#guess who keeps remembering bullshit?

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

can someone who knows how to analyse tv shows explain to me why jessica jones s1 is just as good as i remember it being, s2 is more disappointing with every episode, and s3 is so forgettable i didnt even remember it existed and thought i must not have seen it

[gffa]

I'm going to climb up on a new hill to die on: I THINK PALPATINE'S PLAGUEIS STORY IS 100% MADE UP BULLSHIT. If you discount supplementary material created by other authors, the only thing we know about Plagueis is that speech Palpatine gives at the bubble opera, one we already know is designed to manipulate Anakin, but watching Revenge of the Sith in the theater again, thinking about how Anakin will later parrot Palpatine's words exactly--I realized, oh, it's not just a story being used to manipulate Anakin, I think it's a story created to manipulate Anakin, right where Palpatine wants him. It's a story about a Sith lord who learns how to make people stop dying. A Sith Lord who wants to stop his loved ones from dying. We know Palpatine doesn't actually know how to do this--the movie seems to imply that Palpatine was Plagueis' apprentice, but I'm not so sure. Palpatine says that Plagueis taught his apprentice everything--which would include the saving people bit--but Palpatine doesn't know how to save people, he says that he and Vader will discover it together and Anakin doesn't go, "Hey, wait, I thought you were supposed to know this!", which throws unreliability onto Palpatine's story already. There's a lot Palpatine is doing in this movie to manipulate Anakin very specifically--he puts Anakin on the Council, knowing they will ask him to spy on the Chancellor and even "guesses" it before Anakin can say anything at the opera, that he suggests Anakin should be the one to go to Utapau knowing that the Council will vote for a more experienced Master, he reveals himself to Anakin knowing that Anakin will tell them and be forced to choose, he tells Anakin the Plagueis story knowing that Anakin fears Padme's death (he is likely aware of Anakin's emotions about this, being an evil psychic space wizard himself) and sets it up so that it's the perfect bait. The conversation in ROTS goes:

Palpatine: "Remember back to your early teachings. All who gain power are afraid to lose it. Even the Jedi." Anakin: "The Jedi use their power for good." Palpatine: "Good is a point of view, Anakin. The Sith and the Jedi are similar in almost every way... including their quest for greater power." Anakin: "The Sith rely on their passion for their strength. They think inwards- only about themselves." Palpatine: "And the Jedi don't?" Anakin: "The Jedi are selfless. They only care about others." Palpatine: "Did you ever hear the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise? I thought not. It's not a story the Jedi would tell you. It's a Sith legend. Darth Plagueis was a dark lord of the Sith... so powerful and so wise... he could use the Force to influence the midi-chlorians... to create... life. He had such a knowledge of the dark side... he could even keep the ones he cared about... from dying." Anakin: "He could actually... save people from death?" Palpatine: The dark side of the Force is a pathway to many abilities... some consider to be unnatural." Anakin: "What happened to him?" Palpatine: "He became so powerful... the only thing he was afraid of was... Iosing his power. Which eventually, of course, he did. Unfortunately, he taught his apprentice everything he knew. Then his apprentice killed him in his sleep. It's ironic. He could save others from death... but not himself." Anakin: "Is it possible to learn this power?" Palpatine: "Not from a Jedi."

This entire conversation is a set-up to make Anakin think that it's not selfish to change his views, because it's just exactly as Anakin says the Jedi are selfless and only care about others that he starts the Plagueis story about this legendary Sith who just cared so much about his loved ones that he learned how to stop them from dying. But, oh, he couldn't stop himself from dying, he was only thinking of others! Not himself! Throughout the movie Palpatine is manipulating Anakin's thoughts so that Anakin will think in exactly the lines of thought that Sidious wants him to. ("Good is a point of view, Anakin." --> "From my point of view, the Jedi are evil!", "You know I'm not able to rely on the Jedi Council. If they haven't included you in their plot, they soon will." --> "I should have known the Jedi were plotting to take over!" Etc.) So when he wants Anakin to really consider using the dark side, he tells him a story about this mysterious Sith Lord who just wanted to save his loved ones, not himself, just those he cared about. It's the perfect way to give Anakin an excuse to take that first step that doesn't seem so bad, so against everything he knows is right, and think that it's okay if it's for someone else. It's not because he's so scared to lose someone he loves that he'll make a deal with the devil, no, he's just thinking of others, the ones he loves. The story is so perfectly designed to appeal to Anakin at this moment in time and so incongruent with everything else we know about Sith Lords and how the dark side works (the dark side is not a path to anything good), that I think it's 100% made up bullshit, just like everything Palpatine says to Anakin in this movie is a set-up to direct Anakin's thoughts where he wants them.

[praisethegabs]

OLDER

leon kennedy x reader

synopsis: he's getting older, and he knows that. not believing in luck or in love, leon finds himself in a position of complete misfortune. he convinced himself he's not worthy of love, but that changes when he meets you.

warnings: angst with fluff ending, age gap, leon is very insecure about his age and the reader. strangers to lovers, mentions of smut, ptsd, alcoholism, depression, suicidal thoughts. reader is very delicate, kind, and patient. there's parts from the vendetta book and a few scenes from re6. it starts with re6!leon and ends with di!leon

word count: 15k

a/n: guess who's back? to celebrate the 1 year re4r anniversary, I decided to post this one shot I was working for almost two months. I'm into my angst era again. also i wrote this based on this analysis i read, which made me think about the broken part of leon for a while, also this fic contains part of the vendetta book. feel free to leave comments, reblogs, tips, or positive critics. they're always very welcome ❤️

I. THE WEIGHT ON HIS SHOULDERS

Life can be a bitch sometimes.

This is what he says to himself when he finishes another bottle of whiskey. Every day, when he opens his eyes, he tries to stay positive, hoping his day will be different from his usual schedule; in the end, it is always the same bullshit. Over and over again. No apparent ending; always his solitude. 

But someday it must end, right? He can’t be fighting B.O.W.'s for the rest of his life, can he? Maybe someday he’ll finally settle down and have a peaceful day. Maybe, on this day, his nightmares will stop, and if he’s lucky, he’ll sleep for the entire night. No one can blame him for dreaming of a perfect life, and no one can take this from him. 

The government made him their slave, their deadly pet that follows and obeys every rule and command, and forced him to risk his neck almost every week to keep their country safe. What a bunch of assholes, he thinks to himself. Thing is, Leon hates himself for what he was forced to become. 

There is so much pain. So much suffering. He only wanted to be a cop — nothing more than that. He wanted to deal with simple things — not bioterrorists ready to blow up the entire world, not grotesque mutations that defy the natural order of things. Certainly, if he had a choice to go back and change that night, he wouldn’t go to Raccoon City. He would've stayed in his cheap hotel room; he would have obeyed Marvin’s orders to not go in there. 

But now he’s something else. The rookie cop who had to survive that night died. He can’t even recognize himself anymore, and sometimes, he blames himself for it. No more than he blames the government for it; if he could go back… 

His days are filled with this emptiness — the sensation that he might never see his happy ending. Ada? Yeah, sure. He knows he can’t trust her, and God knows where she is or what she’s doing. He was so naive to fall for her like he did. While on his free day out of the office, he finds himself with a certain envy of happy couples. He can’t stop thinking: why can’t he have the same? Why can’t he be happy for once?

Getting older sucks. At this point, Leon thinks and has already convinced himself that he doesn’t belong to anyone and that he won’t be able to have someone. To experience love and being loved, he wants to be wanted. He’s getting older and still doesn't have anyone by his side. That’s the price he pays for having this life, and he still blames the government for taking it from him. He doesn’t remember the last time he actually felt something for someone, and at this moment of his life, it doesn’t matter to him anymore. Leon had already accepted the fact that he'd die alone. Maybe he’ll get a cat to keep him company. Since he’s not much of a dog person since Raccoon City, maybe he’ll name her a cute name; who knows? That’s probably the closest he’ll get to having something waiting for him at home. 

Leon doesn’t remember the last time he actually felt happy. Since Raccoon City, he doesn't know what happiness means, and sometimes, on very rare occasions, he envies people around him. He feels like his entire life has no purpose and no meaning, and he’s completely faded to emptiness, to a sad existence based on killing bioweapons and serving his country. Does he feel proud about it? No, he doesn’t. 

It’s been a very long time since Leon felt pride. That feeling died and is now buried in the remains of Raccoon City, inside that police station where his life turned upside down. Now he’s only an empty shell of what he used to be. He’s rotting inside, craving something he knows he can’t have, and there’s nothing but a void inside him, consuming every inch of him. 

After serving his country for years, he started to get used to the idea that maybe he wasn’t made for a happy ending, and he shouldn’t bother with such things. He can’t afford the luxury of being with someone, because it means being vulnerable, and it also means he would have to open himself to things he swore he would never feel again. No, thank you. 

Things at work aren’t exactly the best, either. Years ago, Leon started to question himself about whether the government cared about their people, especially the ones he had to kill in order to save others. Leon couldn’t forget what happened in Spain — the entire village he was forced to end so he wouldn’t die. Perhaps they could’ve saved them; possibly they could’ve had a chance; maybe if… and this is where he dozes off thinking about the infinite possibilities. 

After what happened in Raccoon City, Leon knew he had lost faith. He knew things would never be the same after everything he saw that day. Sometimes, he finds himself thinking about Annette and William Birkin. He feels his body shivering when he remembers he had to fight for his life, clinging to something bigger than him. Survival. 

II. RINSE AND REPEAT

He has no social skills, and doesn't know how to interact with people anymore. It all feels weird and uncomfortable, and it makes him feel terrible. Sometimes he feels like he’s stuck in time and can’t have a proper conversation with someone normal. The worst part of his life is that he feels he’s carrying a weight on his shoulders that it wasn’t supposed to be his in the first place. He has the weight of the world with him, and there is no one to help him through it. Life made him depressed, cold and distant. Life has built him this way; he's shaped himself into something he’s not, and he can’t find himself. He’s lost. 

Leon can’t stop having nightmares about Raccoon City.

At this point, he just accepted that they wouldn't go away. It feels like he’s trapped inside his own mind, and there’s no turning back. Sometimes at night, he keeps looking at his ceiling imagining a different life, where he was a cop and happy. Usually, his nightmares are so dark and deep that when he wakes up, he finds solace in the sunlight, feeling relieved that he survived another night. When he doesn't sleep, when he’s too scared to close his eyes, he cries quietly, protected by the walls of his room, searching for assurance and a promise that everything will be fine. It doesn’t always work, but now he knows he can control his fears, and somehow, it helps him feel safe.

This time, his mission nearly got him killed. His entire body was full of bruises and wounds, and every part of him hurt. He felt his body swallowing a little, and he felt terrible again. He has blood under his nails, and he washes himself at least three times to make sure there’s nothing more on him than the burden of being a slave for the government.

Leon is paranoid; he can’t stand the fact that he has blood on his hands. If he sees a spot, he’ll clean it until there’s nothing left, and maybe he’s now too obsessed with the idea of being clean. It makes him feel sick to the bones, because he knows what he does and what it means. He knows that this guilt won’t be washed away like the blood on his hands, and certainly won’t get away from his head like it does from his clothes whenever he launders them. It’s a pretty shitty routine, but he’s used to it. 

Now he finds himself in a very dark place; he can’t eat without feeling guilty. He can’t do the basics of his chores because he can’t stop thinking about his life, regretting every decision he made. Everything he does seems mechanical, like he’s repeating the process over and over again, a perfect killing machine that has no one to care about. On Fridays, he finds himself sitting on his couch, in complete silence, holding an empty bottle. He knows he can’t drown himself in alcohol, no matter how much he wants it or how tempting it sounds, because the liquid doesn’t affect him anymore. It doesn't make the pain go away or silence the horrors he saw during his life. 

After three weeks inside his house, locked inside his room, Leon woke up with a strange feeling inside his chest. Something was telling him that this day would be different, like a big change would happen. For the first time in weeks, he decided to leave his place for a simple walk. He could do that; he could walk into the market and buy some real food or maybe get a haircut. He felt that he was able to allow himself to have an ordinary day. 

After taking a long shower, Leon decided to wear cozy and comfortable clothes. He was so used to his brutal routine that he almost forgot what it was like to have a normal day, but this time, he was willing to try something different. He took a deep breath before leaving his house, and when he felt the soft, cold breeze reaching his skin, he knew he could do that.

Step by step, Leon found himself walking towards the market, even enjoying the lovely view he had from his neighborhood. He doesn’t remember it to be so… gray. Sure, he knows what winter is, but he doesn’t remember the last time he actually stayed at his home during the winter. His lips turn into a small smirk, and he thinks how silly he is. When he reaches the small market, which is more of a store, he walks slowly, looking at what he might be buying - he’s done with frozen food. He stops at the veggie section and keeps looking at it, confused. 

“These aren’t fresh” a sweet voice is enough to wake him up from his trance. He looks in that direction, and all he sees is you.

“How can you tell that?” he asks you in visible confusion, which makes you smile. And that smile was enough to sparkle something oddly inside him. 

“Color, smell, texture,” you explained, still smiling and showing him a fresh vegetable. “This one is fresh."

"Thanks,” Leon replied awkwardly, taking the vegetable from your hand and placing it in his basket.

“You don’t come here very often. I know almost everyone who comes to buy food here,” you said next, glancing at him with curiosity. 

“I… have a busy schedule,” he says, still sounding awkward.

“Really? Well, you should definitely take some time to buy healthy food. I’m pretty sure you do a lot of workouts to keep your body in shape” you giggle, noticing the size of his muscles, which makes his face turn red.

“I’ll keep that in mind” Leon managed to say, although he wanted to dissipate from Earth.

“I can help with that” you suddenly said, analyzing him more carefully.

“With what?” Leon frowned, already feeling his heart beating ten times faster.

“I noticed you’re having difficulty with your right arm, which makes me think you got it hurt. If you’re planning to buy more, I can help with your bags” you offered, very polite and kind, catching him by surprise. 

“Thanks” Leon says, finding himself smiling, which is unusual. 

At first, having some company after so much time alone made him think it was strange. He wasn’t feeling ready to have a small conversation, but you didn’t seem bothered. In fact, you were enjoying walking to this stranger's house in complete silence. Fifteen minutes later, you were in front of his house in an awkward silence between the two of you. 

“I guess this is it” you smiled at him, and Leon found himself lost in your smile. 

“Yeah. Thank you” he said for the fifth time, which made you giggle a little. 

“Anything for a customer” you said to him, giving him his bags. “My parents are the owners, so…”

“You don’t seem too old” he said, and after a second, he felt more weird. “I mean…”

“Nah, it’s ok. This isn’t the first time people say I'm younger than I look”. You smiled again, thinking that this old man was very silly and cute. “I’m 25, don’t worry”

“I’m Leon, by the way” He finally says his name to you, stretching his hand in a very educated way.

“Nice to meet you, Leon” you said before shaking his hand. 

Leon took at least three weeks to return to the market. 

His initial thoughts about you were that he definitely felt weird in your presence. Maybe he felt that way because of his lack of social skills and because he really sucks when the subject is social conversation. He caught himself thinking too hard about the visual and evident contrast between the two of you; you were young, bright and smart, with a great future ahead of you, and plus, you came from a loving family. Leon, on the other hand, was an orphan used and abused by the government, their pet and a man who only knew pain and brutality. 

However, you were the first friendly face he saw after years. The way you were smiling and giggling at his awkward answers, it definitely made him feel something he thought he would never feel again. It was like you found the rookie cop inside him, and despite the fact that he barely said something, he felt normal around you. And that was more than enough. How could it happen so fast? 

“How can I help you?” you said before noticing it was him. “Oh, hi” 

“Hi” Leon is welcomed by that smile of yours. “I… um…”

“You came to buy more veggies?” you ask, still smiling at him. You think it’s cute to see him without any words. 

“No… I just came because I’m looking for food seasoning” Leon said, his face slightly turning red. “I’m trying new recipes, so…” 

“Yeah? What have you been trying?” you ask with sudden enthusiasm, leading him to the part with seasonings. 

“Nothing too risky” he answers vaguely, following you closely.

“What kind of seasonings do you like?” You turn back to face him as you show him the shelves with different types of seasonings. 

“I’m more into spicy flavors” Leon tells you, his attention going to the shelves. 

“It suits you” you said, giving him some space. You saw him smiling again. 

"How does spicy seasoning suit me?” he asks with a hint of curiosity. 

“You might think I’m weird, but… seeing from outside, you look like someone with a rough agenda and, apparently, whatever you do is dangerous. Personally, I think you suit perfectly spicy things” you said, hoping it would make sense. 

“I think I got your point,” Leon said, and then he found himself smiling for the second time. 

“Lucky me, right?” you laugh, walking back to the cashier. “Is this all for today?”

“Yeah, I guess it is,” Leon nods, grabbing his wallet to pay for the seasonings. 

“How’s your arm?” you ask, taking his money and counting it. 

“It's better. I had to take a few painkillers, but it’s definitely better” he said, avoiding you for a few moments. 

“That’s great. I know a few herbs to help with the pain” you said, giving him the change from his purchase. 

“How so?” Leon asks with another hint of curiosity. 

“A great sorcerer doesn’t reveal her secrets” you wink playfully at him. “You need to earn that, soldier” 

“And how could I earn your secrets, great sorcerer?” Leon asks, enjoying your playful mood. 

“Maybe you can invite me for dinner and show me your cooking skills” you shake your shoulders and, for the second time, catching him by surprise. 

“You would love that, wouldn't you?” Leon said, and a slight smirk appeared on his lips. 

“Who knows?” You wink playfully at him, with another suggestive smile on your lips. 

The world has gone to hell, Leon thinks to himself. 

He starts to contemplate everything that has happened to him. When did this madness begin? It was back in Raccoon City? Oh, no. It is way older than that. Maybe his collapse started when his family died, and he was left an orphan; what happened in Raccoon City wasn’t really the beginning of his nightmare. It was the cherry on top of the torments that would become his life. 

Now that he’s coming back home from another mission, he can’t stop thinking how his life could’ve been if Umbrella had never happened. If those bioweapons were never created, defying every natural order. He looks outside his window, and he just can’t stop blaming himself for Tall Oaks. 

What has become of this world? Leon thinks. Where did I go wrong? 

His life is an entire mistake. It just goes on and on. His family first, then Raccoon City. Tricell, Los Illuminados, Uroboros and, finally, that nightmare at Tall Oaks. Leon takes a deep breath. He feels his hands shaking and closes his eyes, forcing himself to forget. How silly he is!

The future is a hell that’s only getting worse. 

III. THE PAIN OF REMEMBERING

You weren't expecting Leon to find the note with your number that you left on his seasonings, the same way you weren't expecting him to call you.

However, something about him got your attention the minute he stepped foot inside the store. He wasn't like anything you had seen before; he was definitely something else. 

After almost four weeks since the last time you saw him, you got a call from an unknown number. It was pretty late at night, but your curiosity won the battle within you, and you had to pick up the phone. With a groggy voice of sleep, you saw the number and frowned.

“Hello?” You ask, followed by a big yawning. It was one in the morning. 

“Hi… um, it's Leon” he says with some urgency, to which you jump from your bed. “I'm sorry to wake you up” 

“No, don't worry. I wasn't sleeping” you lied, forcing yourself not to yawn again. 

“I know it's late, but… I was thinking about that dinner…” he says, sounding somehow hopeful. “Maybe you could come later and… talk?” 

“Yeah, sure. Can you pick me up?” You ask him, and a smile appears on your lips as you answer him. 

“Of course. At seven?” 

“At seven, it is,” you smiled again. 

As soon as the call ended, he was in complete shock. For some reason, Leon felt you wouldn’t accept his invitation, especially after being alone for so long. His heart was beating faster inside his chest, and he had to remind himself that it was just a casual date between… two friends? Could you possibly be his friend? 

Leon felt anxious, something he only felt when he was on his missions. 

Suddenly, the mere thought of having you at his home with him sounded terrifying. He felt like it would end in a complete disaster, and you wouldn’t see him ever again. Then, Leon had to stop and calm himself down, knowing it was his trauma trying to get the best of him. After everything he went through in his life, being able to trust someone proved to be a difficult task. He felt scared, and his mind was racing with thousands of different thoughts, each worse than the other. 

Betrayal is the word that defines Leon. 

He was betrayed before and multiple times, which left him with a lot of insecurities and traumas to the point he feels that he can’t trust anyone, which led to another set of insecurities. Leon feels that he isn’t enough anymore, that he can’t provide the proper attention someone might need from him, and that he can’t be in a relationship because of his problems. The truth is, he can’t be in a relationship until he leaves his trauma behind, and he knows it. That’s the easy part, but the hard one is how to let it go. 

Later that day, Leon finally had the courage to clean his house. He needed some motivation to get rid of his depression, and nothing was better than finally allowing himself to have some company besides his solitude. His house smelled pretty good, everything was clean, and his furniture was even shining. He opened the curtains, and the sunlight entered his living room. He took a deep breath with the fresh air that came inside, and smiled, feeling somehow proud and happy. 

At seven, you were waiting outside the store, scrolling through your phone, when you saw Leon approaching on his motorcycle. You were gorgeous, wearing a beautiful dress and covered by a black leather jacket — the perfect contrast that suited you well. Leon was completely mesmerized by the sight of you - so beautiful, he thought. 

“Hey, there” you waved at him as he parked next to you. 

“Hi,” Leon replies, sounding embarrassed. “You look beautiful”

“You too, handsome” you said playfully, taking the helmet from his hand and sitting behind him, your hands holding him tight. You didn’t notice the small blush on his cheeks. 

"Are you okay back there?” Leon asks you, making sure you were fine before starting the engines. 

“Yeah, I’m fine” you said, nodding your head, and smiling when he started to drive his bike to his place. 

You two didn’t take long enough to reach his place. Leon offered you his hand so you had support to get out of his bike, and he even opened the front door for you. He led you inside his house, and everything inside was enough to show you the kind of man he was; his home was big, but simple. He had a lot of comfort there, but it seemed like he didn't spend much time at his place. You saw some photos at the fireplace, a few when he was younger, at some training camp with his possible friends. 

“How old were you when you took these?” you asked him with curiosity. 

“I was twenty-one” he said, grabbing the wine and the glasses. 

“So young” you whispered, noticing that in some pictures, he was sad. 

