea of him, the definition of him, the audience's perception of him, is primarily instilled by the observations of others and once that idea is set, the audience's view of the character is pretty much unyielding. And in Snow's case, that definition, of course, comes from Katniss.  Evil looks like our understanding of the history of the men we're looking at. It's not what we see: it's what we've been led to believe. Simple as that. Look at the face of Ted Bundy before you knew what he did and after you knew.   Snow doesn't look evil to the people in Panem's Capitol. Bundy didn't look evil to those girls. My wife and I were driving through Colorado when he escaped from jail there. The car radio's warning was constant. 'Don't pick up any young men. The escapee looks like the nicest young man imaginable'. Snow's evil shows up in the form of the complacently confident threat that's ever-present in his eyes. His resolute stillness. Have you seen a film I did years ago? 'The Eye of the Needle'. That fellow had some of what I'm looking for. The woman who lived up the street from us in Brentwood came over to ask my wife a question when my wife was dropping the kids off at school. This woman and her husband had seen that movie the night before and what she wanted to know was how my wife could live with anyone who could play such an evil man. It made for an amusing dinner or two but part of my wife's still wondering. I'd love to speak with you whenever you have a chance so I can be on the same page with you. They all end up the same way. Welcome to Florida, have a nice day!

Source

Been thinking about this a lot, mostly in regards to his notions on power.

But it's also quiet cool that he basically predicted the plot of TBOSAS before it came out. Snow's obsessive tendencies. The way he thinks love makes him weak. How he sees Katniss as like himself.

[justcameheretobyler]

As a writer, I really doubt they won’t make Byler endgame.

I’m not that good with the cinematography hints or some other details like clothes or lighting.

But, the subtle way the characters interact, the lines they say, I always use that for foreshadowing and to imply a feeling the character is not able to express (or is not totally aware of it yet)

So, in this perspective, I was glad when I got introduced to Byler cuz Mike is my favorite in narrative speaking and some things from s3 and s4 were kind of off even knowing he’s a 16 years old kid and that could explain his flaws while growing up.

But the reason I liked Mike is for his awareness in moments of crisis his loved ones have and the leadership nature in him, also the fact he’s always a step ahead of any situation, specially when he needed to reassure Will or El how important they are for him and that they’ll be okay.

He also reassured Dustin he’s his best friend too.

That’s Michael.

So, why a character that cares so much for how his people are feeling, even with the trauma and his explosive reactions at times, how that kind of character would be so inconsistent with the two people he cares the most?

He needs to have a reason.

Mike is the heart of the party. I do think he’s a very important character for the writers.

So it cannot just be a coincidence or them trying to make him dirty.

He’s struggling, he’s suffering, so he’s messing up things that he can’t handle anymore.

He’s hiding something the audience could know if they pay attention, but the idea of a writer is that you don’t know it.

If you don’t know it, that’s better.

It makes me so happy when a reader comes to me like: omg I didn’t see that coming! But it makes sense!!

That’s what a writer wants, that’s what we’re looking for.

But it was too much deceiving, the GA couldn’t see it at all, so they had to literally say Will was in love with Mike. Cuz Will was the harder to read.

Even with the van scene people still can’t read the room.

So Noah had to literally say it out loud: WILL IS SO GAY AND IN LOVE WITH MIKE.

The writes know what they’re doing. They know the GA is convinced on the ElMike thing so the plotwist coming from Mike is easier and more interesting.

So, as a writer I just cannot see ElMike “happy ending” they got too messy and they don’t even try to show chemistry anymore (talking about their acting and dialogues). Which is not the same with Mike and Will scenes. You can say they take a good care of their lines and everything else.

I could talk about Will and El side, but I have seen enough posts about those two.

May be later.

[kimingyuslover]

Love Too Late

Love isn't too late for anyone, right?

Word count : 2,331 words

Pairing : kim mingyu x reader

Genre : angst, love triangle, bestf to (?)

Warnings : uhh, not proofread, and as always, tears (duh), mingyu is straight-up asshole, reader is a girlboss and also a resident doctor, wonwoo's a cardiothoracic surgeon, mingyu's job is not specified, mentions of drink, kind of minimal dialogue but at the same time it's not & like two (2) curse word, lmk if i miss any!

★ i'm in my active era, with nothing to do in my life, so I just decided to write this in, like, what, total 8 hours? it’s just a random thought that caught up in my mind for dayssss.

☆ check out my other works > main masterlist

Mingyu's smile flattered when he read the invitation envelope he received this morning. There, he found a picture of you with another man— the man he saw at the coffee shop.

He could feel the way his heart clenched, and he sensed a twinge of jealousy in his heart.

Perhaps it's his fault, not caring about you enough that makes you think that you can't handle him anymore.

Or the way he would cancel your meetings abruptly because he just got a call from Jira where he rushes to everywhere she goes without asking any questions. Leaving you hanging alone in the restaurant that you both had decided to have dinner together.

The way he always mentions her names in every conversation, bringing her like she's the goddess god sent from the sky himself.

God, he can even imagine the way your smile slightly dropped and the disappointment evident on your face when he brought up her name that he had once not noticed, not caring about what you had said earlier.

Despite that, you stay by his side, offering your shoulder everytime he feels sad because of her, assuring him that he’s enough.

Mingyu remembers the day when everything started to shift.

You're not as welcome to him as before. Always avoid meeting him in person, and you are always busy.

He thinks it's normal at first, you're a resident after all, of course you're going to get busy someday that you can't even spare a glance or reply to his texts.

Meanwhile you, on the other hand, think that it's the best for you. Well, it is.

You're willing to step-out from the “more than friends but not in a relationship” situation with him, your heart also aches really great while you have to stay calm for him when he's telling his story, with her in it.

So after a while, you decided that you had enough of his & Jira's story, and you need to move on.

So you do what you have to do earlier this time, you avoid him, busying yourself with patience, and always looking for surgery that needs an assistant, minimising your interaction with him.

It's not that hard, actually. You're literally a cardiac resident. You will always get busy.

There you met who you called now– the love of your life. He’s the main doctor for organ transplant operation, and you're the assistant.

After the operation was successful, he treated you to a coffee shop down the road and both of you had fun, talking about patience cases that you have, and even some stories on the ER where you are located right now.

“So, any interest in a relationship, or you're just single?” He asks while sipping his cup of ice americano– he claims that's what keeps him awake in every before or after a big operation.

You think for a few seconds, this is the first time when you feel like yourself again and have people asking about you, not any other person.

You open your mouth to speak again, “No, I don't have any interest in a relationship for now, I want to focus on being a doctor first, like you!” you said with a light-hearted laugh. He did the same.

Feeling like you zoned out, he calls your name again, in which you respond with a shy smile on your face, and you apologise for spacing out.

Then someone opens the coffee shop door, making the bell rings, your eyes trained to the glass door, you freeze when you see Mingyu, in all his glory.

He seems to notice you too, but when he looks in your direction, you already turn your eyes towards the doctor in front of you. Yes, he searched for you in the ER, but the receptionist said that you're currently in a cafe with a doctor.

He noticed the way you laugh so freely, like the burden on your shoulder just lift up when you are with that man.

After placing his order, he sat next to the counter, waiting for his name to be called by the barista.

He frowns, you never be as free as you are right now when you're with him, you always keep your distance, and he's your best friend! That doctor is just someone you met along the way.

[⋆✴︎˚｡⋆]

“What do you want, Mingyu?” That's it, no more ‘gyu’ and the tone of your voice is cold, stabbing him in the heart.

He took a long breath, “What's wrong with us? You never seem to notice me anymore. Hundreds of my messages go unread, and you never gave me a check”

His words really make you wanna laugh. What's wrong with you both? You don't know, but one thing for sure, he needs you to tell the story about him and his beloved to you, crying his heart out and then leaving like nothing's going on between you.

“Why are you laughing? It’s not a time for that” You seriously want to punch the guy in front of you, “You not here anymore when i needed you the most, Jira and i–”

You bite your bottom lip. Before allowing yourself to let out a chuckle, Mingyu cuts you off.