Leon took another deep breath. Why did this have to be so difficult? Why couldn’t he be just normal for once? Why did everything have to happen to him? You were standing there, so gracefully, observing his old photographs, so young and full of life, with no baggage with you. Someone actually happy and alive. If you knew how much he envies this. 

“People say that our eyes are the windows to our soul” you turn to face him, noticing his sudden silence. “Yours are so sad and broken… what happened to your neck?”

Instinctively, his hand reaches his neck, and Leon feels the bandage perfectly secured on his skin, with a small spot of blood. Gladly, it was enough to change the subject, because he was shocked enough by what you said about his broken soul. If you only knew. 

“I, um… got hurt on my job. It’s nothing.” Leon tries to avoid speaking about his past. 

“It seems pretty bad” you step closer to him, your hand gently touching his bandage. 

“It’s nothing… trust me” Leon smiles weakly, looking down. His heart is beating so fast inside his chest that he could explode any time. “I’m fine” 

“Then explain why you are so nervous around me” you whispered, now softly touching his cheek. 

Leon felt he stopped breathing, like his lungs decided to leave him alone and deal with the matter himself; how powerful your touch felt. It was enough to break every wall he built around himself for years; it was enough to make him break. And it was only a soft and kind touch. He slowly closed his eyes, his breath becoming normal again, and he allowed himself to just feel it. 

“I don’t know what on earth happened to you…” your voice is full of kindness as you speak, now seeing him hold your hand as you keep touching his cheek. “But I’m always here if you decide to talk” 

Leon was reaching his breaking point. 

He was used to being a slave, always using his body, mind and soul to provide safety for the others without them knowing one damn thing about it; he was used to always being alone, to the point that kindness was a strange feeling, almost not existing at all and that he didn’t deserve it. But here you are. 

“It hurts to remember,” he confessed, his voice a low whisper. “I tried to forget it, but I can’t” 

When he felt you wrapping your arms around his body and your warmth embracing him, Leon felt his eyes getting wet. He was so deeply touch starved, craving something so human, that when he got it, he knew he was going to break. His mind was racing, and his body was trying to process the feeling and react in the proper way. He felt so many emotions at once that he thought he was going insane. 

“Please, keep holding me” Leon begs, his arms finding their way through your back as he hugs you back. “Because I know I’ll fall if you let me go” 

After that night, it took almost two months until Leon decided to show up at the store to see you again. He felt nervous, but at this point, he realized that, for some reason, he couldn’t stay away from you; he felt that you had some type of magnetism enough to keep him close, which made him feel comfortable, something he hadn't felt in a while. 

However, before he went to the store to see you, he needed courage. Leon thought you would be upset with him after being ghosted for almost two months, although he felt responsible for it, since he never told you the nature of his job or why he was so absent. Sadly, Leon was again in a spiral of sadness and depression. His last mission was a disaster, and Leon knew he had no control over his feelings again. He was sitting on his bed, contemplating the bottle in his hands. The curtains were closed, and the atmosphere inside his room was darker. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, and then, he’s there again. 

June 29, 2013. Tall Oaks, USA

“It might create more problems than it solves…” the voice of the president echoes inside his head as he points his gun towards the said person.

Leon doesn't recognize the man in front of him, or what he used to be. He keeps his gun raised, his grasp around the trigger getting tight by the second he makes his decision. His voice comes and goes, creating a tense atmosphere around him. 

“Bio-organic weapons are a global threat and we are partly to blame…” Benford said once to Leon when he expressed his desire to expose the truth about the Raccoon City Incident. He looks at the living corpse in front of him. Tick tack. He knows what he needs to do. “I’ve always valued your friendship, Leon… It’s time to take responsibility and end this mess” 

He shakes his head, somehow returning to his reality. 

“Stay right where you are!” Leon said, his voice sounding cracked and angry. The corpse starts walking towards him and as a reflex, his grip gets more tight. “Mr. President!” 

The zombie starts walking towards him and the woman next to him. He hesitates for a moment, unsure and sure about what he needs to do. Every part of him screams and begs, trying to find a solution. He knows it’s too late. He can’t save the president, he can’t save anyone. 

“Don’t make me do this” Leon gritted his teeth, trying to find any reason to avoid what needed to be done. It happens fast. Adam Benford, the former president of the United States and now a corpse, throws himself towards her. “Adam!” Leon screams.

He pulls the trigger. 

And there’s only blood. 

He gets out of his thoughts when he hears someone knocking on his front door. It doesn't take too long for him to finally stand up and see who’s there, and, inside his mind, he’s already preparing himself to tell this person to leave him alone, but his entire demeanor changes when he opens the door, and all he sees there is you. 

“You’re back” you smiled warmly at him, your cheeks red because of the cold temperature. “I wasn’t sure you were home” 

“What are you doing here?” Leon’s first question isn't as welcome as you thought it would be. 

“A friend can’t see a friend?” you answered simply, and the smile never left your lips. 

“I’m sorry” he sighs, giving you space to enter his place. “I didn’t mean to be rude” 

“Don’t worry” you said, removing your scarf and hat. “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine, I guess” Leon nods slowly, and you notice he’s not entirely well. 

“Breakfast?” you ask him, wanting to confirm your suspicions, and he nods quietly. 

You had difficulty finding yourself inside his place, since you’ve been there only once. You notice that he’s quiet, and despite that fact, which is completely normal for him, you know that there’s something wrong. So, you decided to go simple with his breakfast. Almost forty minutes later, you came back with a plate full of pancakes, crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, and some orange juice. 

He leisurely used his knife and fork to eat the food you made. The careful manner in which he ate wasn’t due to his cautious nature, but rather because he had a terrible hangover that messed with his coordination, and rushing could easily lead to a slip of the hand and his shaking. Leon was a pretty man, and he could easily take on leading roles in Hollywood blockbusters. However, he currently sported a scruffy beard, exuded a weary atmosphere, and radiated fatigue and discontent. 

“I think I reached rock bottom,” Leon finally says, but he avoids your gaze at all costs. 

“Then I’ll help you get out of there” you said with kindness, your pinky finger interlocking with his. 

IV. GRIEF AND BARGAIN 

The path to healing isn’t always easy, and now Leon is aware of that. 

The year is now 2014 and he’s struggling to forget what happened a year ago. Sometimes, when his mind is quiet, he starts to wonder. Is it possible that there could have been a world without Umbrella and zombies? Leon scoffed and shook off his sweet dreams. A world without zombies? That's something from a long time ago. The future is only going to become a worse hell. Then, he has to remind himself about the great things he has in life. You are one of these things.

Although he has your support, he knows that he’ll only get better walking this path by himself. The winter deciduous forest looked like branches made of human bones. A mixed forest with a walking path spread out. This is a high-end residential area in Bethesda, Maryland, where congressmen and bureaucrats commuting to Washington spend their nights. In the depths of a thicket, there was a slightly open gentle sloping area where the desired building was located. It was a designer house filled with a sense of openness, with all outer walls covered in glass, and it appeared like a model intended to showcase beautiful scenery rather than a place for people to live in. 

The luxury was excessive to the point where it seemed somewhat like a toy. Leon had hidden himself in the thicket away from the road and was monitoring the designer house through binoculars with night vision capabilities. It was an unacknowledged fact, but a traitor to the country was living in this mansion. Senator Steven Air, who had sold information to a bioterrorist organization, was one of many government officials who had been involved in the incident in Tall Oaks where the President became a victim of B.O.W. Simmons, the President's aide, was among those who betrayed the government. And Leon still blames himself for what happened that night. 

Currently, fifteen members of the Division of Security Operations (DSO) and two stealth drones have surrounded Steven's mansion. It was necessary to capture him and extract plenty of information before bringing him to trial. According to reports from aerial surveillance, Steven was on his way home by car from Washington. The distance from the White House to Bethesda was approximately twelve kilometers, and it would take about thirty minutes if he drove fast. Leon shifted his focus to his shoulder holster with a handgun. Of course, capturing him alive was best, but there was no hesitation in shooting the traitor if he resisted.

Leon suddenly remembers. This is Bethesda. The name is derived from the Bible. From the Gospel of John–

“Now there is in Jerusalem near the Sheep Gate a pool, which in Aramaic is called Bethesda and which is surrounded by five covered colonnades. Here a great number of disabled people used to lie — the blind, the lame, the paralyzed. One who was there had been an invalid for thirty-eight years."

Jesus healed the man who had been sick for 38 years. God's love and His miracles. Bravo. That's exactly what this world needs in this hell.

"Target approaching."

As he thinks about the Bible, a communication comes through his earpiece. It's a report from the overhead surveillance team flying a drone. A roadway that weaves through a grove of mixed trees was approached by Stephen's white Porsche, an elegant luxury car resembling a graceful white swan. Perhaps dozens, hundreds of people may have died to buy that car. Such is the life of a villain.

"Visual on the target vehicle. Secure upon my GO signal," Leon whispered into his radio microphone. Both the earphones and microphone were of a bone conduction type that excelled in noise resistance. It converts vocal cord vibrations transmitted through the skull directly into voice signals. It was a perfect gadget for special operations where one couldn't make loud noises or miss instructions in the midst of noise. 

The Porsche approached the garage. 

"GO," Leon said sharply. 

At that moment, two SUVs that had been hiding in a blind spot by the roadway started their engines like barking dogs and closed in on the Porsche at tremendous speed, trapping it in a pincer movement as planned. The driver of the Porsche was Stephen's secretary, with a bodyguard in the passenger seat and Stephen himself in the back seat. 

Suddenly trapped from the front and back, they were thrown into confusion. Leon wondered – would the bodyguard or secretary resist? There was no doubt that they were carrying guns. He didn't want to give them unnecessary visibility, but he would deal with it when the time came. The agents jumped out of the trees. In the next moment, Stephen's Porsche exploded. 

A deafening roar and shock. The high-performance explosive device planted under the car's body lifted the Porsche several meters off the ground, engulfing it in flames. And caught up in it, the DSO's SUVs overturned as well. The window glass of all the cars shattered into tiny pieces, the car bodies twisted and burned the people inside. All six agents from the team on foot, including Leon himself, were blown backwards by the force of the blast. Leon still thinks like he’s floating in the air, an eerie feeling of weightlessness that ended when he felt his body slamming against a tree trunk. In those fleeting moments, his consciousness waned, and it was the closest he had come to death.

Yet, it seemed the Grim Reaper was not yet ready to claim him. 

Pain, intense and searing, jolted Leon’s awareness back to life, a grunt of pain escaping his lips. Leon struggled to his feet, and he threw up, retching repeatedly. His consciousness ebbed and flowed like waves, and he knew that rest was essential. Leon suspected that his ribs and collarbone were either fractured or cracked, but, fortunately, his arms and legs remained unbroken. Gritting his teeth, he managed to force his dislocated left shoulder joint back into place, enduring the excruciating pain, as he tried to work out which way was up. 

There are bruises littered across his skin, scratches and abrasions where the bark of the tree tore his flesh. The shock of the explosion and the fear of death… an unpleasant feeling of internal organs turning over welled up. No matter how many times he experienced it, he could never get used to the terror of a close-range explosion. The air was knocked from his lungs; his breathing temporarily stopped; his eardrums were about to burst; and his knees were weak. He can barely stand. Leon finally sits up, willing his agent training to give him a sense of urgency even though his body is screaming in agony. The stench of gasoline fills the air, but Leon can barely smell it. His sense of smell and hearing are both almost gone. What the hell happened? Leon asked himself in front of the burning Porsche.

He feels paralyzed. 

It was three in the morning when your phone started to ring. 

It was an unknown number, and you had to fight the necessity of hanging up; something inside you told you to pick up the call, which you did. It was Leon, and the way his voice sounded on the phone made you aware that something bad had happened. Terrible, nonetheless. You drove to his location, and you found yourself shocked when you found smoke, fire and the smell of gasoline among a lot of government agents and military personnel. You found Leon sitting in the back of an ambulance, his body covered by a blanket, as he was examined by a paramedic. Not only that, but you had credentials to enter that isolated area, and the way those agents were rushing from one side to the other, talking on their phones, made it clear that someone important had died. You made your way towards Leon, not daring to look around, and when you reached him, you saw tears in his eyes. You hugged him tight, like you were holding the world in your hands. 

“It’s ok, I got you” you said to him, your words full of assurance and kindness. 

Leon refused to be taken to the hospital; instead, he asked you to drive him back home, since he felt he couldn’t do it on his own. The ride back to his place was silent, and you decided to respect his space, although you saw him trying to find solace in something real. He couldn’t stop playing with his finger, showing an elevated level of stress and anxiety. You have never seen him like this before. 

“Can you stay?” Leon suddenly asked when you pulled over in front of his house. “I… don’t want to be alone” 

“Yeah, sure” you nodded, noticing how vulnerable he was, which was odd. 

You heard him groaning in pain once he got out of your car, but he refused your help, insisting he was fine. Knowing him well at this point, you gently held his hand, offering nothing but your support, and Leon quietly appreciated your effort. You helped him sit on his couch and heard him mutter something only he could understand. Judging by the look on his face and the way his hands were still shaking, you knew he was in shock. 

“Do you have any first aid kits or something?” you asked him, hoping you would gain his attention. 

“I’m fine” Leon replies, his eyes fixated on his shaky hands. You sat next to him, holding his hands and scratching his skin softly. 

“It’s ok not to be okay." Your voice is almost a whisper as you look into his blue eyes. “You don’t have to be tough all the time” 

You saw him reach the breaking point. 

Feeling embraced by your kindness and safety, Leon finally allowed himself to feel his emotions — the same ones he fought hard to bury deep inside him — in the same place he swore he would never visit again. In the cozy atmosphere of his living room, having nothing but you as solace, the brunette agent gave himself a break, and when he did that, his eyes started to get watery.

After Raccoon City, Leon shut himself up so he wouldn’t be hurt ever again. He used to keep his emotions contained; he used to not think of them. He kept everything bottled up, because he knew he couldn’t handle it. Leon was so traumatized that the way he dealt with his feelings was to pretend they didn’t exist, in the first place. After Spain, it got worse. Nightmares after nightmares, the paranoia of still being infected with Las Plagas, everything that came after this. 

But here you are, telling him that it is ok not to be okay, that he doesn’t have to be tough, and that it is okay to feel and to be vulnerable. He couldn’t stop sobbing; his hands were still shaking, but he didn't even care about this at the moment. Gently, you started to play with his hair, your fingers slowly going up and down on his head, providing comfort and care — exactly what he’s been missing his entire life. 

“I lost them all” Leon started to say through sobs. “I saw them dead” 

“It wasn’t your fault” you assured him with calm words. 

“I failed them," he says as he looks at you, his blue eyes shining with tears as they fall through his skin. 

“That’s not true. You didn’t know the car was about to explode or whatever happened there” You tried to calm him down. 

“We were watching him; it was my responsibility to make sure they would be safe… it was my job to ensure that” Leon sobs again, and you can see he’s struggling to breathe due to his anxiety attack. 

“Listen, you’re too nervous right now. Come on, take a deep breath with me” you said, hoping he would listen and cope. 

Leon nods between sobs and takes several deep breaths to try to calm himself down. You took a glass of water and gave it to him, then you took his hand into yours, whispering words of assurance and kindness. You decided to put him to rest, and it wasn’t necessary to drag Leon into his bed; the moment you step foot inside his room, you can see how severe his depression is. Successfully, you were able to lay him down and remove at least his boots. Leon curled into his blankets and muffled his sobs with his pillows. 

“Do you want me to stay here until you fall asleep?” you ask, sitting on his bed with him, moving his hair from his eyes. He nodded silently. 

Slowly, his sobs turned into sniffs, and Leon finally fell asleep. It took almost an hour to calm him down completely, but now he was safe and sound into a peaceful slumber, or what appears to be. You don’t recall exactly when you fell asleep on his bed, but you certainly remember when you woke up to the sound of his screams. Leon never told you about his nightmares, and you weren’t expecting that. His chest was drenched in sweat, and he seemed like he couldn’t breathe. His eyes were filled with fear, and he was shaking head to toe. 

“Fuck” Leon mutters, his hand running through his hair. 

“What happened?” you ask him after turning the lights on. 

“Just a nightmare…” he whispers, trying to calm down again. 

“How frequent are they?” It was a bold question, but you needed to know. 

“Every night” Leon ignores your glance, focusing on his shaky hands again. 

“Here, drink it” you give him a glass of water with sugar to calm his nerves. You already had that glass with you the moment you went with him to his room. 

“Do you even like me?” Leon suddenly asks you. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You’re so kind, beautiful, and young, with so much in your future” Leon sighs heavily. “Why would you be with a… broken man like me? I have nothing to offer but traumas and the big baggage of my shitty life” 

The pressure you put on biting your lip was so intense that it was enough to cut your skin and make it bleed. 

“Who says you have nothing to offer? I don’t think that’s true. You’re a wonderful person, Leon. I can see it every day when you come to see me at the store. The way you smile whenever you are around me, the way your eyes shine…” you said to him, hoping it would be enough to give him some comfort. “I don’t see you as a broken person or a man with the baggage of a shitty life. I can’t imagine what must have happened to you, and I know it must be difficult and hard because that's what I see, but, Leon, the darkness around you doesn’t define who you are. Whatever life did to you, it doesn't dictate your present or future."

No matter how many kind words you say, it isn’t enough for him. Leon blames himself for what happened, and you know he won’t forget it so soon. How can he? Those men trusted him and followed him, and now, they’re all dead. Leon thinks he should’ve saved them, even though he knows he couldn’t guess the car was about to explode. 

“I wish I could heal your soul so you wouldn’t suffer anymore, but I can’t” you sigh, then look at his hand. “I wish I could fight all of your demons, but I can’t do that. I’m here and I don’t intend to leave you alone” 

After holding his hand, it was the first night Leon actually slept without any more nightmares. When he woke up the next morning, he felt his eyes heavy and he instantly remembered how he cried the night before after his entire squad was murdered. Then, he also remembered that you were there with him the whole time. Finally, he noticed how strange that feeling was - the feeling of being comforted instead of comforting others. It was a strange feeling indeed, but it was a good one. 

Lazily, he stood up from his bed and decided to look at himself in the mirror, washing his face and taking a moment to see the collateral damage caused by the bomb. There were a few bruises and cuts on his skin, but huge purple marks on his shoulder, which he dislocated. It still hurts, but it’s enough to keep him in the real world. He’s still alive.  

“Morning, princess” you greeted him in his kitchen. “I made breakfast” 

“You shouldn’t worry about that, y’know?” Leon says, leaning against his cabinet. 

“Too late for that. Now is my job to worry about ya” you said, opening the cabinet above your head on tiptoe, which made him smirk. “Are you feeling better?” 

“Yeah, I guess so” he says, nodding his head and helping you get the cornflakes. “Thank you… for sticking up with me last night” 

“You know I care about you, right? Since day one” you glance at him with a warm smile. “I really do” 

“I care about you, too” Leon blushes slightly. “More than I can tell” 

You know Leon pretty well at this point and you know he has trouble speaking of his feelings. You know he can’t express himself properly, and you ain’t stupid. You know someone has hurt him before and you understand why he is the way he is. Fortunately, you are very patient, and that’s enough for now, because you don’t mind giving him time and space. 

“I can look at your wounds; maybe I can help” you offered, finishing preparing the breakfast. 

“This means I finally earned your secrets?” Leon asks, a small smile on his lips, as he references the conversation you had with him a few months ago. 

“You surely did." You nodded, smiling. “Let’s eat first, then I’ll take a look at it” 

Leon seemed to enjoy the breakfast you made for him, and, for the first time since you two met, he genuinely seemed happy. However, you knew deep inside he was trying and fighting hard to hide his true feelings; losing his squad certainly shattered him inside, and caused more damage to him than you could ever imagine. 

Leon is a master when it comes to hiding his feelings. All over the years, Leon had built around himself an impenetrable shell, not allowing anyone to get closer, and all of that because he is scared of being hurt again. However, if the explosion never happened, if his men never died the way they did, Leon wouldn’t be pretending he’s fine when you know he’s not. The damage is so intense that you’re afraid he won’t recover. It’ll always be there with him, rotting inside him. 

You weren’t expecting so many wounds all at once, but when he took off his shirt and you saw his bruised skin, you took a deep breath. He had so many marks, so many stories. You wanted to ask, you wanted to know, but Leon wasn’t ready to share it yet. 

“I got this one back in Raccoon City” Leon quietly says, pointing to the scar on his left shoulder. “I got shot” 

“How did this happen?” you decided to ask him as you gently cleaned a few cuts he had.  

“I was helping a woman named Ada Wong to get a sample of G-Virus, and only a scientist named Annette Birkin had this sample. We were trying to find her and, when we did, she started to shoot Ada. I jumped in front of her, that’s why I got shot” Leon sighs, recalling the events that happened in the sewers. 

“This Ada seems very important to you” you smiled at him, cleaning the other cut he had on his neck.  

“She was, but it was a long time ago” Leon avoids your gaze. “Not anymore” 

“She was the one that hurt you?” you ask him very carefully. 

Leon didn’t answer, but his silence speaks for himself. You can see the extension of the damage and how Leon still struggles to deal with whatever happened between him and Ada. He stays silent, maybe trying to understand how his life turned into this mess. Then, he starts to count every time he was betrayed before until this very moment. His blue irises meet yours and all he feels is… peace. There’s no inner storms inside him, he feels completely at ease. 

“If I ask you a favor…” Leon suddenly says, changing the conversation. 

“What do you need?” you ask him without hesitation. 

“Could you come with me to the morgue? There’s something I need to do” Leon sighs, preparing himself for what’s about to happen. 

“Of course. I’ll tell my parents I’ll go to the store later” you nodded, quickly picking up your phone to text them. 

Leon partially felt guilty, but you were so willing to go with him that he changed his mind after you helped him dress himself — the way he dislocated his shoulder still hurts and he has difficulty with it. You drove to the morgue and judging by the interior of the building, you found out Leon was some sort of agent working for the government. You were able to read the name of the organization. Division of Security Operations. 

“So you’re a badass agent, huh?” you ask with enthusiasm as you walk next to him. 

“I wouldn’t say I’m a badass” Leon chuckles, still feeling tense. 

“Well, if you put your neck at stake to save your country, then you’re definitely a badass” you added, giving him a warm smile. 

When you both stepped inside the morgue, he reached out for your hand, seeking any support you could give him. The back wall was a box-shaped cold storage room, and a row of dissecting tables lined the spacious room. And on those dissecting tables were numerous body bags. It's a body bag with the DSO logo on it. Do they really need a logo even on something like this? Irony floated within Leon's chest. Are they planning to sell products with the logo on them, like DSO-branded body bags, DSO-logoed cigarette cases, DSO-logoed pass cases...?

He walked between the body bags to the sound of his boots. Unlike normal bodies, the victims of b.o.w - related incidents were usually sent for examination to specialized research institutions. Although this time the cause of death was due to a bomb, not a zombie attack, the instruction from above was to send the bodies to various laboratories, so they followed suit. This DSO branch’s mortuary was a relay point for passing the bodies from the scene to the laboratory, like a baton in a relay race. It wasn’t easy to simply bury them in a graveyard. The morgue itself wasn’t scary, but the corpses were scary because they stimulated the imagination. 

“Would they suddenly start moving? Would I end up like this too?” Leon thinks to himself a little bit loud, enough for you to hear him.

“You won’t” you whispered, squeezing his hand to let him know you were there.  

Watching the corpses closely would cause a moment where the elongated shadows would appear like monsters. However, that was before Raccoon City. He had seen too many moments where the dead came back to life. 

“I’m not scared of the mortuary anymore; recently, I’ve been thinking about it a lot” Leon frowned as he moved towards the back while swirling his thoughts. He thought he heard a sound from there minutes before. 

“What do you mean?” you ask him with curiosity as he approaches one of the bags. 

“I was constantly thinking about death and ending everything. I was depressed and thought I had no hope left” Leon confessed, his eyes locked on the body bags in front of him. “But now… I don’t think about that anymore”

He glances at you, finally. Slowly, his eyes meet your hand while you’re holding him and there’s a small smile on his lips, then his blue irises find yours again. 

“I used to be scared of the morgue… but coming here with you… is something else” Leon says next. “I couldn’t do this alone” 

“I’m glad I can help” you said to him with your usual kindness. 

But he stops and turns his attention back to the body bags and sighs. His entire demeanor changed and suddenly, he found himself fighting hard to keep doing this. He needed that. He owed his men at least this final goodbye. 

“What kind of adult did I want to become when I was a child?” Leon thinks to himself as he approached one of the body bags. 

The zipper was slightly open, and the body bag seemed like it was about to move any moment. It’s common for something that seems like it’s about to move to actually move.

Leon carelessly closed the zipper. Was it because of the sharp sound that, suddenly, another body bag bounced behind him? Inside the body bag, the zombie was wiggling and struggling. It seemed unhappy, as if it had been woken up from a deep sleep by force. Leon pulled out his gun from his holster and squeezed the trigger. 

“What kind of adult did I want to become? I definitely didn’t want a life like this” 

V. ACCEPTANCE 

After everything that happened with his squad, Leon knew he needed time off of his office. Decided to get his mind off everything and take a break, Leon chose the Rocky Mountains in Colorado as his destination. Instead of going there alone, he thought it would be good to spend more time with you, mostly because he felt safe around you and due to the nature of his job and everything he saw, he needed to feel that safety only you provided him.  

You had to explain to your parents why you would be going on a vacation, but they understood with no problems; they didn’t know about Leon because you were fearing some trouble because of the age gap, so you felt they weren’t exactly ready to meet him. How could you explain to them you were apparently dating a man eleven years older than you? It would be one hell of a surprise. 

It was 9 a.m. in the mountainous area near Rocky Mountain National Park, located in northern Colorado. The national park was about a two-hour drive from the state capital, Denver. Along the way, there were several viewpoints where numerous travelers parked their cars to enjoy the scenic beauty. Even in the mountainous region of the Rockies, the mountains around this area were not exceptionally high. They were just before the tree line, covered with spruce and fir trees on the subalpine slopes. The forest appeared like a beautifully groomed brush, while wildflowers bloomed modestly, sheltered by large rocks.

“This place is incredible” you sound mesmerized by the incredible view from the hotel. 

“You haven’t been in places like this before?” Leon asks you with curiosity. 

“I barely leave my house” you chuckle, leaving your bag on the bed. “I just work at my parent’s store and go to college” 

“It feels like I’m dating a baby” Leon chuckles, also leaving his bag next to yours. 

“We’re dating, huh?” you teased, taking off your sneakers. 

“Yeah, we are” Leon nods his head, smiling. “I know I haven’t officially asked you, but I’m too old for that” 

“It’s fine, old man. I’m just messing with you” you said, playing with his fingers. 

“Old man? Now I’m offended” Leon teases back, smiling. 

“You said it first” you replied to him, your hands reaching his brown hair. “By the way… I have something for you” 

Leon glanced at you, frowning. The mischievous smile on your lips immediately told him you were planning something. He sat up on the bed and kept his eyes fixed on you, waiting patiently for whatever you were about to do. 

“I got you a birthday present” you said with enthusiasm, catching him by surprise. “I know I’m a few days late, but I wanted to give you something for your 37th birthday” 

“You didn’t have to” Leon whispered in shock as you gave him the small box. 

He unwrapped the present you gave him and found a beautiful dagger, silver and shining, also pretty sharp. Leon knew immediately that you probably paid a lot on that and he felt bad. He took a deep breath and glanced at you. 

“This was very expensive. You shouldn’t waste your money with me like that” Leon says to you. 

“It’s a gift. You can’t give it back” you said to him, a hint of playfulness in your voice as you insisted for him to keep it. 

“That’s not fair” Leon complains, laughing softly. 

“It’s pretty fair to me, though” you said to him, smirking. “It’s just a dagger, not a diamond or something related. I know your job is kind of dangerous and you might need it” 

“Okay, you win. I’ll take it” Leon sighs in defeat. “About my job… I know I haven’t been extremely open about it, but…” 

“It’s okay, I don’t want you to feel forced to share this with me if you don’t feel ready” you stopped him before he could finish his sentence. 

“I wish I could be more open to you” Leon glanced at his hands, feeling bad because of that. 

“Start simple and small. You don’t have to tell me absolutely everything at once” you placed your hand on his shoulder, petting him. 

“Simple and small? How could I do that?” Leon frowned at the idea. He always thought it was impossible to open up about his trauma. 

You pondered for a few moments, thinking about a way to help him talk about his issues in a positive way. 

“Start with something like… why don't you like dogs?” you suggested. A while ago you noticed Leon had a certain aversion to dogs. 

“I… um… I was attacked by dogs in Raccoon City. They weren’t common dogs, they were infected, something like that” Leon found himself surprised by the way he spoke about this issue so easily. “Then, at Spain, I had a few encounters with wolves also infected with a parasite, monstrous things” 

“See? That one was pretty easy” you said, encouraging him to keep talking. “Wanna try to say something else?” 

Leon thought about your question for minutes; inside his head, everything that has happened to him was like an endless movie. The trauma, the pain and the events that seem to be haunting him to this day. It was hard to pick one, but then, he reminds himself of your words of being simple and small. He takes a deep breath and quietly, he convinces himself that he can do this. 

“Back at Raccoon City, it was my first day at the force and I was 21 at the time” Leon starts, his eyes focused on something else. “I was late, but I think that’s why I’m still alive” 

While he was telling you the horrors he saw, you gently placed your hand on his, to let him know you’re there for him. It was a simple and kind gesture, but for him, it meant the world. Leon was only familiar with danger and brutality, so having you by his side providing comfort was enough to penetrate the depth of his former persona. It was enough to rescue the rookie cop buried inside those walls. 

“After that night… everything changed. I’m here because of what I did to survive and I’m not exactly proud of it. I can’t stop blaming myself for my past actions, but…” Leon suddenly stops, taking another deep breath. 

“You can’t control everything around you, Leon. And not everything that happens to us is our fault. You couldn’t know you were going to be stalked and nearly killed on your first day… you didn't know that there was a virus outbreak in Raccoon City that night…” you said to him, placing your hand on his shoulder. “You need to understand that this isn’t your baggage to carry. What happened that day wasn’t your fault” 

Leon had your words playing on repeat inside his head. Even though he was early in the morning drinking his sorrows away, he was still thinking about what you said. He also felt partially guilty for leaving you asleep in the bed while he was drinking, but the other part of him told you knew him pretty well and you wouldn’t be judging him for this. His head was a roller coaster and at this very moment, he wasn’t at the top. 

Leon sat on the first floor of a lodge-style hotel in the rural town. The hotel was two stories tall, made of reinforced concrete, but designed to resemble traditional log construction. There was only one waiter and one chef, making it far from a trendy establishment — a rather run-down place. He was having breakfast in the first-floor restaurant. Though the restaurant wasn't popular, the food was decent. Approaching footsteps came from behind him — two sets of them.

"--To come fully armed to such a peaceful town," Leon said without turning around.

"Leon S. Kennedy, the ace of the DSO, a special agent organization directly under the President of the United States," a voice replied.

Finally, he turned around to see Chris Redfield and Rebecca Chambers standing there.

"Chris and... oh, the renowned expert in biohazard research, Professor Rebecca Chambers. What do you want?" he asked.

"It's work. Cooperate," Chris said in an uncompromising tone.

Chris and Rebecca sat across from him. And it was noticeable that he wore an annoyed expression. 

"I'm on vacation." 

"...In the past, while protecting the President's daughter, Ashley Graham, you fought and annihilated the cult group Los Illuminados. They were using special bio-organic weapons called Plagas," Chris said.

"I've forgotten about that old stuff," Leon replied simply.

"Do you plan on loafing around in this town for another week?" Chris asked.

"I don't know what will happen in the future," Leon retorted.

"Beer, please," Rebecca chuckled at the reference to an old movie, while Chris wore an unamused expression.

Leon called over a passing waitress with a casual wave to place his order, but Chris interrupted him.

"Cancel the beer."

"No, it's not canceled."

“Come on… what the fuck?!”

"I don't need any more alcohol."

"Cut it out. What's going on?"

"That's my line."

The waitress looked between the two of them suspiciously and before walking away. Eventually, Leon pulled out a flask from his back pocket and took a swig as a substitute for the additional order that couldn't be fulfilled.

"You–!" Chris leaned forward.

"Enough, both of you," Rebecca interjected. "--Leon. We apologize for disturbing your vacation. However, we need the information you possess," Rebecca said.

Finally, Leon showed a willingness to listen.

"...What's the situation?" he asked.

Chris and Rebecca had to explain to him what happened earlier at the university. The case was simple. Glenn Arias was a new threat and they needed to stop him at all costs. However, they didn’t know how Leon was suffering inside; they couldn’t know about the recent events. Leon wearily intertwines his gestures and continues, 

"Just before I took my vacation... I was involved in a DSO mission in Bethesda to apprehend a treacherous senator who was selling internal information to a bioterrorist organization." 

The disgusted irritation was evident in his movements, his expression, and his voice. 

"You know..." Leon begins. "Here's the thing: the informant we used betrayed us. We fell into a trap instead. A massive explosion killed many of my colleagues... and then there was the incident with the resurrection of the corpses you guys were involved in... It's all a mess," 

Leon explains, letting out a heavy sigh. It's a sigh that escapes unintentionally, like a burden he carries.

"I had planned to become a police officer in Raccoon City. It was my dream job. But on my first day, there was a massive zombie outbreak, and from there... it never stopped," Leon pauses and shakes his head. "I've been fighting this whole time. There's no end in sight, and it only keeps getting worse. Have I been living just to fight zombies and the people who create them?"

"What are you trying to say? That you don't want to cooperate with us?" Chris asks.

"It's not that..." Leon's tone is uncertain, "Well, maybe it is."

With a hesitant tone, Leon continues

“What exactly is our goal? How far do we have to run? Do we have to keep running endlessly? The villains keep coming, one after another, while the good people keep dying. Maybe it's better to lose our minds."

Then, Chris found himself forced to explain to Leon what they were facing. He showed pictures of Cathy White, the agent that was turned into a bio-weapon. And worse, her son she killed. He showed the photos taken during the autopsy and how Glenn turned people into something else purely because of power. 

"Killing him is the goal," Chris declares.

"That's only your goal, not mine," Leon retorts, his voice filled with resentment.

Tension fills the air between them once again.

"Hey," Rebecca interrupts, breaking the silence just as she did before. "So, Leon, you're exhausted," Rebecca points at Leon and then gestures to Chris. "And Chris, you're frustrated. There's one thing both tired people and irritable people have in common."

"What do we have in common?" Chris asks in response.

They both look at each other with a wide-eyed grin.

"You only think about yourselves," Rebecca replies. 

"I–" Chris tries to interject, but Rebecca continues. 

"Chris, all you talk about is wanting to kill Glenn Arias. After helping me, you didn't say a single word mourning the sacrifices of our colleagues. Leon, you're acting like a college student in their moratorium period. People get tired of running. But if we stop running, more people will lose their lives."

Rebecca takes out a trigger-activated needleless syringe from her small bag. In front of the bewildered duo, she abruptly presses the syringe against her left forearm and pulls the trigger, causing her blood to collect in the test tube attached to the syringe.

"I'll tell you something important. We're already infected," she says.

"What?" Leon's expression tightens in response.

Rebecca continues speaking in a tone reminiscent of a teacher addressing a poor student. 

"The truth is, it's difficult to estimate just how many people have been infected by Arias' new virus. The problem is, we don't know the identity of the trigger that activates it."

As she speaks, Rebecca removes the test tube from the syringe and seals it with a cap.

"The virus is activated by something only Arias knows. When that happens, the dead rise, and living humans become bio-weapons."

Rebecca glances lightly at Leon. 

"If things continue like this, this city will eventually become a living hell. There won't be any safe places."

Leon remains silent, averting his gaze.

"Just so you know, a prototype of the antivirus has been developed," Rebecca says. "It actually worked on me. However, the effectiveness of the antivirus is unstable without knowing the conditions for the activation of Arias' virus. When to administer it and how long it remains effective..."

Rebecca then places the sealed test tube into a small protective case and puts it on the table. 

"My blood should provide valuable data. If I die, make sure it reaches a reputable research institution that you can trust."

"You're not in danger. We'll protect you," Chris says firmly.

"What?" Leon asks, confused.

"It seems like you're misunderstanding, BSAA soldier," Rebecca lightly dismisses Chris's assumption.

There’s a slight smirk on Leon’s lips as he hears that. 

"The forefront of pandemic response is not the BSAA, but the research field. How many doctors and colleagues do you think I've seen die in conflict-ridden African countries or small Middle Eastern nations used as testing grounds for bio-weapons?" Rebecca questions.

Chris tries to say something in response, but his voice gets stuck in his throat, and only faint breaths escape.

"After I left the team, you two might have fought against plenty of mad scientists. But science can only be countered with science. Unless benevolent technology advances, we will never have a chance of winning. We fight not only for ourselves but for others. Have you both understood at least a little of what I'm saying?" Rebecca asks.

She stands up and adds, "Cool your heads," before leaving her seat.

"She's a great woman," Leon comments.

"We can't handle it on our own," Chris remarks, watching Rebecca leave, and he and Leon exchanged a wry smile. 

And then, here it comes. The urge to talk about what happened one year ago. 

"Leon, China was tough," Chris says, referring to that incident.

"Yeah, it was like a zombie version of Black Hawk Down." he nods in response. 

"At that time, I wanted to quit the BSAA so badly," Chris admits, surprising Leon, "After getting involved with Umbrella, I witnessed too many deaths. We..." 

Chris trails off. His expression was heavy, as if lead had settled in the depths of his heart. Then Chris realized: Why does it make me so angry to see him like this? He was too much like his old self.

"It makes you want to quit... makes me want to quit," Chris says, emphasizing his point. Leon falls into silence. And Chris delivers the final blow. "But, the moment we quit, all of our subordinates and friends will have died in vain. We are the survivors of Raccoon City. We carry that burden."

Chris falls silent, and the air becomes still. The waitress looks annoyed by the silence. For a few moments, there’s nothing but the said silence. 

"Leon, I always thought you were a cheerful guy no matter what," Chris breaks the silence.

"No one is like that," Leon replies, “Well… I’m not. I've always been a stress-tolerant guy. I've been able to do what I've done because of it. But now look back on it. In Tall Oaks, I killed the president.”

"Technically, you had to save the President infected with the virus," Chris quickly adds, trying to provide some context.

“But,” Leon shakes his head, "But the fact remains that I pulled the trigger, I shot him, and I was even suspected of assassinating the President afterward. Although I managed to clear my name, the mastermind behind that incident turned out to be the President's aide. The DSO was once called the 'Sword of the President,' but now it sounds ironically fitting."

Chris remains silent, attentively listening to Leon's words.

"Chris," Leon continues. "I've returned to active duty, but every time I face the new President, I feel anxious. I can sense his unease as well. The President's aide had sold his soul to B.O.W. terrorism. Who's next? The Secretary of Defense? The Vice President? What's become of the foundation that supports the soldiers in the field? They keep using us, while the higher-ups continue to flounder, grow bloated... They only think about shifting blame onto others."

He pauses for a moment. There’s so much pain. 

Leon furrows his brow and lowers his voice. "Perhaps the reason entities like Umbrella persist is that our society harbors a fundamental evil... I can't help but feel that way now."

Even agreeing with this stupid mission, Leon can’t go without saying goodbye. He feels guilty, but the moment he sees you, everything feels completely right. He sat at the bed, watching you perfectly asleep, imagining what kind of dreams you were having. Leon sighs and shakes his head. 

“Hey, sweetheart” Leon says when he sees you waking up. 

“Hi” you whisper, rubbing your eyes. 

“Listen… something happened and my colleagues need me. Will you be okay here?” he asks you, his thumb trailing your cheek. 

“Will you come back?” you ask him, sounding a little groggy. 

“And leave my baby girl here all alone? Of course I’ll come back” he smiles sweetly at you. 

“Ok… I’ll be here” you nodded your head, closing your eyes to go back to sleep. 

Something about you made him see, for the first time, the bright side of things. Maybe it was the fact that you were younger than him, and also the fact that you were full of energy - he was just an old and bitter man. But, hey, he’s learning how to cope with every shit that has happened to him. 

Before you, Leon was ready to die. 

He was ready to embrace death, he already had made peace with his inner demons. But everything changed when you came into his life. Suddenly, he thought he could live and find happiness and death wasn’t in his thoughts anymore. It was like you were able to bring him back from his darkness. He wasn’t rotting inside. You were able to rescue him from himself and return the light he needed. 

But if he thought he wasn’t close to death, he was wrong. Leon never thought he would face something like Glenn Arias and come close to death, but he had his job to do. Chris needed his help and Leon finally found closure to something that was weighing on his head; the death of his squad wasn’t his fault and he found the real culprit. He found the peace he was desperately looking for. And he was able to see another sunrise and come back to you. 

It was a repetitive cycle. Leon recently started to wonder if anything he did was futile. That's why he took a vacation and drowned his sorrows in alcohol. It was a kind of protest, perhaps. A protest against the grand concepts of this world and destiny. A statement of "I’m not going on like this forever, I’m not going to do it," or something of that sort. But fate was cruel. In the end, human life rarely goes well by one's own choices. Perhaps humans are merely chosen by fate without their consent. Yet, Leon now felt that it was okay like that. Being chosen doesn't make him a hero by default. He becomes a hero reluctantly because he was chosen. And that's fine. 

The merged form approached Leon with an eerie growl, swinging its massive fist. Leon leaped back to dodge it, and the merged form's punch shattered one of the spires on the rooftop into tiny fragments. It had the destructive power of a construction hammer, with each strike resembling the impact of a tank cannon round. Leon intentionally slid and jumped into the merged form's feet, thinking that at such a large size, close range might become a blind spot. He positioned himself beneath the massive body, lying on his back and firing his handgun. The shots were practically point-blank, but they were still deflected by the hardened muscles and exoskeleton. 

"Doesn't matter," Leon muttered involuntarily. "I'll do whatever it takes, even if it's futile. Today's a good day to die anyway."

The merged form kicked out.

The enemy's movements were deceptively swift, and Leon was sent flying as if hit by a car. His body tumbled through the air until it finally collided with a gargoyle statue, coming to a stop. The impact was so intense that his breath nearly ceased. However, the merged form continued its pursuit. It threw a straight punch, a blow that would surely result in instant death if landed, but Leon managed to evade it with a jump. Not only did he dodge it, but in mid-air, Leon twisted his body and unleashed a spinning kick. His boot-clad foot connected with the grotesque face of the merged form.

Whether it would have any effect or not didn't matter. This strike was my will. Of course, a kick from a mere human wouldn't have any effect. The merged form retaliated with its opposite hand, grabbing hold of Leon.

"Gah!" A groan escaped Leon's throat involuntarily. The massive fist tightened around him like a vice, and within a few seconds, he felt himself being crushed like a tomato.

"Leon!" Chris emerged from the penthouse.

In his fading consciousness, Leon thought about you. The way you smiled whenever you were with him and the sweet perfume you love to use. The way your hands embrace him at night, helping him sleep safely, without any nightmares to harm him. And then, he doesn’t want to die anymore. Please, God, don’t let me die this way. 

Chris picked up the fully automatic handgun that Arias had dropped along the way and unleashed a barrage of bullets at the merged form. For a brief moment, it seemed like the merged form's focus shifted, and its grip loosened slightly, but that was all.

Was my life meant to end here, crushed by this grotesque monster? Leon wondered, his pessimism threatens to shatter him. Leon wasn't the type to easily get this depressed or overthink things too much. Still, he felt more than a little exhausted.

What kind of adult did I want to become when I was a child? I never imagined I would be burdened with the stigma of assassinating a president. At least, I didn't want a life like this ― It doesn't matter what I want. There's no such thing as a person who can live the life they desire. Arias must have felt the same way. In the end…

VI. ABSOLUTION

When he came back, you noticed something inside him had changed. 

After the fight with Arias, Leon noticed that life was much more than death, darkness and depression. At least, he started to think like that when he almost got killed. And his only thought was coming back to you. No, he couldn’t die like that and leave you alone. His arm was injured, but he was alive. And he was back. 

“What happened to your arm?” you asked him when you saw him entering the room. 

“Remember that day in the morgue when you told me I was a badass government agent?” Leon asks you back, sitting on the bed next to you. 

“Yep, I do” you nodded, starting to massage his tense muscles. 