That's where you draw the line, you put your “I don't care, Mingyu. Actually, fuck you kim mingyu” His breath hitched when you said that, hands growing cold.

“You are always nagging this and that about you and Jira, I don't care about her, I only care about you, all my whole life I only cared about you” Your finger pointed at him accusingly.

“No, you don't get to say anything about this. All i ever do is just a backburner, the person who you came when you have any problems and dump all your problems with me, and then when you feel better you always go to her even you knew that she would make the same mistake over and over again and you will come running to me with your tears stricken face”

“You promise to listen to me too, I've had enough of your drama, I've talked to you before you even brought her up, and somehow you still did even if it's not relevant. I'm sacrificing my own happiness for you, Jira had everything i've ever wanted, and that is you”

You stop yourself for a second, trying to catch your breath, you see Mingyu opening his mouth, wanting to speak but you cut him off.

You snatched your bag from the seat beside you, pulled out a 50 dollar bill, put it on the table and you stormed off.

Only you can make him feel like this, not even Jira can do this to him. Hearing the words fall off from your mouth is hurting him, and he doesn't know why.

Mingyu was just sitting there, and that's when he felt it come back. The ache in his heart, he feels his heart clenched in the worst way possible.

[⋆✴︎˚｡⋆]

Days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months. It's been approximately 7 months since the last time Mingyu saw you and heard from you.

You moved out from your old apartment the next day, making him ponder since when you start to pack your things, have you been planning this all the months back?

In the first month, he felt so lonely without your presence, no one sent him a ‘good morning’ ‘evening’ and ‘night’ text, his apartment also felt cold without you.

You used to come here often on saturday and sunday night, warming up the apartment with movies ready on your disk.

Now, his weekend nights feel empty, no one would play and watch his favorite movie with him.

And in the third month he realised when he saw you again, this time with Wonwoo beside you, talking and laughing together.

He felt a throbbing pain in his heart when he saw that scenery.

oh.

oh.

All the times he felt in your presence is the sign that he likes you or worse yet— loves you.

He realised he never felt anything towards Jira, that it's just a passing crush to keep his true deep feeling. He has liked you since the day you turned 14, the way your eyes light up when your family and him decide to surprise you in your sleep.

The memory just made his wound that he considered still fresh getting sprinkled by a handful pinch of salt.

It burns him alive and he loses all the respect he has for himself.

He thinks he has moved on, the old trick under the sleeves, getting over someone by getting under someone.

And finally, it's now been a year and a half since he last heard from you.

Mingyu walks to his apartment with groceries on both of his hands, and then when he gets inside, he puts the things on his kitchen counter and goes to the bedroom to change his outerwear.

He's not in the mood to do anything today, so he took his laptop to watch some movies, but then an email caught his attention, it's from you.

So he opens it, and finds an envelope there.

Mingyu read the body of the email, because a word cought on his eyes.

Love is in the air.docx

hi, sorry. I know we have been in no contact for a year and a half, but I want to invite you, we once have something, don't we? :)

He lets out a shaky breath, scared if he opens the document then his heart would shatter to the ground beneath his feet.

Oh well, he opens it with hesitation on his face and heart. He takes a deep breath before finally opening the invitation.

The document has three pictures of you with him, the doctor he hates so much with all of his heart despite there's no interaction between them.

It’s a wedding card.

There's the date and time of your wedding ceremony and the reception.

He feels his tears on the edge of his eyes, threatening to fall right now and then, he already has his heart shattered the day you leave and now he feels another throbbing pain with the fact that you will never be his.

[⋆✴︎˚｡⋆]

Seeing Mingyu all dressed up in your wedding was definitely on your bingo list— well, last year. but seeing him now? It's just like the burden you had on your shoulder a year ago came back to you.

“Don't marry him” You feel like the time has just stopped right now.

You used to imagine yourself going through a wedding ceremony with you as the bride and him as the groom.

You're very much confused by his behavior, so you open your mouth, though you didn't say anything because you’re speechless.

Mingyu repeats the words he just said the second time to you, looking you dead in the eyes.