“Well… I’m not this kind of agent. I work under the president’s orders. I fight bioweapons for a living… since that hell in Raccoon City” Leon sighs, finally opening about his job. 

“Bioweapons? Like zombies and shit?” you ask him with curiosity. 

“Worse than zombies, but yes” Leon nodded with a slight smirk. “It’s dangerous, and this time I nearly got killed… thing is, my job requires a lot of my time, it forces me to not be around for God knows how long. It scares me because I don’t know if you can live this chaotic life with me…” 

“Wait, wait, wait… slow down” you held his hand and squeezed it softly. “Everyone deserves a second chance in life, Leon. You were alone for too much time and I don’t mind if you need to go somewhere else to fight bioweapons. If this means I get to see these pretty eyes of yours and this sweet smile every time you come home… I’m willing to live this chaotic life with you” 

Leon couldn’t believe your words. After being deprived of something so human and getting used to it, Leon felt he was about to explode. It was too much for him to handle. At this point, he knew perfectly he was experiencing anxiety. But it was a good one. 

“I don’t want you to get hurt. If we do this, I’m gonna get you wrapped up in something bad someday… and I’ll never forgive myself if this happens” Leon tells you, sounding extremely worried.

“I know you won’t let anything bad happen to me. And besides, I can take care of myself. I made self defense classes” you laugh sweetly, a symphony to his ears. 

“Are you sure?” Leon asks, and those big puppy eyes of his wanting nothing but assurance.

“Honey, if this wasn’t true, I wouldn’t be here” you chuckled, kissing his forehead. 

After what happened, you decided to introduce Leon to your family as your boyfriend. But before that, you convinced him he needed to improve a little. Getting rid of the alcohol was the first step. He started to see a therapist and work harder on his issues, which influenced a lot of your relationship. He was more happy and willing to do things he and you both liked. One year after that incident with his squad being killed and his mission with his friends, you noticed he was ready to meet your parents. 

“I’m nervous” Leon tells you when you both were entering your home. 

“Why? It’s not like we’ve been dating secretly for almost three years. Besides, they’ll think you’re cute, don’t worry” you giggled at him. 

“I’m not so sure about that” he muttered, following you inside your parents place.

You could clearly tell how anxious he was. However, he always felt at ease on your side, and it was like you had the power to make him relax, like nothing could harm him and the world was finally at peace. When you stepped inside the house with Leon right behind you for a Christmas dinner, your parents were already expecting both of you. 

“Mom, dad… this is Leon. The guy I was talking about” you introduced him to your parents with certain expectations. 

“You clearly got my taste for man” Leon heard your mom whispering to you, which made his cheeks turn red. 

“So… um… how long are you two hanging out?” your dad asked and you glanced quickly at Leon. 

“Three years, I guess. We met at the store” you tell your parents. “I didn’t tell you before because Leon has a busy schedule. He’s not always in town, so…” 

“Well, moonpie, if you’re happy, we’re happy too” your mom says with a gracious smile on her lips. 

Leon wasn’t expecting to be so welcomed into your family, but the fact that your parents treated him so kindly melted his heart. He got himself thinking about the dinner for at least one week, mostly because part of him was still thinking it was weird to receive so much kindness and affection, especially coming from a real family. He wasn’t expecting to be playing cards with your dad while you and your mom were in the kitching talking about girl’s stuff, but it was enough to make him see he made the right choice. That it was okay for him to finally experience love. 

“I like your light brown hair now that you finally stopped dying it” you said, sitting between his legs in the living room. 

“My emo era is over” he chuckles sweetly, like a melody. 

“May it rest in peace” you made the signal of the cross. “

“Changing the subject, tomorrow I gotta go to San Francisco. Work stuff” he says to you, softly kissing your neck. 

“Yeah? Am I getting some gift?” you whisper, feeling the shivers down your spine with his lips against your skin. 

“Do I ever go on a mission and come back empty handed?” Leon asks you, his soft lips pressing more against your neck and you can feel him softly biting you. 

The thing is, Leon is like a porcelain doll. He needs to be treated with softness and kindness, because deep down, he is vulnerable. The way his lips met your skin was a clear sign that he was ready for you. He was finally ready to be yours. However, loving Leon also needed patience, and after three years, you could tell he wanted that too. 

“Do you want to do this before you leave, handsome?” you ask him teasingly, holding his hands as he keeps kissing your neck. 

“Yes, I do,” he nods, almost moaning in your ear. 

He gently took you to his bedroom, the place was almost a sanctuary for him. He laid you down on his bed and removed his shirt, and this time, he didn’t seem ashamed of himself. You stood up from his bed and sat him on the edge, your hands trailing down his skin like he was a roller coaster. He closed his eyes, his breath soft and calm, although he anticipated what was about to happen. Leon craved for you. 

“I’ll take care of you” you whispered, leaving soft kisses across his neck and chest. 

You sat gently between his legs, your sweet and soft fingers removing his pants and reaching his already hardened cock. He sat there, observing you with those big and blue puppy eyes, like he was savoring your image. When you took all his length inside your mouth and gently started to suck him, Leon felt he was in heaven. It felt so good, so powerful. 

Tears started to fall from his eyes and he cried. Not because you were hurting him, dear lord, of course not! It was because he finally felt that he deserved to be loved. Your tongue did an amazing job on his cock and when he came, he felt his body at ease. Leon moaned with the sudden sensation, it was stronger than he last remembered. But it was because of you. 

“I love you” he says when you touch his face, wiping his tears. 

Loving Leon needed patience, you knew that already. 

However, living with him brought new challenges that you weren’t expecting at all. He would be gone for weeks, then he comes back out of nowhere. He always forgets to send you a message to let you know he’s coming back, but that’s okay, because his lack of patience to deal with technology amuses you. He always sends an emoji out of context, which makes you laugh and you find it very cute when he gets disappointed for misunderstanding those little and yellow faces. He’s getting there, don’t worry about that. 

When he’s at home, things turn out differently. He always helps you with the chores, likes to tease you whenever you’re cooking his favorite meal and at the end of the day, you two are together on the couch watching some silly movie while he complains about it and softly scratches your leg. Sharing a domestic life was something he never thought he would have, not after everything he went through alone. 

Now that he's back from whatever he did in San Francisco, you have another job to do. Tend to his injuries. It’s a small sacrifice to pay whenever he comes back hurt; this time he has purple marks all over his body and face. You don’t ask what on earth happened, because you know he can’t really give details, but at least he’s safe and sound with you again. 

“Stop moving, old man!” you tell him, trying to clean a small cut he had on his neck. 

“That hurts,” Leon replied back, flinching slightly. 

“I know, but someone has to clean it” you rolled your eyes, applying a Barbie band-aid on his neck. 

“Please, don’t tell me I got the Barbie thing on my neck” Leon closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. 

“Next time I’ll get you a cat one” you wink playfully at him. 

After so many death experiences and the inner wish of being dead, he’s glad that he found the absolution that he always wanted. He looks at you with amusement, part of him finds it hard to believe that he’s so lucky to have you, but the other part is glad that you are real and you love him for who he really is. You took every damaged part of him and loved with such intensity that it was enough to bring him back from that dark place he was at. He forgave himself, allowed his soul to heal and to be loved. Life had gifted him with the second chance to live, made him see the beautiful things again. You took him in when he was on the lower part of his life, and your love brought him back. He knows he’s getting older, but he doesn’t mind spending his days with you, because you are the only thing in his life that makes sense.

And he’s fine with that. 

[gothcsz]

Blocked and Begging | Javier Peña x Black Latina F!Reader | ~3.1k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: You block Javier and he shows up at your doorstep.

Tags: angst, smut, fwb dynamic, drunk!javi, fuckboy!javi, modern!au i guess, pussy eating, fingering, unprotected p in v sex, creampie!, pussy pronouns, half-assed beta'd, untranslated spanish, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, reader is a woman of color yet everyone is encouraged to read, no physical descriptions, sorry for any stray typos/grammatical mistakes, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!

A/N: i blame this anon i got for this, tbh. so thank you for doing all the heavy lifting, 'nonnie. much appreciated. there's not much i can say except i hate javier peña so much the only way to fix it is to fuck him! also @almostempty 's fuckboy joel def inspired javi's characterization in this so thank you for blessing us with that weds mwah love u! okay guys as always let me know what you think and thanks for reading 🖤

The first call came in at 2:12 AM. An unknown number, but you knew. 

You silenced it. Then again, 2:14. 2:17. 2:23. Again. Again. Again. Until the screen was so flooded with missed calls and increasingly misspelled messages, it looked like he was trying to break into your world through sheer persistence.

Baby Answer the phone I fucked up Please

Fuck him. He hasn’t been around or texted back in days, and now all of a sudden he’s blowing your phone up like you’re the one who disappeared. 

You wouldn’t have minded the silence, really, it was to be expected from a man like Javier. However, one of your friends had seen him out last night—messy, drunk, as affectionate as he is with you with some girl—practically fucking her on the dance floor.

When the video came in, you stared and stared until the knot in your throat wrung angry, jealous tears from your eyes. You blocked his number right then and there, throwing your phone across the couch, telling yourself you didn’t care.

You shouldn’t care. You aren’t together. You both made that clear. It’s supposed to be casual.

But it doesn’t feel casual, not with your stomach in knots and your heart twisting up and damn it, it’s really your fault for fooling yourself into thinking this is more than what it is.

You finally answer the phone at 3:06 AM. Your voice is like ice. “What?”

He sounds drunk. Words slurred, voice raspy like he’s been smoking, or yelling… or both. “I fucked up. I know, I know—Just let me come over. Let me see you—”

“Why? So you can lie to my face instead of over the phone?”

“I didn’t fuck her, baby, believe me. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You hang up.

He can take that sweet-talking, liquor-soaked bullshit and feed it to someone else.

However, twenty minutes later, there’s insistent knocking at your front door. Like he knows you’re waiting.

You exhale hard, palms dragging over your face, and stomp to the door. When you look through the peephole, there he is—his drunk ass swaying slightly on your porch, one hand braced against the frame to keep him steady, the other casually on his hip.

It pisses you off, yet you still open the door. “Leave.”

He does the opposite, stepping inside as if you aren’t in the middle of a fucking argument, shutting the door behind him. Javier Peña never needs an invitation to make a mess.

“You have some fucking nerve—” You push at his chest, but he catches your wrists. 

“I know,” The smell of whiskey emitting from him has your nose wrinkling.

“No, you don’t.” You yank your wrists from his hold, trying to be preemptive by putting some distance between you both.

Being close to him is dangerous as hell, especially when you’re angry and hurt and jealous. “You ghost me for days and now you show up like some stray looking for scraps? What—did she not let you spend the night? Got bored fucking her and remembered I’m always dumb enough to answer?”

All your overthinking spills from your lips, grinding your teeth at the thought of him being with someone else before showing up here.

His face twists. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Bullshit.”

“I didn’t sleep with her—”

“Oh, fuck you, Javier. Don’t insult me. I saw you with your hand up her dress!”

He tuts under his breath, shaking his head like you’re the irrational one here and you hate how that makes you feel. “That doesn’t mean I fucked her.”

“Whatever. I shouldn’t care who you stick your dick in. We’re not together, right? So go ahead. Have your fun. Just don’t show up at my place acting like you give a shit about me when you can’t even be bothered to fucking call.”

“I do give a shit.”

He steps forward and you move back, spine stiff, feet landing near the edge of the dining room, t-shirt barely brushing the tops of your thighs. You’re aware of how exposed you are and how his eyes flick downward, just for a second. Your whole body betrays you when he looks at you like this.

“I’m sure you do.” You sass and his jaw twitches. 

“You want me on my fucking knees, crawling to you to show you that I’m being serious? Because I will.”

“Estás borracho, Javi. No seas ridículo.” Men are so nonsensical when it comes to trying to prove their innocence. 

You just stare as he kneels, his shoulders going slack, hands on the floor. His gaze never leaves yours as he crawls the short distance across your living room rug to where you are.

You say his name, half-warning, half-beg, swallowing roughly, your ass grazing against the edge of the dining room table.

He reaches you, reverently sliding his hands up your calves until his thumbs brush the backs of your knees. His breath is warm against the tops of your thighs as he presses his face to your stomach, kissing you through the cotton of the shirt, inhaling your scent.

“I’ve missed you.” His fingers disappear beneath the tee, calloused palms grazing the skin of your stomach before they trail past your ribs, cupping your breasts, squeezing softly. 

You both let out sighs of pleasure, his thumbs grazing your nipples until they peak for him. 

“You’re just saying that so you can fuck me.” As if you’re not going to let him.

Javi squeezes your tits roughly, making your back arch. “I mean it. Was dealing with some shit and got reckless…” He continues to knead your breasts, making you feel disoriented. “Don’t wanna fuck someone else when I have you…” He sounds truthful, but you don’t know if that’s because he means it or because he’s touching you like this and saying all the right things. “I wasn’t thinkin’, perdóname baby.”

One hand leaves your chest to drag down, knuckles brushing your belly as he hooks a finger under the waistband of your sleep shorts, toying with them.

He looks up at you with those stupid, brown glossy eyes. “Let me make it up to you.” 

Your hands grip the edge of the table and your whole body screams yes even as your mouth tries to say no.

You never learn.

“Okay.”

His breath is hot and shaky as he lifts the hem of your shirt, exposing your torso. You rid yourself of it, the cooler air nipping at your heated skin, his palm still on your tit while the other grips your hip. 

You gasp when his mustache scrapes against your skin, coarse and ticklish, making you shiver so hard your knees almost buckle.

His tongue draws lazy circles around your belly button, slow and sensual, dragging heat lower with every wet swirl. You want to stay angry—you try—but it’s so hard.

Then his fingers slowly hook onto the waistband of your shorts again, tugging slightly like he’s asking permission without speaking. He glances up at you, and when you don’t stop him, he tugs them down your thighs and lets them pool around your ankles.

You step out of them, entirely naked now.

Javi’s strong hands slide under your thighs and lift you onto the table. The wood is cool beneath you but his hands are hot. He spreads your legs obscenely, exposing you fully. The air kisses your folds and you twitch, cunt glistening only slightly due to your anger-thinned arousal.

He knows exactly what to do about it, starting by letting his fingers stroke through the coarse hairs at your mound, his pointer and middle fingers matching the V of your cunt, massaging your sensitive flesh and making you mewl, hips hovering off the table.

He starts slow.

A kiss to your outer lips then a long, dragging lick right up the seam of your pussy, tongue splitting your folds, collecting every bit of heat you haven’t admitted you’re building.

“Look at her,” he groans, lips brushing your pulsing clit. “Fuck, baby. She’s so sweet.” His voice drops a bit. “You think I’d want anyone else when this is mine?”

His tongue darts out again, flattening along your labia, slow and wet. You hiss through your teeth, falling flat on your back, unable to keep straight.

He does it again and again, not quite giving you what you want, but he’s only doing this to savor the blissful taste of your syrupy arousal building on his taste buds.

“Still mad at me?” he murmurs into your cunt, getting even more drunk between your legs.

You open your mouth to snap at him, to remind him why you’re pissed—but then his pouty lips wrap around your clit and he sucks, gentle but insistent, and your head tilts back with a helpless moan you can’t swallow.

“Jesus—Javi—”

“Let me hear you. Let me make it better.”

Your fingers find his thick and soft hair, tugging hard. He groans against you, lips humming at your clit, tongue circling and flicking with a skill that makes your thighs shake.

Wetness floods you, you can feel yourself opening, melting, helpless under the pressure of his talented mouth.

“Pussy tastes so fucking good,” he growls, voice muffled against your now soaking cunt. “Eres perfecta. I’d never find better.”

His hands grip your thighs, groping the supple skin, holding you in place as he sucks and slurps at your pussy. Messy, wet sounds fill the space.

You grit your teeth, trying to hold onto your anger. To remember how jealous you’d felt when you saw that video. How humiliated you were. How tired you are of being strung along by a man who only seems to remember how much he wants you after he’s already hurt you. How he knows exactly how to play you.

But God… his mouth. His cock. They’re too fucking good and outweight all the shitty things he puts you through. 

He eases two thick fingers inside your pussy and you cry out loudly, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Your walls clench around them instantly, pulsing with need as his fingers curl deep, finding that spot that makes your vision dot.

“Ohhh fuck, Javier—”

“Take ‘em so well, baby” he purrs, pumping into you slow and deep, his lips still making out with your clit between every sentence. “Let me have her. Let me love her. She deserves it. You deserve it.”

The squelch of his digits pumping into your soaked cunt is drowned out by the ringing in your ears and the hot wave of euphoria that seizes your whole body. Your skin tingles, toes curl, as your pussy clenches down hard, orgasming and fluttering around his fingers in messy, wet spasms. 

Javi comes up from between your legs, mustache wet and lips glistening. He reaches your breasts and palms them with greedy hands, squeezing them together as his tongue laves at one peak, then the other.

The attention to your chest has a needy, cracked whimper slipping from you and it makes him smirk against your skin.

He then hovers above you. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, despite him being fully clothed, the scent of sex and sweat and his cologne wrapped around you like a drug. He leans in for a kiss.

But you turn your head, letting his lips land on your cheek instead—a silent rejection that makes him growl low in his throat.

His hand—the same hand that was just buried knuckle-deep inside your pussy—grips your jaw tight, fingers slick as he forces you to look at him.

“Dame un beso,” he orders roughly.

You don’t get the chance to obey or protest.

He crashes his mouth against yours, lips hot and hungry, tongue sliding past your teeth in an instant. The taste is potent—his favorite whiskey and your own pussy, mixed and heavy on his tongue.

You whimper into him, your arms pinned between your bodies, lips held captive and bruised under the weight of his kiss.

Your hips swivel when you hear the clatter of his belt then feel the rasp of denim sliding down low enough to release himself.

He drags the head of his cock up your aching seam, circling your puffy clit with it. Javi taps it teasingly against your tender nub, smearing your own wetness, making you jolt.

Breaking the kiss, a thin trail of saliva bridges your lips to his. He keeps the grip on your jaw tight, blunt fingernails digging into the skin, making you wince slightly. His nose brushes yours, eyes locked, the rest of the world melting away.

And without a word, he pushes in.

Slow.

Thick.

Deep.

You can’t speak. Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. You just feel it—every inch of him forcing your walls to stretch until his balls kiss your ass and you’re stuffed to the brim with him.

“Mierda,” he groans, eyes fluttering. “You always look so fuckin’ pretty with this dick inside you.”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip, eyes softening for just a moment. Then he leans in and kisses you again—this time tender, sweet, like he’s trying to say something he can’t put into words.

“Now,” he murmurs, voice honeyed and dangerous, “you’re gonna watch me tear this pussy up.”

You barely register his grip shifting—the hand on your jaw moving to the back of your neck, pulling you upright, making sure your eyes are trained down to where you’re joined. Where his dick is slowly dragging out of you, glossy and thick, before he slams back in with a sound that punches all the air from your lungs.

“So fucking good for me, even when you’re pissed off at me. But you don’t really hate me, do you baby?”

Your whole body jolts against the table, your answer coming in the form of a gasp.

He fucks you slow at first, making sure you feel every devastating inch, the drag of his cock pulling against your walls, your cunt already dripping down his shaft.

Your pussy sings.

He sets a brutal rhythm, fucking into you hard and deep, making the table creak beneath you. Each time he drives in, your slick gushes around him, creamy and filthy, soaking the hairs at the base of his cock.

“Look at her,” he growls, keeping your neck craned so you can’t look away. “Look at how wet you are. You see that? That’s how bad you want me.”

You whimper, fingers digging into his arms for balance.

“Creamin’ on my cock like this—fuck, baby. This is why I come back. You’re why I come back.”

He slams into you again, making the whole table jerk forward.

“This pussy’s perfect. So warm. So tight. You were made for me, huh?”

You nod—frantic, trembling—tears in your eyes from how full you feel, from how right it feels.

“You gonna let me fuck you stupid?” he rasps. “Gonna let me ruin you?”

“Javi—”

“Say it. Tell me she’s mine. That you’re mine.”

“She’s yours,” you whimper, biting your lip, trying to hold on. “I’m yours.”

“Good girl,” he purrs, slamming into you so deep it makes you see double.

After a few more strokes, he lays you flat on the table, his hands gripping your hips with bruising intensity. He drags you toward him until your ass is right at the edge, your body completely at his mercy.

There’s no teasing this time. Just the relentless pace of his cock plunging into your pussy, the wet slap of skin on skin while he fucks this second orgasm out of you.

You're already so sensitive, your walls quivering, stretched to the limit and still greedy for more. He hits that pleasurable spot inside you over and over again, and you can’t help the helpless cries that tear from your throat.

He leans into it. Grinds deeper. Fucks harder.

“One more, shit, Let me feel you. I know you fuckin’ want it.” He pants, watching your face twist up, your body arching. 

The pressure builds fast and then you’re coming again, a white-hot burst that sets your skin aflame, jaw open in a silent moan as your cunt squeezes around him, sticky and pulsing.

He curses low and filthy in Spanish as he follows, slamming deep one last time and holding there, cock twitching inside you as his own orgasm overtakes him. His seed floods you in hot, lazy waves, filling you so full you can feel it leaking out around him even while he’s still inside.

Javi slumps forward with a ragged exhale, arms bracketing your body on either side. He doesn’t collapse, but he’s close.

His lips find yours again, slower this time, gentler—just the soft slide of his mouth against yours, the afterglow humming between you like static. Your fingers drift into his hair without thinking, stroking through the curly strands, feeling like you’re floating.

His brown eyes are soft when he opens them, catching the dim light of the room like warm honey. He looks beautiful like this—flushed, vulnerable, skin damp, chest still rising and falling against yours.

“Stay,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and raw from all the moaning and crying he’d coaxed out of you.

There’s a pause. He studies your face, his expression unreadable, answer delayed momentarily.

“No puedo,” he says at last, his bluntness almost cruel. “Gotta be up in a few hours.”

And just like that, the warmth in your chest snuffs out. Cold creeps in, sharp and fast, and you lay there stunned as the post-coital haze clears. Your jaw tightens. Your hand drops from his hair. He feels the shift in you instantly, watches the light drain from your eyes as he pulls away.

He tucks himself back in his jeans, does his belt with maddening casualness.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You snap, sitting up so fast it makes your head spin. You reach for your shirt and yank it on.

“You’re really gonna leave after this? After that?”

He shrugs, not looking the least bit apologetic. “Promised Pops I’d help him with the fence. You know how it is.”

You slide off the table with a grunt, snatching your shorts up from the floor and stepping into them. Your legs still tremble from the good fuck you just received, thighs squeezing together to keep his cum inside you. You try your best to ignore it. “All this just so you could get some pussy,” you spit. “Get the fuck out.”

He rolls his eyes, unfazed. “No seas así. Unblock me so I can call you tomorrow.”

He steps close again like it’s nothing, wraps a hand around your waist and tugs you in. You stiffen against him, glare up into his face, trying—desperately—to see through him. But you can’t. And that makes you want to scream.

“You really gonna call?” you ask, voice quiet but sharp, already hating how pathetic it sounds.

“Yes.”

You roll your tongue over your teeth, the taste of him still clinging to your mouth, your skin still tingling from his touch. You should know better. You do know better.

And yet—you believe him anyway.

i have a tag list for my works here, so if you're interested— pls check it out 🖤

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

[traveler-at-heart]

Stuck Together - Part 6

Summary: After Westview, Wanda and her children go into hiding. She's not happy with the person in charge of protecting them.

Wanda Maximoff x F! Super Soldier R

A/N: This is a short chapter! There will be another one and that will be it for this series :) Ty all for reading!

A cold hand squeezes your neck, and you know that a normal person would be dead by now.

It isn’t human, that’s very much obvious. Looks like Vision, but you remember him differently. Definitely not all white, with those unsettling blue, void eyes.

“I have to kill you”

“Hey, man, we can work it out. Is it because I kissed Wanda?” you try to joke, holding on to his metal arm, hoping there’s a way he can let you go. The lack of oxygen is blurring your vision, but you have to do something.

You have to protect the kids.

“Wanda. Where is she?” he says in that monotone voice that you always hated.

“Not gonna tell you, you freak” you say. “Kids, run back…”

But he’s squeezing your throat, probably trying to make you speak.

Good luck with that, fucking toaster.

A second later, you drop to the floor, gasping for air. As you look up, there are red threads of magic around the synthezoid.

Wanda.

“You ok, detka?” she says, looking at you.

“Yeah, I guess he got a little too jealous, huh?”

“That’s not Vision” she says, looking away. “Take the kids, get out of here”

“No, you get out of here” you say, standing up. You notice the robot is struggling to break free, Wanda’s hand trembling with the effort of keeping him still.

“I’m the only one that can stop him. And I created this mess”

You recognise the guilt in her voice, the burden of thinking every wrong thing that happens must be some kind of punishment.

But that’s bullshit.

Wanda’s not alone, and you won’t leave her.

“Please leave” she repeats, and you know she read your mind. You shake your head no.

“I’ll buy you some time. Take the car and the kids. Drive as fast as you can. I’ll stop him”

“Ok” she finally nods. She twists her hands, throwing the robot as far as she can. Before she runs, though, she turns to kiss you, holding on to you like it’s the only thing keeping her sane.

“I…”

“I know” you smile, pecking her lips. “See you soon, love”

The kids reach for their mother, and you whistle at Riley.

“Go, fetch!”

Your dog runs back to the shed where you keep all your weapons, and you hope training actually paid off.

As for you, you brace yourself for the return of the robot, who seems to be flying back at full speed. You try to remember the few times that you trained with Vision, kicking yourself over being so dismissive of him.

Truth be told, he never really engaged in hand to hand combat.

So, maybe that’s it. Keeping him close will make it harder for him to fight.

Or easier to get yourself killed.

Well, you’re about to find out.

This time, you are prepared for the hand that reaches for your throat, and you punch it away. He’s faster than you remember, and even if you keep him busy, there are a couple of blows that land, and you feel the air leave your lungs, ribs cracking.

“Riley, hurry up, please” you mutter, grabbing the robot by the cape to hold him back.

In that precise moment, you hear a bark, and turn to find your dog excitedly dragging your old shield. All those frisbee jokes paid off in the end.

“Good girl, I owe you a treat. Now out of here”

Sliding down the pier, you grab the shield, turning around just in time to block one of Vision’s attack. It comes back to you like second nature, throwing and catching the shield while you defend and attack.

He begins to anticipate your movements, and at one point blocks one of your punches, sending the shield flying back.

“Fuck, that hurts”

It’s also been a while since you’ve felt your nose breaking. Last time was probably during training with Steve. That was an accident, but it’s very clear that Vision wants you out of sight.

Cold hands reach for you, throwing you against a tree that snaps in half. Before you can stand up to jump and dodge his next hit, an arrow flies past your head, exploding right in his face.

“Bet you’re happy to see me”

Barton.

“You know what? Hell, yeah” you say, catching the shield when he throws it back to you.

“I got someone on the line for you” he says, throwing you a com as well. You place it in your ear, testing it.

“Y/N?” Maria says, and you adjust the shield in your arm while Clint keeps shooting arrows at Vision.

“Hill”

“Hayward sent Vision. Or not Vision. Whatever he is”

“See? I told you to let me kill him”

“We’re trying to hack into its system, but it might take a while. Can you distract him?” Maria says, and you hear her typing at full speed.

“Fine. Hurry. He’s here to kill us, and he ain’t messing around”

Your point is proven a second later, when he throws a boat your way. Clint manages to shoot an arrow straight to his shoulder, an electrical current going through its system.

Vision falls to the floor, weakened, and you take advantage to throw yourself at him. You fight, Clint unable to shoot an arrow as you’re too close to the robot to have a clean view.

Vision takes advantage of this, using you as a shield when Barton decides to shoot, the arrow going straight through your abdomen.

“Shit, Y/N!” Barton says, hurrying to your side. Vision blocks his path, but you can’t be too concerned with that, not when there’s a freakin arrow coming out of your stomach.

With a grunt, you pull it out, feeling the wound heal as you stand up. Your face is full of bruises, a testament of the synthezoid’s strenght. You bounce your shield against his head, attracting attention back to you so Clint can take some distance and shoot from another spot. Unlike you, he won’t survive hand combat against Vision.

“Clint, I’m running out of ideas” you shout, still fighting.

“And I’m running out of arrows”

Great.

You have so many wounds, cuts and broken bones that it takes longer to heal, and Vision looks fine. He doesn’t have a body, so he is not tired, not even out of breath.

“Maria, status”

But you don’t get to hear her answer, Vision covering his ears and grunting. It seems like she’s finally breaking into his systems.

Or making him more lethal, as he grabs you by the collar of your shirt, flying you to the middle of a mountain. You land in a cloud of dust, face inches away from a cliff.

“Did it work?” Maria asks.

“Nope”

She curses, but you’re starting to realise his system is too advanced to hack into. As you look at the rocks above your head, an idea forms.

“Barton, can you shoot at a spot above me? Anything that causes an explosion”

“Not from here”

“Then find a spot and wait for my signal”

“Are you sure?” he says, folding his bow. He already knows what the plan is.

“No, but we don’t have many choices, do we?”

He sighs, knowing that the plan might work, but you won’t survive it. Though you have been through worse sometimes.

“You don’t have to kill them, you know? They’re kinda your family” you try to distract the robot.

“I don’t have a family. Only a mission”

“Your loss, they are pretty damn cool kids”

Finally, you trap one of his arms with your shield, getting suck in a pile of rocks. You try to make time, waiting for Clint’s confirmation.

“I’m in position”

“Shoot above my head”

“You’ll get trapped too”

“I’ll manage” you grunt, trying to keep Vision from flying. He can escape, but only if you let him. “Barton, I don’t have time! You owe me, for Natasha. So just do as I say”

You don’t wait to hear his answer, panicking when you notice Vision is freeing himself. You jump on his back, locking his head in a tight position. He pushes you both to the edge, and you bring him back to the other side, waiting for the explosion.

That’s when you realise how strong he is. He crushes your arm, but you hold on through the pain, even when tries to twist one of your knees.

Finally, you hear an arrow flying close to your head, and the explosion shakes the mountain a second later. Boulders begin to roll, but you don’t move. One hand is above your head, holding your shield and hoping it’s enough to protect you.

Rocks bury the lower half of Vision’s body, but you can’t let go just yet. It isn’t until you see a giant rock rolling your way that you free him, stumbling backwards.

Something hits your head, blood spiling down your forehead as you jump into the river, hoping the fall won’t kill you.

But you pass out before reaching the water.

—

There are bright lights. A constant, beeping sound. Something in your arm.

Not again.

Your mind begins to race, haunted by the memory of years of torture and betrayal, done by your own government.

But then, there’s quiet. You feel a warm touch in your forehead, the softness making your body relax.

“It’s ok, detka. You’re safe”

Wanda.

You open your eyes, looking around the hospital room.

“Hey, witchy”

“I hate it when you call me that”

“I know” you say with a smile. “But could I possibly get a pass? Seeing as I’m in recovery”

“Sure you can, sweetheart” she says, hand in your forehead.

The way she gives in so easily has you worried. There’s something wrong.

“How are the kids? What happened after?”

“They’re fine. Staying with Clint. I just wanted to make sure you recovered before…”

“Before?”

“Before leaving. It’s for the best”

“Wanda” you try to straighten in the bed, grimacing. “Come on, don’t do this”

“You got hurt because of me. It just… this follows me everywhere I go. Death and chaos. I can’t put your life on the line, I’d never forgive myself”

“Wanda, please” you ignore the pain in your side, stretching your hand, searching for hers.

But she moves further away.

“I’ll be ok. And you’ll be better off without me”

“Wanda” you ask once again, but your eyelids feel heavy. You try to stay awake, even as your body is shutting down, and pretty soon you’re fast asleep again.

You know it’s her doing. She’s keeping you from asking her to stay.

Because she knows she’s not strong enough to say no to you.

[sparklykaminarii]

HIIIIIIII!!! I was wondering if you could do Aizawa x student!reader?? Ik you don't normally write anything but JJK but i rlly like ur writing and would js love to see you make this. 💐TYSM BABESSS ^^

DARLING CAN I BE YOUR FAVORITE?

[•~teacher!aizawa x student!reader SMUT !! (COLLEGE AU!)~•]

[•~synopsis: aw man you failed another test, guess you'll have to fuck your hot teacher.~•]

[•~a/n: i tried my best anon !! js for you, and keep sending in request ppl :D ~•]

"heeey eraser!!" present mic squeals, rushing into the classroom. aizawa looks back at the yellow haired male, obviously fed up with all his bullshit. "whatcha doin?-" eraser mic asks, dragging a chair next to aizawa, not noticing the students were taking a test.

"grading papers"aizawa replies, not paying any attention to the yellow haired individual who was interrupting his class.. present mic looks across the room, admiring all the students and just taking on the sight of the future generation of heroes. "shouldn't you be-" aizawa begins, soon cut off by present mics loud and obnoxious voice "Ooo, this class looks promising shouta, whose ya favorite?"

aizawa rolls his eyes, "don't have any. I don't like picking favorites." he says firmly. present mic is slightly baffled at his response, "really? if I could pick a favorite, I think id pick that red haired kid- actually no wait maybe the green haired one but-" present mic continues to babble on and on to aizawa. who was very obviously tuning him out.

as the bell rings, you watch all the other kids leave the classroom. all giggling and chattering about their plans for the weekend. they all seemed so busy in their conversations, so busy that they didn't notice you were staying back, which was perfect.

as soon as the last person exits the room you walk over towards aizawa. a sly smirk creeping up on your lips. "you said you needed to talk to me?" aizawa places the stack of papers he was grading down, on the table, he leans back in his chair. eyes fixed on you and your figure. "you failed another test, y/n." he says coldly, "and I hope you remember our little deal, hm?" he asks, tapping on his desk, signaling you to come sit.

"how could I forget..." you mumble sitting down on the table, watching as the black haired man approaches you. he was emotionless and rough looking. but you knew deep down he was just as excited for this as you were.

he stands in front of you, in between your legs, and he lifts your chin up with his hands. he stares down into your eyes, "bet you failed on purpose too... didn't you? fucking slut" he mumbles before crashing his lips on yours, you feed back into the kiss, the intensity and passion increasing. aizawa's hands sneakily begin to grope your tits through the fabric of your uniform, caressing them with his rough hands. making you let out breathy moans.

aizawa continues to sloppily kiss you as he begins to unbutton your top, your moans only making his cock harder. you could feel his bulge against your thighs. aizawa pulls away from the kiss, looking down at you with hazy eyes, he places your uniform top on his chair, leaving you in your bra.

he gives your breasts a tight squeeze, admiring the way they bounced. you let out a sharp cry from the sensation. "so pretty f'me aren't you sweetheart?" he coos, hands reaching to your bra's clasp, quickly unclasping it. he throws your bra across the room and leans you back slowly, making sure not to hurt you.

as you lay back down you can feel aizawa playing with your nipples, his finger grazing the surface. he watched as you would squirm more and more whenever he went harsher. aizawa then places one of them in his mouth, tongue swirling all over your nipple. you gasp at the sensation and place a hand in his hair. you can feel the wet patch in your panties grow as he continues to play with you.

his hand reaches towards your other nipple, making sure to give it attention too. he squeezes it lightly as he sucks on your other tit. you let out soft moans as you feel the sensations overtake you. "thought you didn't like pickin favorites?" you mutter, voice shaky and hoarse. aizawa responds by squeezing your nipple harshly, a muffled mumble leaving his lips which sounded like a "shut up..."

soon enough aizawa also gets your skirt off, leaving you in your panties. he lifts both of you legs onto his shoulders, pressing his bulge against the wet patch on your panties. you let out a mewl at the feeling of his clothed cock pushed up on you. "see what ya do to me pretty girl? fuck- I could do this all day..." he groans, grinding against the wetness seeping through your panties.

aizawa hastily unbuckles his belt, and slides his pants and boxers off. freeing his long dick. a soft sigh leaves your lips at the sight. you had fucked aizawa a couple times before but still, his long shaft always surprised him and made you crave him even more. "look at m'pretty girl, so mesmerized by my cock, it's okay sweetheart you'll get it soon..." he pushes your panties to the side, aligning himself with your hole.

"c'mon sweetheart y'know what you gotta do now..." he hums, tucking hair behind your ears. "aizawa... pleaseee" you whine, hands reaching for his hips. aizawa slaps your clit, making you jolt back "y'know damn well that isn't good enough, beg for it like the dirty bitch you are." he demands sharply.

"p-please daddy, need your cock so badly..." you mewl, you didn't care how stupid you sounded, you had one thing on your mind right now. and you needed him badly. aizawa smirks slyly and whispers "anything for my girl..." and he pushes his cock in. you both let out content moans and groans as you feel each other.

he lets you adjust to his size before ramming himself in and out of you, your slick coating his cock fully. "so fuckin wet f'me, baby..." he groans, hands gripping on your hips. his pace was so quick and rough, just the way you liked it. his hips bucked into you without any mercy.

"you're so slutty for this, fuckin ya teacher just to raise your grades? dirtyass slut." he mocks, pushing your thighs closer to your chest, his shaft abusing your cunt even deeper now. you let out sobs and cries from all the pressure, the feeling of his leaky tip constantly hitting your cervix. you were in pure bliss.

aizawa admires the sweet noises, both your mouth and cunt makes. he could feel the way your walls would tighten around him with each thrust he gave, signaling you were close. he looks back up at your face, you looked so dazy and lost. babbling about how good you felt, so cock drunk you couldn't even speak correctly. aizawa chuckles at the state you were beneath him. "we just started pretty girl, don't tell me yer already too fucked out-" he teased.

his calloused fingers start trailing down to your clit, rubbing soft circles on it, as aizawa begins to feel his own orgasm creeping up on him. the pressure on your clit makes you yelp out with pleasure, the familiar knot in your stomach tightening at a hasty pace.

your walls sucked in his cock snuggly, aizawa knew you were on the brink of your orgasm. "c'mon baby, tell me who fucks you the best..." he grunts, his voice hoarse and raspy. his words simply didn't register in your brain, all you could focus on was the release that was building up in you. aizawa slaps your clit again, his voice harsh and demanding "answer m'fuckin question slut. who fuck you the best?"

you jolt up at his words, "y-you do daddy!! you do!!" you mewl, a sob leaving your lips as you cry out from the harsh orgasm you just endured. aizawa felt your liquid wash all over his shaft, which was enough to bring him to the brink of an orgasm. he pulls out of you quickly. and begins jerking himself off quickly, hot strings of semen decorating your stomach. you both let out heavy pants of satisfaction. "made such a big mess pretty girl, let's clean up okay?" he affirms, helping you back up.

[charmwasjess]

Lightsaber Theory: Obi-Wan "Sith Lords are Our Specialty" Kenobi consistently loses duels to Dooku not for any reason of technical form mismatch or lack of ability, but because Dooku is not even pretending to try to kill him. Resultantly, Obi-Wan can’t figure out what the fuck is going on when they fight. 

Obi-Wan: (preparing to defend an expected lethal strike) You’ll answer for your enormities, Count!

Dooku: (giving him the lightest love tap on the leg) Don’t be so sure, my special good lineage baby boy, so perfect in my eyes. 

Obi-Wan: …What?

Dooku: What?

Which Dooku and Obi-Wan proud lineage moment is even the most unhinged? There are so many to choose from! Is it Dooku’s frequent inability, both in AotC and TCW, to keep from spontaneously gushing about Sidious’s plans and even his own dark secrets to Obi-Wan?? Is it the time in Labyrinth of Evil where Dooku drags a long-suffering, bored Grievous over to watch a holorecording of Anakin and Obi-Wan thwarting his plans yet again, to point out how beautifully they’re working together as a team and how much he likes watching their lightsaber work evolve? Is it in the recent Brotherhood novel, where Obi-Wan just has to casually namedrop Qui-Gon to get Dooku to do exactly what he wants?

Obi-Wan is a big problem for Sidious in his mission to destabilize and corrupt Anakin, and Sidious knows it. He needs him out of the picture to do the same isolating, evil bullshit that worked so well when ensnaring Dooku himself. But the war has been going on for years now, and guess who remains inconveniently alive? And whose job was that to take care of? Oh yeah. I remember. His useless, Padawan assassin-collecting apprentice: fucking Count Dooku. By the time of RotS, Sidious has specifically ordered Dooku to make fucking sure Obi-Wan is dead only for him to completely ignore the command about a half-dozen times.

Going by the Stover RotS novelization, in the same scene where Dooku also literally refers to Obi-Wan as his fucking grandson actually, add that to our earlier list, Sidious reiterates that KILL OBI-WAN is the plan (over the sound of Dooku’s loud complaining) moments before that final duel.  I kind of wish we’d gotten a shot of Sidious's incredulous, enraged expression as Dooku knocks Obi-Wan unconscious and pins him safely out of the way. He is, once again, going out of his way to not kill Obi-Wan in that duel, and this time directly disobeying his Master to his face after they just had a conversation about it. You just know exactly what Sidious must be thinking at that moment. Oh, Dooku. You are so fucking fired.

[godzilla-barbie]

All in Due Time – Oneshot

Captain John Price x Reader

Summary: “Said you might be barking up the wrong tree, love,” he tells you kindly, but firmly, before adding; “Much too old to be running around with a young thing like you.”

Your eyebrows shoot up and you seem to be gauging his sincerity. And then you’re laughing again. “How young do you think I am?!” you ask, sounding a little bewildered, maybe even a little flattered, and that should have been his first tip off.

Notes: just john meeting his dream girl who is in fact the same age as him, he swears it. also john

Warnings: none, fluff mostly

Words: 8.2k

The first time he meets you, Price writes you off. Too young, too out of his league, too different from him. The second time you meet, at least one of those assumptions is proven wrong.

“What?!” you laugh at him, sounding genuinely confused. You’re at a mutual friend’s birthday party, their 40th. You’re a friend of the birthday boy’s wife, and John used to serve with the now retired Daniel, more than glad to see his mate making it to the big four-oh. Too many he’d served with didn’t.

John looks at you over the top of his glass, taking a sip before he rests it on the bar of the rented out pub, and turns slightly more to face you.

“Said you might be barking up the wrong tree, love,” he tells you kindly, but firmly, before adding; “Much too old to be running around with a young thing like you.”

Your eyebrows shoot up and you seem to be gauging his sincerity. And then you’re laughing again.

“How young do you think I am?!” you ask, sounding a little bewildered, maybe even a little flattered, and that should have been his first tip off. John looks you over, doing his best to keep his gaze neutral, but it’s a little hard when he’s looking at one of the prettiest birds he’s ever seen.

“Twenty-five… maybe twenty-eight,” he says matter of factly, waiting for you to give up the ghost and admit he’s guessed right, or at least close.

You only laugh again, throwing your head back and downing the last of the cocktail you’d ordered when you’d initially slunk up beside him.

“I’m thirty-seven,” you tell him, and it’s his turn to be surprised.

“Bullshit,” he says without really thinking, too taken aback to filter his disbelief. You eye him wryly and nod, before pulling out your driver’s liscence and handing it to him.

He eyes it carefully in the dim lighting of the bar as you order another cocktail.

“I believe an apology is in order, ma’am,” he says, genuinely caught off guard. You smile again, and this time it’s like he sees you in a brand new light. You aren’t some pretty young thing looking for… whatever pretty young things looked for when on occasion they approached him.

You shrug.

“Accepted, but you have to buy my drinks,” you tell him cheekily. Price is not normally a man who makes concessions or compromises, but this one he feels he can live with.

“Alright,” he says, handing you back your ID and signalling the bartender, who he promptly informs whose tab your drinks go on.

“I’m John,” he says to you then, holding out a hand, and you take it gently, a gleam in your eye.

“I know,” you tell him. “We have met before.”

John lowers his head some.

“And you remember,” he says it like it's a failure on his part, and to him, it is. Your smile widens just a little, but you lean in and nudge his arm.

“And you don’t?” your eyebrows bounce up again. Price has never spoken so quickly in his life.

“No, I do, I definitely do,” he says hurriedly, watching as your brows go even higher, and your grin turns a little wicked. His head lowers a little further.

“It’s okay, John, you thought I was a sugar baby,” you tease. Price doesn’t quite splutter, but he does open his mouth and close it again, cheeks growing warm.

“I did not,” he tells you, placing his drink back down and pointing at you. You chortle and take a sip of your brightly coloured cocktail. You tell him your name, and he repeats it back to you, tasting it in his mouth like a good whiskey.