Mingyu started at the ground for a moment before looking at you, yet again, “Why? You know why”

“Why?” you asked, you want to add something after that but you halt your actions, waiting for him to answer you.

You snap, saying no to him only for it to be denied by him, making you say no to him again.

You want to slap Mingyu, but you compose yourself, not wanting to make your special day be ruined by a man that doesn't know and seems like he's not willing to know about your feelings even when you gave him a clear sign.

“What?” Then he asked, after pinning him for years, hearing him say that makes your blood boil.

“No, no Mingyu– You're being mean. Stop it.” he can hear the finality of your words, but he didn't want to stop there, “How am i being mean?” There's a stern expression on his face.

“I have been second to Jira my whole life, in everything and that including you. I'm not going to be the person you settle for just because you cannot have her”

“I won't do it, because i've been wasting my entire life loving you but all you see is just Jira, never once i crossed your mind, and you don't have the right to stop me from marrying the man i love” You’re not even want to cry anymore, tears for him is already dry long time ago.

Mingyu tries to hold your hand, wanting to confess his feelings, but instead he lets out a question and the second he finishes his sentence he regrets it, “Isn't I the man you love?” his voice is silent, not quite above a whisper.

Mingyu heard the door open and he knew it's time for him to get the fuck out and wait for your ceremony, he said something before he leaves, “i love you and i'm realizing it too late, i'm sorry” and so he get his last words to you.

“Don’t make me laugh Kim Mingyu, you get rid off me as soon as you and Jira reconcile, even both of you is not in a relationship, you run into me when Jira is busy and then the next day you gone for a week and the cycle keep going leaving me stressing over my own feelings” Before he could say anything, he told him to get out of the room, but you know he's a rock headed person, so you already told the groomsman to wait outside the door after he gets in.

For the rest of his life, Mingyu can only hear your voice from a distance, the way Wonwoo kisses you is heart wrenching to the guts of his body.

Now he can only see you again when suddenly bumps into you, or when he goes to your favorite places and on his screen.

And even then, you're not alone. You will be with your new husband that you're marrying today. There's no chance for him to be in your picture.

[ineffablecabbage]

I don't care about this fic, but lmao, your "Evidence" is sad, and without merit. And as someone who writes fic, the last thing I want is some cranky bitch getting on Tumblr and accusing me of someting because they don't like my content (which, let's be honest, that's your real beef here, because you have Zero evidence this is AI.)

So let's look at your shit arguments:

"her nimble fingers worked with quiet precision" (ct. 1), "his grip firm but tender" (ct. 33)

"quiet precision" is a common phrase. LMAO. You talk about the movements being quiet the same way you talk about movements being stealthy. I'm sorry the author is too smart for you.

grip being "firm but tender" is literally something you will discover in multiple shittily written trashy romance novels.

Read something besides AO3.

i could spend hours picking out examples from the seven billion pages worth of text, but i quite frankly have better things to do

No, you clearly don't, and you can't, because the examples you did pick were shit, and sound fine. They sound perfectly fucking human, actually.

write me a scene from a fantasy novel where a woman with red hair is sitting on the ground in a magical garden at night", and side by side with that is the opening scene of the fic. make your own judgement.

It doesn't sound anything like the text you quoted, actually, so my judgement is that you are pretty much out of line for making these accusations.

all the scenes in this fic are described in pretty much the same way. they open with purple prose vomit of the surroundings; solas is standing somewhere looking "unreadable as ever"; ellana's fiery golden molten fire copper ember ginger red hair is flowing this and that way; there's some dialogue with whoever is present and it leaves ellana feeling different variations of "something she couldn't name". this is, once again, a blatantly obvious sign of ai. below is the result of me feeding chatgpt the line "write me a scene from a fantasy novel where a woman with red hair is sitting on the ground in a magical garden at night", and side by side with that is the opening scene of the fic. make your own judgement.

Purple prose is actually a sign it was written by a human, because lmao that is not how AI is designed.

Writers have been writing purple prose since the days of FF.net and before.

You sound very young, like you have no history with fandom or fanfic, so you are screaming your hilarious and unfounded assumptions at the top of your lungs, but your "proof" is garbage.