“You served with Daniel, right?” you ask after a comfortable, but slightly charged beat of silence. Price nods, humming, but over the music, he’s not sure if you hear him.

“Danny’s smarter than me, though. Got out when he could,” he says with a chortle, picking up his glass again and taking a sip. You cock your head.

“Married to the job, then?” you ask, but despite your rather forward advances so far, you don’t sound searching, simply curious.

John frowns slightly.

“I– I try not to be,” he says, and it’s the truth. When his divorce had been finalised almost eight years ago now, he’d made a promise to himself, more than anyone else, to try and be more present in his life outside or work. He’d bought a house, a lovely little cottage style terrace a little ways outside of London, and he’d fixed it up nicely, given himself work and projects to do outside of the field. In fact, in the past few years he’d had to come to terms with the fact there was nothing more he could really do to his home short of knocking down the walls, and he’d considered buying another fixer upper, selling it on the cheap to a family or something when it was done. “But it comes with the territory,” he eventually goes on.

Your lip quirks just slightly, and you nod, looking away from him and out at the tables and throngs of guests.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s probably not even remotely the same, but my jobs fairly full on,” you say with the tone of someone who loved their job, but understood all too well the sacrifices it took to keep doing it. John leans back against the bar, and follows your lead, gazing out into the party.

“What do you do?” he asks.

“An events planner. Weddings most often, but all sorts really,” you tell him. When he glances over at you, you have a small smile fighting its way back to your cheeks.

“I love it, I really do, and I’m good at it, but sometimes…” you sigh. “Being pulled away from your personal life at all hours because of something gone wrong, or last minute planning meetings, scoping out venues…” you trail off, waving your hand in a circular motion. “Sometimes it feels like it never ends.”

John hums to himself. In any other context he could be mistaken for thinking he was speaking to a seasoned military officer like himself. You look back over at him, a wistful smile on your face.

“Doesn’t do wonders for the love life, I’ll say now,” your voice is wry, and he can’t help but return your smile at that, lifting his whiskey to you.

“I’ll drink to that.”

You clink his glass with a chuckle, and take a big mouthful of your drink.

“I imagine things are far more hectic for you than just a bride who’s bespoke dress doesn’t fit two days before the wedding.”

“We’ve all got our battlefields love,” he says sincerely, leaning over to you again, this time as if he’s sharing a secret with you. “But I tell you what, I’d take an enemy with a gun over an angry bride any day.”

You laugh at that, really laugh, and he shares a chuckle, but can’t quite drag his eyes away from you. Somehow, he gets the impression it’s been a while since you’ve laughed like that. He’s caught out staring, but you don’t say anything as you turn your body back to him, now closer than he remembers you being and you lean forward, your head resting in your hand propped up on the bar top.

“I haven’t done this in a while,” you say almost shyly. “But do you want to get out of here?”

John hears himself answering before he’s even fully processed your proposal.

–

Price forcibly stops himself from bouncing his leg under his desk, pulling his mind back to the mission reports in front of him. Despite this, his eyes flicker to the small clock on his desk and he lets out a huff, refocusing his eyes on the pages in front of him. It was 4:30pm, and the task force had only arrived back in London last night. Surely he could be forgiven for packing up early, leaving what's left of these reports for tomorrow.

But no. He’d send all his men home early before he left, and he knows for a fact Soap, Gaz and Ghost were still sat at their desks, so until they left, he stayed.

He makes it through the next two hours by placating himself with a cigar, focuses on that instead, and he knows he’ll thank himself in the morning, when he can officially start his leave, and not use up the day finishing off his paperwork.

Soap leaves around 5pm, and Ghost takes off shortly after. Gaz stops in on his way out around the same time, knocking lightly on his door and saying goodbye before he disappears for the next few weeks.

At 6:38pm a series of messages light up his phone.

Text: I’m not sure what you thought I meant when I said I needed the finalised table arrangements for tomorrow to transport to the venue, but that wasn’t a request, Jonathan.

Text: It is completely unacceptable, if you needed help or knew you couldn’t get it done, you should have called me.

Price stares at his phone in confusion. At first, seeing your name on his screen had brought a smile to his face, but as he reads the texts, he can only blink bewildered down at them. It’s strange, despite him being certain these messages are not meant for him, he feels a small twinge of guilt.

He calls you.

“John?! Hi!” you sound breathless on the other end.

“I think you texted the wrong John in your phone, love,” he says, slightly amused, but more intrigued about what the situation you’re in is. There’s some muffled sound on the other end of the line, and you’re quiet for a moment.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry, you’re not at work are you?!”

Price chuckles, and sits back in his desk chair.

“Just got back, finished up my paperwork and am all set for leave. You couldn’t have mistakenly told me off through text at a better time.”

He hears your laugh on the other end, but it’s pinched and slightly distracted.

“I’m so sorry,” you say again, now sounding like you were struggling with something.

“Sounds like you’re in a bad spot.”

“Ah, this assistant I hired thinks when I tell him to do something it’s optional,” you huff, sounding like you’re really doing your best not to get worked up. “I have a wedding tomorrow, and the table arrangements needed to be taken up to the venue tonight, but they aren’t done at all, and he won't answer his phone,” you trail off slightly into a mutter, but he swears he hears something along the lines of ‘I’m going to fucking kill him’.

“You need backup, love?” he asks, already figuring out a plan in his head of how he’d help you through this crisis.

“John, you literally just got home,” you say almost pleadingly. He smiles. He didn’t know how to accept help either.

“Where are you, sounds busy?” He asks. You let out a groan, and rattle off the name of a wholesale crafts store. In no more than five minutes, Price is in his car and on his way to you.

The location he arrives at seems closed when he pulls up, but the light were still on, like maybe the staff were cashing up for the night. He approaches the doors cautiously, not surprised when they don’t open, but after a moment he rapps his knuckles on the glass, and a harried looking man pops out of nowhere and hurries over, unlocking a side entrance and poking his head out.

“I’m so sorry sir, but we’re actually closed,” the man tells him. Price gives him a friendly smile.

“I’m here to help my friend, a wedding planner? She–” he cuts himself off when he sees you practically sprinting up from somewhere deep in the aisles.

“Fred! He’s here to help!” you say puffily when you arrive, and the man, Fred, looks back at him with an apologetic expression.

“Sorry about that,” he opens the door wider, and stands aside, letting Price slip in, before he locks the door once more, and turns to you.

“Just give a shout when you’re finished up,” he says warmly, before returning to what Price assumes must be some kind of stocktake.

Your chest is heaving when he looks back at you, and no matter how put-together and professional you appear, you have a frantic look about you.

“John, I can’t thank you enough,” you say sincerely, and for a moment, he swears your eyes get a little shinier, before you’re blinking back any wetness that might be threatening to form. You close your eyes for a moment, and take a deep breath. “Cry later,” you say like it’s a joke, but he can tell from your demeanour that it’s likely true.

“Where do you need me?”

John is used to taking orders, he didn’t always obey them, but that was a different story. However, he finds it shockingly easy to fall into line with you, despite not fully understanding every third word or idea you threw out, but he realises quickly he doesn’t have to. You point to things you need, referring back to your phone frequently, and giving him numbers in exact, describing things he needs to fetch.

Regardless of your clear and apparent stress, you don’t get impatient or stroppy when he returns with the wrong width ribbon, in fact you seem to take a certain amount of relief in explaining to him the difference between a 2.5 inch and a 3 inch, besides the measurements, and what purposes each could serve in any given situation. It’s not information or knowledge he thinks he’ll ever really need, but he enjoys learning it from you, enjoys watching you grow a little more calm by the minute each time he asks you to clarify or re-issue an order.

You leave with about three trolleys worth of items, vases and faux-flowers and other decorative things he didn’t really know the name for. This world, the one you lived in, was so vastly different from his own, yet as you check out, griping with Fred about your current situation, and thanking him profusely, he thinks you’d look at his mission planning and recon and find it a walk in the park.

He helps you carry your things to his car, almost laughing outright when you announce you’re about to order a MAXI cab, but quietly enamoured with the way you don’t argue or try to insist when he tells you he’d driven and will take you wherever you need to go. Like a soldier faced with a sudden unexpected change in plans, you simply readjust your mission parameters, and help him load up the boot.

Once you’re settled inside, you seem to take a moment, pulling your jacket off, smoothing down your hair, and then you look over at him and it’s as though you’re only just noticing his presence for the first time.

“Hi,” you say almost giddily. John can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. “I’m sorry if I was bossy,” you say, like you’ve just returned to base and can now process the previous hours worth of events. John shakes his head.

“I’m a military man, love, you give orders, I’ll follow ‘em.”

Your face softens even more then, and you lean across the console, John eagerly meeting you, and you press a soft, sweet kiss to his lips.

“I missed you,” you say quietly as you pull back. John smiles wider.

Your one night had turned into breakfast the next morning, had turned into lunch the next day, and dinner the next evening. He’d spent approximately half of his remaining leave with you, and for those short few weeks had fallen into a comfortable kind of routine that felt dangerously easy. John hadn’t shied away from it though. Danger was his life, and while you had spent a lot of time with one another, nothing had felt too fast, nothing felt too out of line. You seemed to fit into each other's lives perfectly, John never complaining when you had to take a call or leave a date early, and you didn’t seem anything more than concerned for him when he was called away four days prior to his leave ending.

Any time he’d gotten to spend with you had felt good enough by way of simply being with you.

“Missed you too,” he says, settling back in his seat and holding his hand out over the glove box, squeezing when you tuck your fingers in with his, and he pulls out of the car park.

He takes you home, to your flat, remembers the way without you having to prompt him, and once you and your cargo are inside, bags and boxes littering every surface of your rather plush kitchen and dining room, you turn to him with a grateful smile.

“Thank you, John, you probably hear this all the time, but you really saved me tonight,” you say with a small chuckle, but your tone implying you think he’s about to leave. Price cocks his head at you, raising an eyebrow.

“You can thank me when we’re done, love,” he tells you, stepping closer, as if to confirm he isn’t going anywhere just yet. “What’s first?”

You look up at him almost exasperatedly.

“John,” you say, firmly now. “You just got back. I’m going to be up all night doing this, and driving them up to the venue at god knows what hour,” you sound like you’re trying to scare him off. Price doesn’t budge.

“Then we should get started, hmm?”

You scrunch your nose at him, and he smiles, dropping a kiss to your lips as he sweeps past you, taking the closest box and beginning to unpack.

–

It’s five hours later when all forty arrangements are finished. You’d changed at some point, disappearing into your bedroom to remove your makeup and replace your work clothes with some sweatpants and an old tshirt. John had felt honoured you’d trusted him enough to carry on unattended, and when you’d returned, you’d wrapped your arms around him from behind and pressed a kiss to his cheek. You’d told him the arrangement he’d just about finished in that time looked ‘perfect’.

“What time is the wedding?” he asks, standing back as you finish fluffing up and counting each piece for the second or third time.

“10am,” you reply, almost on autopilot. “But I need to be there at eight to oversee everything,” you inform him, a yawn interrupting you mid sentence. John hums.

“The families are all staying in town, just outside the venue, I’ve got a room there too. Had to come back when I realised…” you trail off, straighten, then shake your head.

John nods.

“Let's get these loaded up then?”

You nod, tiredly, but you don’t falter nor drag your feet as you help him carry each arrangement out to his car. He watches you intrigued and impressed when you return after the last arrangement is packed with a stack of the flattened boxes from the store, and you pull them apart strategically to brace and support the rows of vases, slotting the cardboard in between and around each one to keep them upright.

When you’re done at last, he closes the boot and looks down at you.

“You’ve done this before,” he states playfully, expecting the gentle elbow you knock him with but taking it anyway as you return to your flat briefly to collect your shoes, your purse and lock your door.

“What's the drive?” he asks when you’re both back in his car, his hand reaching out behind your headrest. You look dog-tired, and you yawn again, but pull out your phone and rattle off the address, some fancy estate in York. It’s almost a five hour drive, but John pats your knee, and sets off as soon as you’re ready.

“You mind if we stop off somewhere quick?” He asks, glancing over at you in the passenger's seat. The roads were clear for the most part, but he was still driving cautiously, taking each turn slowly. “It’s on the way, I promise,” he adds after a moment, and you blink at him owlishly, like you’re surprised he’s even asked.

“John, after everything you’ve done for me tonight, you could stop off at Disneyland if you promised we’d still make it back in time,” you tell him. Price huffs out a laugh, but takes your hand and kisses the back of it.

“Won’t be long at all,” he assures you again.

His home luckily doesn’t take you far off trajectory, but he watches you perk up with interest as he comes to a stop on the street outside, throwing the car into park before he turns to you.

“Won’t be but a moment,” he tells you, then disappears.

You look up at the beautiful home, in a quiet, peaceful little neighbourhood, and you can’t help but smile. It’s not really at all what you’d expected, but you like it. You think if your life wasn’t so full on in the city, you’d like to live somewhere like it.

You watch as a few lights are turned on in various rooms, but he seems to be making his way upstairs, and faster than you really thought he might take, the lights are turning off once more in the same order they were switched on. Then he’s back at the car, carrying a dry cleaning bag that he takes and hangs from the hand hold above the back seat, before returning to the driver’s side and climbing back in.

You’re looking back at the bag curiously, turning to him when you can’t seem to divine through the black zipped fabric what it could be, though you suppose, there’s only so many options.

“Your outfit better not be the same as mine,” you joke, as he buckles himself back in, placing his hand once more on the back of your headrest as he checks behind him, before pulling out.

“Not unless you’re also wearing a needlessly complicated dress uniform,” he chortles, pulling out into the quiet road again and getting you both back on target.

“Needlessly complicated? Maybe. Uniform? Absolutely not,” you tell him with a tone that he thinks suggests he will quite like what you’re wearing tomorrow. You seem to think about something for a moment before you laugh to yourself. “My jewellery might outshine yours, though I certainly didn’t work as hard as you did for it,” you tell him, still chortling to yourself. John scoffs.

“After tonight, sweetheart, I’m tempted to pin one of those medals on you,” he has a laugh of his own when you roll your eyes and harmlessly shove his shoulder.

The drive turns quiet as the roads get darker, and the town passes you by. When he looks over at you only minutes later, you’re fast asleep, and John hums contentedly to himself.

—

Regrettably he has to wake you when you arrive at the venue. He doesn’t have any of the necessary authority to grant him access, but you jump out the car, with him standing closely behind and speaking in quiet words with the security guard at the gate, who greets you kindly and lets you in without so much as checking your ID. John figures you’d been down here over the last few days setting up the venue, that the guy knows who you are.

You climb back in the car, and make your way up the long driveway, where at the top, you direct him to pull off to the side. It was early now, around 4:30am, but still as dark as ever. Another security guard meets you around the side entrance, leading you into a massive ballroom already mostly filled with tables and chairs and place settings and decorations.

It looks lavish, utterly magical, and John can’t help but turn to you as you each carry a vase inside, the security guard trailing behind you also helping you unload.

“You did all this?” He asks. You roll your eyes, but smile at him, and give a small shrug.

“Well, the bride certainly didnt’t,” you tell him, sounding proud. He follows your directions, places each vase at the very centre of each table, back and forth, back and forth, until all forty are set and ready. You stand back, hands on your hips, but a slight slump to your shoulder. You check your phone.

“It’s five,” you say, the tiniest of whines in your voice. John smiles sympathetically at you, and draws you in by the shoulders, kissing your temple as you wind your arms around his middle and seem to fall into him.

“I’m so tired,” you actually do whine this time, almost like you’re on the verge of tears. John adjusts his arms tighter around you and hums, rocking you a little.

“Two of you still have a couple hours before the wedding,” the guard says from somewhere behind him, and John turns his head to send him a small smile and a nod.

“Come on,” he says to you, keeping you close even as he pulls back some, to get you walking again. “Let's get you to bed.”

The hotel is quiet. It’s a local place, with quite a nice pub down the bottom, and once he’s gotten you upstairs and to your room, you all but collapse on the bed.

“What time do you need to be up, love?” John asks quietly, pulling your sneakers off as you lie sideways on the bed, legs still hanging off, an arm thrown over your eyes. You groan a little at the jostling, but otherwise lay completely still like a rag doll, even when he briefly sits you upright again, removing your large oversized sweater, your face pressed into the crook of his neck as he holds you upright.

He knows you're not asleep, your eyes are still blearily open, but he might have been fooled for how quiet you are, how even your breathing is. Once the sweater is set aside, to be folded neatly once you’ve got your head on your pillow, John keeps you in place slumped against his front, gently trailing his hands up your neck to find the clasps on your necklaces. You shift a bit, ticklish maybe, and he can’t help but smile as he locks that information away, and keeps going, removing your simple gold chain, steadying you with one hand while he leans across with the other to place the jewellery on the bedside.

His fingers trace up to your ears, and you shiver again, making him chuckle lightly as you grumble tiredly at him.

“Earrings off?” He asks, receiving a small nod. He goes about that task too, struggling for a moment with the tiny pin and clasp, before finally managing to pull them apart, putting them aside too. His hands drop to your shoulders then, before trailing down to your arms, then finding your hands. He pulls apart from you just enough to bring the backs of your fingers to his lips, kissing each hand gently.

“What time do you need to be up?” He asks again.

You finally move on your own, crawling back away from him, though trying to keep one hand holding his, until you’re forced to let go. John helps you pull the sheets back, settling you beneath.

“Seven-thirty,” you croak, voice a little rough from lack of sleep and stress. John leans forward and presses his lips to your forehead, a little surprised you have the wherewithal to reach out before he can pull back, cupping his cheeks with both hands, and drawing him back to you.

You kiss him a little more deeply than he’s expecting, slowly, soft, like you have all the time in the world, and not mere hours before you need to be up again.

“What was that for?” He asks with a short chuckle after pulling away, his forehead rested against yours.

“For doing all this even though you didn’t have to.”

John swallows for a moment. He could easily tell you otherwise, but you’d both know it wouldn’t quite be true. He was bone tired, had barely slept since his return, and if you’d asked him hypothetically, this would have been the last thing on earth he’d have felt like doing immediately post mission. And yet it wasn’t just his training and drive that kept him going. You were right, he didn’t have to, but there was also no way he wasn't going to.

John smiles, and turns his head to press a kiss into one of your palms.

“I’ll wake you, seven-thirty,” he tells you. You hum.

He leaves you there, retires to the bathroom to shower the day off. When he returns to your dimmed room, he folds both of your discarded clothes and places them on a chair in the corner, grabbing his phone and setting the alarm, before turning out the lamp. The moment you sense him in the bed beside you, you roll toward him, settling in the crook of his arm, and it takes very little effort to mold himself around you, wrap you up, and press a kiss to your hairline.

–

You walk swiftly, even in your high heels, through the ceremony room, checking and double checking every detail, even as guests begin to filter in. It had taken everything in you not to drag John back to your room this morning after you’d both readied, and you’d seen him in that damn dress unifrom.

He may have found it overly complicated, and perhaps not fully comfortable, but you, you found it absolutely delectable. You glance back to him standing toward the back of the room, looking like he was standing guard over it. At last satisfied that everything is in its place and as it should be, you head back toward him, feeling a slight trill when his gaze snaps toward you, then back toward something else.

You falter for a moment, resisting the urge to look back over your shoulder to find whatever he’s looking at.

“John?” you ask as you approach. His attention falls back on you quickly, and this time it stays there, though you can’t shake the feeling that he seems… uncomfortable. “Are you alright?” you lift your hand to reach for him, but hesitate, and in your brief moment of pause, you watch him quickly take in your uncertainty, and even more quickly alleviate it by offering his own hand to you, drawing you closer.

John clears his throat a little and gives you a tight, rueful smile.

“My ex-wife is here,” he tells you quietly, but with a mirthless little chuckle. You blink back at him, not managing to mask your surprise. You have no judgement for him though, the fact that he’d been married previously is simply news to you. You squeeze his hand and lean in closer.

“You don’t have to be here,” you say. John lowers his chin at you, and he gives you an almost sardonic look.

“Messed things up the first time not bein’ here, I’m not making that mistake again,” he tells you, setting off a million butterflies in your stomach. You return his sardonic look though, and roll your eyes.

“You’ve already proven your point well enough by now, if you’re uncomfortable with…” you trail off, and look over your shoulder as subtly as you can.

“Green dress, left side,” he says, and you narrow in on a pretty blonde woman chatting amiably with some other guests. “And I’m not uncomfortable,” he assures you, making you turn back around. “Jus’ surprised to see her,” he adds.

You move around to his side, still holding his hand, and he brings it up again like he had last night, kissing the backs of your fingers, his moustache gently scratching against them. You lean against the wall much more casually than he is, and squeeze his hand.

“Good terms, then?” you ask curiously, now you know he’s not sweating to run out of here. John hums lowly.

“Yeah, by the end,” he speaks in a manner that sounds factfual, but he doesn’t hide the slight melancholy in his voice. You bump his shoulder with your own and nod at the pews subtly.

“She’s noticed you,” you tell him, making him smile down at you.

“I know.”

“You could talk to her, if you wanted,” you suggest. John shakes his head.

“I’ll let her approach me, if she wants. Days not about me. Or her,” he says and you have to suppress a dreamy little sigh.

“You’re a good man,” you tell him, and for a moment, his smile widens into a funny little grin.

“Sometimes,” he tells you, a little cryptically, but you brush him off.

–

The day carries on just as planned.

You rush around from place to place, John never far behind you, except when he somehow knows to stay out of your way, at which point you find him always nearby, but never lingering. You introduce your unknown guest to the bride and groom, both of whom seem happy, if not honoured, to have a ‘distinguished military man’ as their additional helper, and you even spy at one point, the groom roping him into a lively conversation with some of the other groomsmen.

He’s funny, and amiable, and perfect, and you’re forced to smile each time you see him.

Even later on in the night, when you spot the woman in the green dress approaching him on the sidelines.

He hugs her, but steps away quickly, and just like you had earlier, she comes to a lean against the wall next to him. You keep one eye on them as they appear to talk amicably, friendly even, a few smiles and laughs going shared between them.

Maybe for a singular moment you feel jealousy licking at your heels, but it fades quickly. There’s no longing or lingering looks between the two of them, no expressions of regret or sadness going shared. When another man approaches, almost cautiously, John’s ex-wife stands taller again, wrapping her arm around the new man's back and seemingly introducing him.