Variations of the same thing over and over again... is normal in your first fic. It's an unexperienced writer, who is clearly basiing this on the trashy romance novels she's used to reading. Purple prose and reptition are to be expected.

That's how people fucking write trashy romance. Not AI.

repetition at word-level

So, it was AI when she was using purple prose, and now it's AI when she reuses "fire." lmao. Make up your mind.

The fic is over 300k words. That many uses of fire isn't even that many. you are cherry-picking things to be bitchy about.

359,6k words in four weeks by a person who allegedly is employed and married and hasn't pre-written anything? no. any writer will tell you that this simply isn't possible.

Oh, cry me a river. YOU can't do it. Some people can. Three chapters a day is perfectly fucking doable for some people.

I'm sure it does infuriate you. Your sad, childish jealousy is all over this post. Grow up.

The "breakneck spead" isn't proof of anything. You're just a fucking jealous little bully.

perhaps i would be less angry if the fic was some silly bullshit court intrigue Y/A stuff, but this is a text that handles very heavy and triggering topics such as SA, coercion, domestic abuse, and other things of the same vein.

Awww, you poor fucking baby

You don't have the fucking right to police when or how people write about subjects that make you uncomfortable, so you are out are here making unfounded accusations because you are angry it exists.

In short, you have no proof. Nothing you have cried about here is proof that this is an AI written fic, and much of what you have said indicates the exact opposite. It DOES indicate that you don't read much trashy romance, that you are a self-righteous bully who gets off on bullying fans who don't write the way you think they should, and that you throw tantrums when you can't police the subject mattter.

But nah, there's no proof this is AI.

What we cannot do as a fandom community is start taking the word of little glorified witch hunters who start screaming "THIS IS AI!!!!" and using shitty arguments to prove it (and that's all that's here. Shitty arguments.)

What's next ? Puttting the fic through a shitty anti AI software that we already know don't work, but are used by college professors because they also don't understand how AI works? lmao. Good luck in your little witch hunt, sweetie, but maybe try to be less of a shitty human being and less of a goddamn bully.

And read more books off of AO3.

we need to talk about The Silence and The Song

as per my last post, i have received a lot of encouragement to go public with this, and the more disappointed people i have in my dms, the angrier i get. so i will.

the silence and the song is an ancient arlathan au DA fic on ao3 by luxannaslut, and it is partly, if not entirely, written by an ai. i have no wish to be involved in any kind of fandom drama or witch hunting or bullying, but as a writer myself there are few things that piss me off more than watching people steal the work of others because they can't be fucked to write. it's disrespectful to your fellow writers, it's disrespectful to your readers, and it's disrespectful to the authors of the works the ai is stealing from.

ai is a plague that has no business being in creative spaces and you must do better.

the writing pattern

there was something very odd and monotone about the sentence structure of tsats that i couldn't quite place, so i fed chatgpt a prompt along the lines of "two people in a fantasy novel hate each other, but they secretly desire one another, and they kiss", and the screenshots above are the results. the third one is an excerpt from chapter 40 of tsats. the writing pattern is identical and it doesn't seem like the "writer" has even bothered to pretend they wrote it. if you're going to use ai, at least be sneaky about it. you know, paraphrase a little.

nonsense descriptions

"her nimble fingers worked with quiet precision" (ct. 1), "his grip firm but tender" (ct. 33), "her gown pooling around her like embers" (ct. 1).

fingers don't make sound, so what does quiet precision mean? as opposed to what? her joints cracking with every movement? how is a grip firm but tender? what does that mean? since when do embers pool?

the entire fic is littered with these adjectives that contradict each other or just straight up do not make sense, because all an ai does is generate descriptive language with no understanding of what the words it's spitting out actually mean. i could spend hours picking out examples from the seven billion pages worth of text, but i quite frankly have better things to do and would simply challenge you to try getting through a chapter or two without noticing the pattern.