The two men shake hands, and then you watch on as a friendly, comfortable conversation ensues, only taken aback slightly when John’s gaze flickers past the couple he’s speaking to, and he gestures lightly over at you. Both of his companions turn to look at you, the woman in green smiles widely at you, and you straighten up, about to begin walking over, when somebody grabs your arm gently, and suddenly your attention is elsewhere, drawn to one more small fire you hurry away to put out.

John finds you some time later while you’re seeing off the catering staff. Most of the guests were gone now, the bride and groom certainly having disappeared a while ago, and when you turn to face him, you can see on his face just how tired he is.

“That’s a wrap?” he asks, putting his arm around your shoulder, rubbing his hand up and down over your skin when he feels how cold you are. You nod, and lean into his side.

“Yup, I’m all done. The service vendors will pack the place up. I’m off the hook,” you tell him. John looks down at you with a beaming smile.

“You did beautifully,” he tells you, before lowering his chin. “Sleep for three days?”

You laugh, and lift your own hand up to brush over his chest.

“Absolutely.”

—

It’s a few days later, and you’re lying in bed together, panting a little after your most recent exertions. Your head and half your body lay over John’s, your fingers running lightly over the hair on his chest.

“Would you ever think about doing this again?” you ask, still halfway lost in your thoughts. John looks down at you, eyebrows raised and a smirk on his lips.

“Darlin’ I think about doing this again all the time,” he says, making you scoff and smack him lightly. He laughs and leans down to kiss your temple.

“No, I meant– I was thinking about the wedding– would you ever get married again?” You hate how your voice has turned small, how he can probably divine all sorts of things from that alone. John hums, and shifts a little.

“I’m not someone who’s sworn off it, love, but…” he trails off, and when you look up at him, he’s frowning slightly. When he realises you’re looking at him, he smiles, a little ruefully, but you can tell he means it. His arms come around you a little tighter and he drops another kiss to your forehead.

“My jobs not so simple as just being in the army,” he tells you with a small sigh. You frown, intrigued now, and sit up slightly, resting on your forearms beside him.

“You don’t talk about work very much,” you say, prompting him. John nods and hums again, his hand still curved around your back traces up slightly over your bare skin.

“I’m in the SAS, love,” he tells you, making you pause for a moment. You look at him squinting, not that you think he’s lying but you cock your head. You realise he’d never told you, but you were friends with Daniel, you’d spoken about his former military career. You’d asked John when you first met if they’d worked together, he’d said yes.

“Fancy,” you say, recieving a laugh.

“Hardly,” John’s voice is a little tight, but he looks at you again, from where his eyes had wandered to the ceiling, before drawing his free hand over his face.

“I’m away a lot. It’s dangerous. There’s a very real chance one day I don’t come back at all.”

Your heart leaps into your throat and you frown even deeper, only stopping when his hand on your back moves from around you and comes up to smooth out the creases between your eyes.

“Anybody I…” he stops, pausing for a moment before he looks up at you and his hand moves to cup your cheek. ”You, you have to be okay with that,” he says at last, his voice solemn but firm. You place your hand around his own on your cheek, and move it, closing his fist so you can kiss the backs of his fingers like he often did to you.

“I think I’ve got enough to keep me busy, besides,” you kiss his hand again, a small smile blooming across your cheeks now. “I already knew you were SAS,” you tell him.

You watch John’s gaze turn curious and thoughtful. He’s trying to remember if he’d said anything previously that might have tipped you off.

“You worked with Danny, right? You told me when we first met.”

John’s features turn surprised, before accepting, and he wraps his arm around the back of your head and draws you in. You kiss him gently, soft, scrunching your nose a little at the feel of his slightly grown out facial hair.

“And you’ve put up with me anyway,” he says, like it’s been a massive sacrifice on your part. You roll your eyes and poke his cheek.

“John, no man I’ve ever been with has stepped up for me the way you did this past weekend,” you tell him sincerely. “If that’s what you’re like when you are around, that’s all I need.”

John kisses you again, sweeter this time, a peck, but you press back for more, and make him chuckle. You pull back, and gaze down at him.

“The answer is yes, sweetheart,” he says then, voice just barely above a whisper. “I have thought about doing this again.”

–

You move in together six months later.

Sort of.

You keep your townhouse in the city, and he keeps his house just outside of it. He stays with you during the weeks, brings some of his belongings, helps you rearrange your office and sets up a desk of his own. On the weekends and multiple days in a row you could work from home, you go up to his house and relax, he helps you move some things around, and you have more than one drawer worth of clothing in your shared bedroom.

John comes and goes, lucky enough to obtain some regular sort of schedule in that time, and more than a year after you first started cohabiting, you start getting the itch for more.

“Do you want to buy a house?” you ask over lunch. John pauses momentarily, halfway through chewing but he looks over at you curiously.

“We have two houses,” he says. You roll your eyes.

“I mean sell those, find somewhere in the middle ground?”

John frowns.

“Like where?” he asks, sounding slightly suspicious. You pull out your phone, and list off a few of the areas that you’ve been thinking about, somewhere quiet and homey the way he likes, but still close enough to the city it’s not such a hassle for you.

“Sweetheart,” he says in a slightly apologetic tone. “I dunno if we can afford that,” he says honestly. You like that about him. As much as John couldn’t talk about certain aspects of his life, the ones he could were never a closed book to you.

You hum at him. John wasn’t struggling for money, you know that much. His work paid well, it’d have to you think, but you had your suspicions for a while now that your work paid even better.

“Yes we can,” you tell him factually. You gesture at your kitchen. “This place has only gone up in value, and it’s already worth…” you trail off. You didn’t really discuss finances all that much, and now it comes to talking about it, you almost feel self conscious. You’d both agreed that instead of paying half each other’s bills, you’d both keep on paying your own ways, seeing as you spent more or less equal time at each other's homes. “I don’t rent this place,” you say then, realising, you’re not sure if he knows that. It had just never come up.

John’s eyebrows raise.

“You own this?” he asks, trying to sound curious but he fails to hide his bewilderment.

“John I–” you cut yourself off, not knowing how to explain this to him, but settle on facts. He liked knowing those, helped him get a clear picture of his situation and surroundings. “I think I make more money than you– substantially more,” you tell him, your voice almost sounding placating. “We can afford any of those areas twice over,” you say.

John stares at you, his eyes flickering over your face, before he sits back in his chair and, taking another bite of his pasta salad, begins scanning around your kitchen and living room like he’d never seen it before. You worry needlessly for a moment that you’ve insulted him, wonder if maybe he doesn’t like the fact you’re above him slightly on the pay scale. But then he looks back at you, a funny little smirk on his face and he lowers his chin.

“So this isn’t a question you’re asking me to make a decision on,” he says with a chortle in his voice. You roll your eyes and reach out for his hand which he gives happily.

“I am asking you. We sell our places and look for one together, put the money toward that. It doesn’t have to be an even split, I want to live with you properly,” you say. John squeezes your fingers.

“Well, don’t I feel like the kept man,” he chuckles. You roll your eyes again.

“Hardly, although, if you do want to quit your job and be my stay at home boyfriend, I wouldn’t complain.”

John shakes his head, giving you another little laugh.

“Any house we live in would be your house anyway, love. Yours and any little ones,” he says, making your stomach flutter furiously like it often did around him.

“Well, I’m definitely not carting any children back and forth across half of London,” you tell him faux-warningly. John shakes his head again.

“No, no, we’ll find a little place, good schools nearby, parks,” he perks up then, like he’s just remembered something. “We’ll get a minivan,” he tells you with an expression you know means he already knows your feelings on that.

You stare at him blankly.

“Like fuck we will,” you snap petulently, giving him the response he’s looking for and sending his head back with a hearty laugh. “You get one John, two if you behave,” you point warningly at him. John rubs his thumb over the backs of your fingers and leans forward again.

“Three?” He asks, seemingly testing you. You blink slowly at him.

“You can have three if and when you retire,” you tell him seriously.

John, for his part, doesn’t seem put off by this. He strokes his moustache thoughtfully.

“Two in the meantime, then?” he asks. You nod.

“House first. Then ring. Then two,” you tell him. John takes up your other hand too, your left, and raises it to his eyeline, searching like he’s looking for something that you both know isn’t there.

“First two can be in any order, I think,” he tells you, eyes flickering up to yours over your knuckles.

“First two are non negotiable, but can be completed in whatever order you choose,” you tell him, faux-haughtily. He brings your left hand to his lips then kisses over your ring finger softly before releasing it once more and returning to his lunch.

“I’ll sort it, love,” he tells you.

–

Price opens the door at seven in the morning, half expecting the movers to have arrived early. What he finds instead is Soap, Ghost and Gaz standing meekly on the doorstep. He raises an eyebrow.

“Told you he’d be up,” Simon says from the back of the group.

“And who told you where I lived?” Price wonders aloud, not quite glaring at his men.

Soap whistles loudly, looking up at the facade of the building.

“Swanky, Captain, real swanky,” he says, ignoring the question and wiggling his eyebrows.

“John? Is that the movers? They’re early,” your voice sounds from behind him and John steps aside, widening the door so you can see the three stooges on your stoop.

They must have heard the complaining he was doing last week about the first move, carting all his things from his house and into the new one, and heard a cry for help. Despite all evidence to the contrary, mainly the bored look on his face, Price thinks this is Simon’s idea.

“Cavalry’s here, love,” John says as you step into view, your face morphing from surprise into joy as you spot the men outside.

“Boys!” you say happily, bustling your way past John and outside to share hugs all around. Even Simon opens one arm to wrap you up briefly. “It’s good to see you lot again,” you say, stepping back to stand with John.

“Cap was complainin’ about the last move, figured we’d lend a hand with this one!” Gaz says. John doesn’t quite scowl.

“I wasn’t complaining,” he tells you.

You pat his arm, and look back at Gaz.

“Think he almost did his back out with the desk coming down the stairs,” you tell him, earning a snort from Simon.

“That’s the problem with mahogany desks, I hear,” Gaz says with a heavy lathering of faux sympathy.

“It’s not mahogany, it’s pine– it doesn’t matter,” John mutters, stepping back and ushering the three men inside.

Most of your belongings (and John’s) were already packed, each room with a stack of labelled boxes and a directory list. Each of your additional helper’s had come with their own cars, so the boxes get loaded up according to which rooms they belong, and the movers van when it arrives takes all the appliances and heavy goods.

“Fuckin’ hell, look’t this place,” Soap says shortly after you’ve arrived at the new house for the first trip of the day.

“It’s nice isn’t it?!” you say excitedly. Up until the first move last week, John had only seen the place in some extensive pictures you’d sent the last time he was away, although when he’d gotten home a couple weeks back, you’d taken a drive past the outside so you could show him.

“Weddin’ plannin’ really pays off, huh?” Gaz adds with a short impressed whistle. You laugh at that and nod.

“And here’s everyone thinkin’ you’re the one lookin’ for a bit of sugar, huh?” Simon says, sidling up, already with a box in his hands.

You scoff and smack the box.

“It was the only neighbourhood I could find that was close to work for both of us, and had good schools nearby,” you tell the boys as you meander up the front steps and unlock the door.

“Yer goin’ back to school?” Soap asks with no small amount of surprise in his voice. You turn around and look at him, baffled, when John siddles past, a box held in one arm, and he smacks Johnny over the back of his head lightly.

“For children, MacTavish.”

Soap doesn’t appear all that put out, even when Simon pushes past him next.

“You’re lucky you’re good looking, Johnny,” he says with a slight huff, checking the label on his box as he goes. Soap puffs his chest out, looking proud of himself.

“Ye hear tha’? LT thinks I’m good lookin’!”

Gaz eyes him evenly as he too passes.

“Don’t think that was a compliment, mate.”

You get all the boxes into their designated rooms by the late afternoon, order some food, get some beers, and by the time you’re seeing everyone off, you’re bone tired. John finds you in the bedroom, unpacking a few things. You’d made up a ‘go bag’ like he’d suggested, full of the things you use everyday, your phone charger, changes of clothes, your toiletries… and one other thing.

“Okay, I know we said we’d wait, but,” you realise your voice is echoed by his, and you turn around, blinking at each other. Then you realise he’s on one knee. Then he realises you’re holding a pregnancy test.

You blink at each other once more.

[lost-romantique]

"We aren't a family, sir!"

"We aren't a family, sir! You are the boss! We are the employees!"

"Who's that?"

"Oh, her? That's just Loona. What a nightmare. Serious attitude problems... She'll be out of our hair next month when she ages out. Good riddance, if you ask me. She'll never amount to anything much."

"Fuck, Blitzo! Why can't you stay out of my face for, like, five minutes?!"

"Because, I adopted you! And that should mean something!"

"Oh, what does it matter?! You're not my real dad! I was almost eighteen!"

"It still counts!"

"Well, it shouldn't! I didn't need you then, asshole! I don't, now!"

"I love you, dad."

"Okay, not much of a talker, are you? I'm Blitzo, the "o" is silent. I'm sure we're going to get along just fine. So, what's your deal? What'd you do? Who'd you diddle? You look like someone good with a gun. You look like someone who could shoot up an office-"

"I'm just worried about Millie. She'll be on her way by now, I'm sure!"

"Ugh, she'll be fine, Moxxie. It would take a roided-up hippo to take down that woman when she's upset."

"We've never dealt with the human government before! She's in danger!"

"Do you ever honestly shut up about Millie?! It's always "Oh, how's Millie?" "I can't tonight. I'm hangin' with Millie!" "I'm so worried about Millie!" And she's ALWAYS... FIVE FUCKIN' FEET away from you! It's pathetic!"

"Do you remember what you said to me after my first day with the company?"

"Not really..."

"I remember. You told me I did a good job and that you were proud to work with me. I feel like you wanted to say something more judgmental, but... you said that because I needed it... And it helped."

"Look, I'm hard on you, because I know what you're capable of, Mox. You care too much about what everyone thinks except for... me, because, y'know, my opinion is correct, but just... keep doing a good job. 'Kay? You shoot 'n kill good, you escape things easy... you can be strategic and cold-blooded when you need to, aaaand don't expect any more compliments; I'm maxed out."

"Thank you, sir."

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Someone with an eye for potential. Now you wanna keep working for peanuts, or do you want to shake things up?"

"I'm done. I don't wanna play ghost hunter with you, and I-"

"Uh, it's ghost-fuckers"

"I wasn't done! You know, I always love to have fun with you, and I ain't said boo to you moping around like a sad sack for weeks. But we have bills to pay... So look, you can go be pathetic and play sex ghosts, if that's what you need to do, but I gotta get this job done!"

"Fine! Who needs you anyway!? Bethany Ghost-Fucker works ALONE!"

"We're just Wrathians, Blitz. Muscle. It's all we're good for, all I'm good for. It's why you hired me. Any demon good at making a buck is welcome in Lust or Greed, but here? Demons like us ain't cut out for this."

"Uh... fuck you!"

"What?"

"Millie, I have spent too much of my time, energy, and holes into setting this up for us to entertain your bullshit. I brought you into this company for a reason, okay? You're tougher, smarter, and frankly more capable than anyone I've ever met in any ring..."

"Look. What I said earlier, you've just always been so unbothered by everything. Almost bulletproof and, I guess I never realized how much I depended on that. I didn't know how to react to you being reduced to…Bethany. But I should've respected you like you always do for me. I'm sorry."

"NO! Not them, Your Highness! It was me, it was all me, okay? Y-you can't expect to teach anyone a lesson by killing all of us!"

"You dare try to tell me how to PUNISH!?"

"Look, all that Hell is gonna see is you executing imps who are just trying to do their job! I'm the rogue here, not them!"

"Blitz, what are you doing?"

"Your Highness, please. Blitz just--"

"Moxxie, stop."

"Blitz, I can't let you-"

"This big red bitch never planned on hearing us out... Just... just take care of Loona for me."

"I love you, guys."

"Sir-sir, you're here!"

"Dad!"

"Don't you ever do that to me again, you fucking idiot!"

Moxxie was right, they are most definitely not a family. /sarcasm

[musingsofheaven]

CONSOLATION PRIZE

summary: he loses a match. you push his buttons. one stop on the side of the road turns into something way dirtier than either of you meant. you talk too much. he shuts you up. it’s messy, mean, and you shouldn’t love it this much. but you do. and he knows it. but you’re both a little too into it.

pairings: patrick zweig x reader

warnings: 11.7k words. mature themes. graphic, unhinged smut. porn without plot. semi-public setting (car). foreplay (fingering, deepthroating/face-fucking). spit play. rough sex. unprotected piv. impact play (breast and ass slapping). light choking. degradation kink (verbal and physical). objectification. d/s undertones. misogynistic/sexist dirty talk. overstimulation. cum play. dubcon-adjacent tone. voyeurism mention. threesome fantasy mention. read responsibly.

note: omg hi. so this was supposed to be like… a quick 1-3k smut fic. like just a “he’s pissed bcs he lost + you’re pushy = sex in a car” situation. but then... i kept writing. and writing. and apparently faint out somewhere around the throatfucking and woke up 11.7k words later with absolutely no plot and the most disgusting shit possible. no thoughts just patrick losing a match and treating your body like a stress toy <3 so… sorry? you’re welcome? thank you? idk. enjoy. don’t look me in the eye. love u sm. 🫶🏻💌

He's cocky, sure, but he's also prideful. That's the Patrick you know. Sometimes (most of the time, honestly), it's so annoying. Today is one of those times. He storms off before the final point is even announced, the man doesn’t wait for the handshake (his ego is too big to do such a thing), doesn’t nod at the crowd, or even look back again at the crowd (too scared, maybe, at the disappointment), grabs his bag like he wants to rip the strap clean off, and disappears down the tunnel. No, you don’t call after him. Not right away. You know how this works. He’s doing that thing again as if he walks as if he’s untouchable. Hell, he's masking all that nonchalant bullshit like losing doesn’t touch him, but the way he’s chewing the inside of his cheek says otherwise.

Because he lost. Again.

The third tournament this month. Who fuck does that? This third time, coming off the court with his pride hanging out like an open wound. He feels embarrassed, of course. You can see the look he gave the net as it betrayed him. He's acting like the universe giving him this shitty career.

And it’s not just the match. It’s the headlines. Fucking news that always reached his parents regardless they distance themselves from him. Yet he feels they are so close to cutting him off. He always remembers the comparison. God. God. God. He feels pathetic. But of course, he remembers it. The name everyone keeps bringing up even when no one says it out loud to him. Art. Undefeated. Effortless. Golden-boy Art, who somehow wins everything without ever looking like he’s trying. The perfect one. Patrick has to cut himself for his wins. And when he loses? They call him second best with a fucking smile.

“Pat,” you call, jogging to catch up. “Hey. Wait up.”

He doesn’t. He doesn't stop. He just continues walking.

You're behind him and press harder to get something. A reaction. “Can you talk to me? Just say something.”

Nothing. He keeps walking, faster. Fucking asshole.

“Seriously? Are you gonna pretend I’m not here now?”

He stops. Suddenly, so you didn't expect that which caused you to nearly crash into his back.

And he stands there, still like a statue, shoulders square, like he’s deciding whether to say something or snap at you instead. His fists are clenched around the bag strap, knuckles white. Your guess? He's probably biting his cheek or his teeth grinding together.

“Don’t,” he mutters without turning around. His voice is low. Cold. “Not right now.”

And it’s not the volume that pisses you off. It’s the way he means it.

He moves again. Unlock the car. Throwing his bag into the trunk like it personally offended him. He doesn't even care if it will mess up his already fucked up of a racket. You hesitate at first but then get in too. Because fuck that, if he thinks you’re gonna leave him alone right now? Then he’s dumber than whoever just beat him in straight sets.

He drives like he’s chasing something. As if speeding tickets don’t exist. Like he doesn't care if he’ll get pulled up from that. Like he can escape from the part of his brain that keeps telling him he’s slipping, slipping, slipping.

You keep quiet. But you’re not going to let it go. She hates it when he's like this as much as she wants to understand him. Not when his jaw is that tight. Not when his hands look like they’re trying not to punch the steering wheel. Not when he looks like he wants to drive straight to a tree or building, just simply crash the car.

He pulls off somewhere random. Some lot. Trees. Nowhere. Not that you could recognize it, not really.

Puts the car in park. He's just quiet. You are quiet too, but you are thinking of the right time to poke at things because he doesn't even look at you. Doesn’t move.

And you say it anyway.

“Where are we even going?”

Nothing. Prick.

“Why won’t you talk to me? You can’t just...”

“You don’t get it,” he snaps, finally turning his head, but not all the way. You just look at him and your face softens. “Jesus, can you just not right now? Just shut up. Don't add, okay?”

His words hit like someone shoots your body. You freeze and your hand withdraws from hovering near his arm because you feel like you’re the one who crossed the line.

“I’m just trying to...” Your words didn't finish and you flinch while speaking. You're still not recovering from his words. He hears it. He regrets it, maybe. You won't just know that because he doesn’t say sorry.

You know what this is. You always do. You have known him for years already. The silence, the snapping, the way he can’t meet your eyes. It’s not about the match. Not the lost. (Okay, maybe it's about that)

But really? It's more about the weight. The pressure. The fact that Patrick Zweig used to mean something. Hell, he was too eager to make something. To be something. Just be. Now? Every time he loses, someone brings up him. And of course... you. You’re the only one who doesn’t want to see him like this.

“To what?” he snaps, finally looking at you. Just a flash, his jaw tight, something behind his eyes you couldn't figure out what he was feeling. “Fix it? Tell me it’s not that bad?”

You stare and almost glare at him, but you don't. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly,” he bites. “You don’t have to. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you clap back, louder than you mean to. “I’m trying here, Patrick. I showed up. Supported you. I followed you. I gave a shit.”

He laughs as if he's mocking the words that just came out of your mouth. “Yeah? Thought maybe you just missed the drama. Yeah... yeah, that's it, right? Thought maybe it reminded you of him.”

And there it is.

You blink. Something burns low in your chest. God. He's so petty even though you didn't do anything wrong.

“Really?” you say, voice more sharp now. “That’s what you’re gonna do? Mention him in this conversation because you can’t handle losing?” Classic.

“I handle it fine,” he snapped, jaw flexing. He takes a deep breath. Tick, tick, tick. He's surely trying to calm himself... to avoid saying something he'll regret.

“You stormed off the court like a toddler and now you’re picking a fight with me because Art exists?”