repetition at structure-level

all the scenes in this fic are described in pretty much the same way. they open with purple prose vomit of the surroundings; solas is standing somewhere looking "unreadable as ever"; ellana's fiery golden molten fire copper ember ginger red hair is flowing this and that way; there's some dialogue with whoever is present and it leaves ellana feeling different variations of "something she couldn't name". this is, once again, a blatantly obvious sign of ai. below is the result of me feeding chatgpt the line "write me a scene from a fantasy novel where a woman with red hair is sitting on the ground in a magical garden at night", and side by side with that is the opening scene of the fic. make your own judgement.

repetition at word-level

this one speaks for itself. we fucking get it. her dress is orange, her hair is red, mythal's presence is heavy in the room, solas looks unreadable, compassion is sitting on her head like a crown, solas' ears are betraying him and ellana's move with every thought she thinks. we get it. the issue here is that an ai remembers the info you feed it, but not necessarily the info it shits out. if it's being told to write scene after scene of an elven woman with a gown that looks like fire doing xyz, it's going to do so with no regard for how many times the reader has already been informed of these details.

lastly: the breakneck speed

359,6k words in four weeks by a person who allegedly is employed and married and hasn't pre-written anything? no. any writer will tell you that this simply isn't possible. it absolutely infuriates me to see how much praise this "writer" gets for posting up to three full chapters in a day without anyone calling bullshit. i am pulling out my hair, you guys.

why i'm not going to live and let live this one

perhaps i would be less angry if the fic was some silly bullshit court intrigue Y/A stuff, but this is a text that handles very heavy and triggering topics such as SA, coercion, domestic abuse, and other things of the same vein. to sit back and put your feet up while having a robot write these extremely sensitive and very real human experiences with words it has stolen from texts written by actual persons is fucking heinous. the "writer" should be deeply ashamed of themselves and i'm sick and tired of watching people eat up their bs.

and on that note: the amount of people in my dm's telling me that they feel stupid and naive for not clocking this has infuriated me more than anything else. you're not foolish for this. being fed ai-generated bullshit is not what is supposed to happen on any creative platform and much less a fandom-centred one, so of course no one approaches a fic through that lens. fandom and fic writing is supposed to be about passion and the only person in this situation who needs to do better and change their behaviour is luxannaslut. polluting our creative spaces, wasting the time of your readers, and minimising the effort of actual writers who are working hard to provide content for us all to share and enjoy is vile and so, so lazy. i beg of you: do better.

[vnknowcrow]

You don't actually notice how proper danse talks until you have the dialogue written out in front of you

[bubblingsteam]

[puppppppppy]

AND I MET THE CHANGE GOD TOO. OKAY. COOL OKAY

[reginalusus]

Some corrupt Spam. I don't draw him enough.

Image description: Fanart of Spamton from Deltarune, done in a style reminiscent of an old anime. Spamton leans against the counter of his shop, grinning. He's in his corrupt form, wearing a black blazer and a white turtleneck. In his hand is a cigarette; the smoke from it is animated. Beside him on the counter is an ashtray; it also has animated smoke coming from it. Every now and then, the image glitches out. Behind Spamton is his shop wall as seen in the game; gaudy blue with a painted sun and clouds splattered on it. At the bottom of the image is a caption for Spamton's dialogue, which reads: "LET'S MAKE A DEAL. TRY MY [Friday Night Workout!]! THEN I'LL SHOW YOU MY THEN I'LL SHOW YOU MY-" End of image description.

[g1ngerbeer]

what kind of sauce are they putting in the link click audio drama. HELLO? THE LITERAL LAST SCENE OF THE LAST EPISODE?

程小时: 说起来，我们第一次见面，也是在篮球场吧。 陆光: 是啊。 程小时: 你我本无缘，全靠一颗球。 陆光: 我就不该答应你比那场。

cheng xiaoshi: speaking of which, the first time we met was also on a basketball court, wasn't it? lu guang: it was. cheng xiaoshi: (half-jokingly) you and i weren't meant to be [lit. "originally have no fate"?]. this is all because of one basketball. lu guang: i really shouldn't have agreed to play that match.

(the important bits are from google translate because i am bad at mandarin. also i did transcribe this off just the audio + i don't have access to captions or know where to find official transcripts. so i hope i got this right 🙏)