His knuckles tighten on the wheel. Almost turning white.

“Maybe go ask him how he handles losing,” Patrick mutters, too casual to be casual. But that's him, always casual.

“Oh wait. He wouldn’t know.”

You feel it like a slap. Hard and accurate.

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t need to. Why would he when he's bitching around and he only has you right now?

“Is that what this is about?” you say, voice laced with disbelief. “Art?”

The way his jaw clenches and eyebrow twitch is the answer for you.

“God, Pat.”

“You know what?” you started but not really saying anything yet, eyes locked on his face. “I am here with you but you are making me wish I did go to his matches instead of yours,” you say, arms crossed. “At least I know that he didn’t throw a tantrum every time things didn’t go his way.”

Patrick laughs, it's sharp and humorless. “Yeah? At least he didn’t fuck you either. Guess he saw through the act.”

You let out a laugh, bitter and loud. “Says the guy who only texts when his career is getting shitty. What’s the matter, Pat? Need a consolation trophy in my pussy to feel like a winner? To feel something?”

His mouth almost hung low but he didn't do it. “Right, because you’re just so hard to get. Yeah? But you are the one who showed up tonight like you were waiting for a consolation prize.”

You lean in, smiling with your teeth, almost gritting them together. “And you drove me here like you couldn’t stand the thought of going home alone without a trophy in your hands.”

His head turns toward you, slow, eyes hot and burning. “You think I brought you because I needed you?”

“I think you brought me,” you whisper, inching closer, just enough, “because I’m the only one who still pretends you’re not living in his shadow. That you are not just... An old double partner.”

He doesn’t flinch. But he doesn't know if he wants to throw you out of the car or strangle you. Just leans in, close enough that his mouth almost brushes yours. His voice drops low.

“Then why are you still here?”

You hold your breath.

His mouth curls into a smirk.

“Guess you like being with the loser, huh?”

You don’t even think at this point. Your head snaps toward him so fast the seatbelt almost chokes you.

“What?”

Patrick’s still staring straight ahead, mouth all tight like he’s chewing gum. His jaw flexes. Shrugs, like it’s not a loaded question. “That’s me, right? The loser. Second best. Hell, I’m not even the second-best at all. Not golden boy. Not the one winning trophies.”

You lean in slowly. Real slow before you chuckle at his statement. God. So pathetic. This isn't the Patrick you know. “You wanna cry about it, Pat?”

His head whips toward you. And then his mouth is on yours. Angry. Kissing you, and shutting you up. Like he’s trying to punish you for being there. For not forgetting about him. For being the proof he lost again.

It’s all teeth. It's not gentle. Not like the kiss you share with your partners. He kisses you like he wants to take your oxygen. His tongue forces into your mouth, so desperate. You grab his shirt and yank him closer until your seat belt cuts across and touches his neck.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn't want to. Doesn’t even flinch. Just pulls it off you, one-handed, yanks the buckle so hard the metal clicks and flies behind you. Then he’s holding your waist, dragging you across the console needily and he made it easy like the gear shift doesn’t exist. You’re in his lap now, back hitting the steering wheel, hips pressed down against the bulge in his shorts. Hard. So fucking hard. You don't even know what made him horny. You can feel it twitch, and it just makes you grind lower, pressing your ass more against him.

He groans close to your cheek, low, ragged, filthy. Then, he said... “Open your mouth.”

You do. You open it while looking at him, waiting for what he'll do. And he fucking spits in it. Thick and hot, tongue still pushing against yours, licking back into your mouth like he’s trying to taste your mouth while it's open.

You moan and squirm. Louder than you should.

And then he bites your lip. Not playful, he's being mean. You feel the sting, the wet pain, and it just makes you need more. You shove your fingers into his hair, wrap your fingers around the soft curls before you yank it hard, and kiss him like you want to split his mouth open and eat him whole.

His hands are everywhere, gripping your ass like he’s trying to make it open, fingers digging in the fabric of your skirt, grinding you down over his cock. Make sure the clothes rub against each other. The friction is fucking obscene. Cotton and sweat and heat. You’re already soaked (not that he knows that… but does he?) and he hasn’t even gotten under your clothes.

He pulls back, breath wrecked, lips shiny and red. “Is that how he kissed you?” he pants before brushing his thumb on your lower lip. “Does Art make you moan like that?”

You laugh. Spiteful. Sarcastic. Taunting him. “Art never fucking kissed me.”

Patrick grins. “Good.” Then he sucks your tongue into his mouth so deep you choke on it as if it’s a form of cannibalism, spit leaking down your chin as he grabs your jaw and tilts your head just to go deeper.

You bite his upper lip back. He groans into your mouth.

One of his hands slips under your shirt, dragging rough palms up your stomach and just feeling your skin. He’s grabbing your tit through your bra as he owns it. Palming it. Groping it. Squeezing it. The other’s already down the back of your waistband, squeezing bare skin, dragging you down onto his cock like he’s gonna fuck you through the fabric.

“Keep grinding like that,” he breathes, forehead against yours, eyes closed like he’s stopping himself. “And I’m gonna come in my shorts like a fucking teenager.” Yeah. Well… he doesn’t like cumming before you. He likes cumming deep inside you.

You smile before you giggle. “Maybe that’s all losers are good for, huh?”

He scoffs like he’s gonna kill you and yanks your shirt down. He doesn’t even bother taking it off, just stretches the collar until it’s stretched, until your bra’s on full display, and then pulls that down too. Don’t even hesitate. So graphic. So obscene. Your tits spill out like he’s been thinking about this since you opened your mouth and asked if he’s okay. You don’t get time to gloat before his mouth is on you. He’s sucking around the nipple, biting it before licking the flesh circularly, and tugging at your nipple like it said something smart.

“Fuck, you’re such an asshole,” you gasp, nails in his hair, but you don’t push him off. You tilt your chest up instead, wanting him to have more access. You’re a liar like that.

He drags his teeth over your tit, bites down, such a mean asshole, then pulls back to breathe against your slick skin. “You’d know.”

His hand slips under your skirt like it’s nothing. His whole palm is hot and rough on your bare ass, dragging you down on his lap hard enough that your thighs burn against him. His cock’s already thick under you, pressed up against your thong, and he grinds you down like he’s punishing you with it. The only barriers are your skirt and shorts.

“This is what you wanted, huh?” he mutters, forehead against yours, breath ragged. “You were dying for it.”

“You’re the one who pulled over like a fucking maniac,” you snap, grinding down on him with no messily, no rhythm like you are playing with him. His hands jerk on your waist like he’s about to shove you off, but he doesn’t. “Middle of fucking nowhere, throwing your little post-match tantrum like a fucking kid. What the fuck did you think was gonna happen?”

His jaw ticks. You can feel it with how close you are. “You wouldn’t shut the hell up,” he stated, squeezing your thighs hard enough to bruise. “Nagging me like it will change anything.”

You laugh in his face, mean and loud. He’s a fucking loser. “Oh, I’m so sorry for asking how it feels to get your ass handed to you. Again.”

“You were brooding like a little bitch,” you add, voice all fake sympathy, lips pouting, dragging your nails down his shoulder. “Like you wanted me to crawl on top of you and fix it.”

He glares at you, nostrils flaring. “You climbed on top of me like you were desperate.”

“No. You put me in your lap,” you snap back, eyes narrow. “You let me sit here. Didn’t even hesitate, pathetic.”

“You kissed me,” he says as if it will offend you. It doesn’t. His hands flexing like he’s ready to throw you through the fucking windshield.

You lean in close, lips brushing his jaw just to mess with him. “You bit me first. Like a goddamn dog.”

His mouth crashes into yours before he speaks again, biting your lower lip, pulling until you gasp. “You moaned.”

“And you fucking whimpered,” you spat, licking the blood off your lip like it’s his fault. “Little bitch noises, right into my mouth. Like a fucking virgin.”

His eyes glare at you, furious, and you’re smug enough to let it rile him. “You came to a full stop on a goddamn dirt road,” you whisper against his cheek before grazing your teeth against it, “tell me again who started this.”

Because if he wants to pretend this wasn’t inevitable. You’ll remind him that every inch of you pressed up against him says otherwise.

“You’re fucking impossible,” he hisses, the heel of his hand pressing bruisingly into your lower back as he rolls your hips down back and forth, harder against the thick bulge in his shorts. “Think you’re so smart, huh? Mouthy little brat in my lap.”

You smile. “And yet you’re still letting me grind all over you. Who’s pathetic here?”

He lets out a breath that sounds more like a growl. “Bet if someone drove by right now, you’d keep going. Wouldn’t even stop. You’d ride me just to prove a point.”

The words crack through you like a paper cut. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, clutching the fabric of his shirt like it might save you. His mouth finds your neck, hot and wet and disgusting. He’s leaving teeth marks and spit all over your skin.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he mutters into the crook of your jaw, sucking the skin enough to make you gasp. “Put on a show. Pretend you’re not fucking soaking while you grind that needy little pussy on my cock like you’re starving.”

You whimper before you can stop yourself, and he laughs like he’s just won something.

He grins. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

And then his hand moves with certainty. Under your skirt. Thong pulled to the side before you felt two fingers shoved inside you in one fluid thrust, knuckles deep like he was proving a point. No warning. Just the thick press of his fingers curling slow and deliberate inside you while his palm grinds against your clit, pressing it hard so you can feel it. Your hips jerk, grinding against his palm, and take a deep breath. He watches your reaction like it’s gospel.

“Fuck,” you whimper, already breaking.

He chuckles low in his chest, he sounds so smug. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You clutch at his shoulders like you’re pulling yourself together, but end up grinding helplessly down on his hand as your thighs tremble around his thighs, but he stays exactly where he is, fingers buried inside the velvet and smooth part of you.

“Not so mouthy now,” he murmurs, thumb stroking lazy circles in your clit just to hear you gasp. “All that attitude, and now look at you. Fucked up. Just from this.”

You twist, trying to move, to chase friction, the pleasure, but he tightens his grip on your hip, stilling you the way he likes.

“Nuh-uh.” His voice drops lower, hot against your ear. “You want more? Say it.” Prick. Brat. Asshole.

You glare at him through wet lashes, mouth shaking, but he’s already thrusting his fingers again. In a slow, steady rhythm, you are sure he’s playing with you with the way he’s curling up and dragging out like he’s trying to fuck the truth out of you.

“Say who started this,” he demands, ordering it. Not up for a discussion, each word punctuated by a deliberate pump of his fingers. “Say it was you.”

You shake your head, back arching against the steering wheel despite yourself. “No. F-fuck. You started this.”

He pulls his hand back just enough to make you whine (fingers still inside but only the tip. His nails still hidden inside. That deep only), eyes glinting. “You sure? ‘Cause it’s your cunt squeezing my fingers like it’s been waiting all day. Like you couldn’t fucking wait to get wrecked.”

“God, Patrick,” you pant, hips twitching.

He sinks them back in, rougher this time, adding pressure with his palm grinding against you until you cry out. “Yeah, that’s it. Be honest. Tell me who made you this wet. Who you were thinking about while you ran that smart little mouth.”

You try to twist away from the words, but he doesn’t let you. He’s so nasty with his words it makes you shy. He presses in closer, crowding your space, fucking you deeper with just his fingers until your head tips back and your jaw falls open.

“You started it,” he breathes, his voice ragged, the lie tasting sweeter every time he says it. “You’re gonna say it was you.”

“I-” You can’t even form a sentence. Not when he’s doing this to you. He’s playing you. You can’t do anything except take it. Well, it’s not like you are not enjoying this. You are very much so. His rhythm is sloppy now, just… he’s just pulling, pushing, in, out, just messy, just the goal to make you cum, relentless, every thrust landing with intention.

“Say it,” he growls again. “Or I stop.”

“Me,” you gasp, finally breaking. “Fuck- it was me.”

He laughs, breathless. “Yeah. That sounds more like you.”

But then he pulls his fingers out, completely. You almost sob at the loss, hips stuttering, so fucking close you’re shaking.

And he just stares at you while he licks them clean, slow, and taunting, eyes locked on yours the entire time. Showing how slick his fingers are.

“You’re fucking evil,” you gasp, wrecked and frustrated.

He grins, mouth slick with your juices. “And you still want it.”

You didn’t say anything else but your hand jerks at his waistband, breath heavy, but he leans forward instead, reaches down, and yanks the lever by his seat, slamming the backrest flat in one rough motion. The whole chair jolts down with a loud, mechanical thud. You flinch.

“Back,” he mutters, eyes on you, voice low and impatient. “Get in the fucking back.”

You don’t argue. You’re too far gone for that. You climb between the seats, knees scraping the leather, your thighs slick and flushed, your skirt bunched so high it barely covers your ass as you crawl. And he’s already looking at it. You stumble into the narrow backseat and drop into it, panting, legs sprawled.

He follows immediately, bracing one hand on the center console to launch himself after you, the other grabbing at the seat as he moves. His knee knocks into yours as he lands behind you.

Then, without fully sitting down, he reaches forward again, grabs the driver seat back, yanks it upright, and slams it all the way forward toward the steering wheel to make space. The footwell clears. His weight follows fast.

You’re crammed into the back together now, the whole car hot and unsteady, breath clouding the windows. It's all fog at this point. You can feel his chest brushing your legs, his fingers already digging into your thighs like he doesn’t care who sees. Like he’s about to tear you apart.

“Fuck y-” The words barely leave your mouth. You feel him grab you by the back of your neck and shove you down between his legs like muscle memory. This is just how things go. Him deciding what he wants. Like he’s done it so many times in this shitty, beat-up car that it still remembers the shape of your knees.

You don’t even fight it. Just hit the floorboards with your palms and breathe through your nose, your skirt already riding up, the air thick with sweat and engine heat, and the slick reminder of every other time he’s used you like this. Desperate and mean and barely pulling the car over in time. You scoff and glare at him.

“You like being a brat?” he asks, voice low, hand wrapped around your jaw as he owns it. He tilts it and makes you look up at him. “Brats get fucking punished.”

Then he pulls down his shorts and lets them hang open. One shove of his fist and his cock is out. It’s hard, flushed, leaking at the tip like he’s already halfway gone. Your eyes locked at it before you feel him slap it against your mouth once, twice… and you can’t count.

“Open.”

You hesitate but you do. Tentative at first, licking the head, tasting salt. You look up at him. He groans, all breathless and low, hand twitching against your jaw. You wrap your fingers around the base and trace the thick underside, just to feel him jump in your grip. That cocky fucking twitch.

He braces one arm against the window, the other tangling in your hair. When you take him in, slow and steady, he gasps like you’ve got your mouth wrapped around his nerves.

“God. Just like that. Pretty little slut.” His voice cracks as you ease down more. Your hand wrapped around at the end. He watches you with his mouth parted, sweat gathering on his brow. Lights through the window hit him just right: fucked up, beautiful, and too far gone to be careful now.

“Fuck, so warm,” he mutters like a prayer. Both hands dig into your scalp, gripping hard, holding you steady as he starts to thrust, which makes you let your hand that’s wrapped around him.

He moves slowly at first. Testing how far you’ll take him. But you manage to do it. Then faster, deeper, his hips snapping into your face as you fight to keep your throat relaxed. Trying to swallow him. But you gag a little (which is expected because he’s big) and he groans, head dropping back against the backrest. Doesn’t stop. He’s just fucking your throat, the tip touching and entering the spongy part of your mouth. Doesn’t fucking slow down. He knows you like it like this.

Tears spill from the corners of your eyes as spit drips from your lips, pooling down your chin. It’s so unhinged. You’re a mess. He’s a mess. His pace goes brutal and filthy, just how it usually is. Each thrust dragging out a choked whimper, all “glrk, guhk, slrp” and spit as your throat clenches helplessly around him

“That’s it. Fucking take it. Look at you.” His voice is wrecked. His hand wrapped around her hair while the other was on her cheek, caressing it. “Can’t even talk back with my cock in your mouth.”

You hum around him just to make him lose it with the vibrations of your mouth and you feel his hips stutter.

He fucks your throat like it's muscle memory. Like it’s the only thing his cock knows how to do. Maybe it’s the only thing he’s good at. The fucking. His hand’s a vice in your hair, the back of your skull shoved tight to his hips while your nose mashes into the sweaty skin of his pelvis, and he’s already breathing like he’s on the edge.

Your throat spasms when he buries himself too deep, and the sound that rips out of you is wet and brutal. A full gag that bubbles thickly in your mouth. “Ghhhkk- glk, glk, hhggghk- fuck- shhlck-”

It’s sloppy. Filthy. The kind of noise, the sound you hear when you are drowning someone and they are seeking air. Thick strands of drool hang from your chin to your chest.

“That fucking sound,” he mutters, hips jerking. “You’re so wet it’s disgusting. Listen to that shit- like your throat’s begging to be used.”

You try to look up through your lashes. It’s just a flicker at first, blurry and half-lidded with tears threatening to spill. Your mouth’s stuffed, lips stretched wide and shiny like it has lipgloss, spit dripping down to your chin and you’re still trying to look pretty for him. Yeah, you do. Your eyelashes batting as if you’re making beautiful eyes at the moment. Still keeping eye contact, even as you gag wetly around him that echoes like porn.

His fingers tighten in your hair.

“Holy fuck- look at you,” he growls. “You know what you look like right now?”

You blink up at him, lashes stuck together from tears. Lips almost pout around his cock. He slows his thrusts just a bit, enough to watch his cock disappear into your mouth, glazed in spit, then drag back out with a thick, stringy schlump that stretches between your lips and his tip.

“You look like you want this. Like you need to be gagged on cock just to think straight.”

You make another choked sound, not even sure if it’s a moan or a gasp, and he laughs under his breath.

“Fuck, don’t stop looking at me. Keep those eyes on mine.”

And you do. Even when the tears spill. Even when spitting floods your mouth and slides down your chest. Even when the only thing you can hear is that lewd, slick sound of his cock pumping in and out of your throat and the ragged, needy sounds coming from his mouth, right above you.

You’ve been here before. More than you like. Well, maybe you’ve been doing it for two years already. Your knees digging into the floor of his shitty car, mouth ruined, pride nonexistent. You should’ve known he’d drag you back the second you opened that mouth of yours and pissed him off. He hates it. He has these tendencies to fuck his frustrations out on you when you are with him. He always fucks you like this when you test him.

“Does he make you get on your knees like this?” Patrick grits out, his voice sharp with jealousy, hand tightening as he rocks his hips forward again. He’s shoving you straight back onto his cock so hard your nose slams into him. It made you gagged. Almost vomit. “Fucking Art. Huh? Does he grab your hair and use your throat till your eyes are watering?”

You nod your head just to piss him off. And then… you gag again, hard. It hurts. Your throat closes up around him and it just makes him groan. Your tears are falling freely now, stinging hot down your cheeks. He watches every twitch of your face, every sputter, every clench of your lips as you try to breathe around the thick weight of him.

“Didn’t think so,” he pants, almost close to the pleasure. “Bet he couldn’t even handle it. Probably too fucking soft. Probably apologizes when he cums in your throat.”

Patrick spits the words out as they offend him. Like the idea of anyone else even trying to take your mouth like this makes him insane. It’s not been a thing between him and Art. But it’s somehow always like this. They have almost similar tastes.

He pulls out just far enough to let you suck in a gasp, and then he slams back in deep.

He doesn’t give you a second to think or breathe or flinch. Just keeps your face glued to his cock like it’s some kind of religious fucking ritual like he’s offering communion and your mouth is the altar. Like both of you are trying to repent from your sins. He’s got one hand twisted in your hair so tight that made your scalp almost screams, the other braced hard against the fogged window for leverage, and he’s fucking your throat like he means to leave bruises. Which is possible. He’s the cause of your delayed dental appointments. Like he wants to make sure no one else ever even tries to put their cock in that mouth without thinking of him first.

“You looked at him like you wanted it,” Patrick grits out, jaw clenched, voice a rasp scraped raw with jealousy. “Like you’d let him touch you. Let him see this.”

He thrusts forward with that. Hard and shoving himself so deep you choke on instinct, and you do. The tip of his cock punching the back of your throat, your nose smushed into the heat of his pelvis, drowning in the sweat and musk of him. You gag, and gag again, eyes watering instantly, but he holds you there. Fucking holds you there. Because, of course, he does. You’re gagging like your body’s rejecting it and he’s moaning like it’s the best goddamn thing he’s ever felt.

“Bet he wouldn’t even know what to do with you,” Patrick mutters, half to himself, half to the swirl of hate in his brain that’s driving every thrust. “Bet he’d fall apart before your mouth even opened.”

You whimper. It comes out strangled and wet, broken by how deep he is. Your throat’s fluttering, clenching, trying to accommodate him and failing, and it’s disgusting how good it must feel for him. Your mouth is a tight, twitching mess of spit and slick noises, strings of drool sliding down your chin and soaking your shirt. You’re on your knees in the backseat like you’re built for this. Like you never learned anything else.

And he’s fucking losing it.

You feel it. Every shudder in his thighs, every hitch in his breath, the way his cock jerks and twitches against your tongue like it’s already coming before he even says a word.

Your fingers pressed weakly at his thigh, tapping. Pleading for a second, for air, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t even flinch. His grip on your hair just tightens, dragging you in closer until your nose touches his pelvis again.

“Fucking swallow,” he pants, voice shredded and shaking, and then he’s coming, spilling hot and sudden down your throat while you’re still choking on him, unable to breathe, spit and slick and cum all sliding into one unbearable mess.

He doesn’t let you pull back until he’s milked every last twitch of it until you’ve swallowed or drooled it all down your chin, and even then he stays in your mouth a second longer than he should. Just to feel your mouth get more hot and wet with his cum.

It’s hot and thick and there’s so fucking much of it, you don’t even have time to prep your throat. You choke on it, trying to breathe through your nose and failing, sputtering around the flood of it while he holds you down, and forces your face into him like he wants you drowned in him. You managed to swallow it slowly, and it still leaked out, smeared messily across your lips, and your chin.

When he finally let's go, you crumple back on your heels, dizzy and soaked, coughing around the taste of him. There’s spit and cum all over your mouth. On your cheeks. In your hair. You don’t even wipe it. Just blink up at him with your jaw slack and your throat raw, chest heaving like you’ve been fucking waterboarded.

Patrick stares. Still hard. Still panting. Not even pretending to be done.

He wipes your chin like it’s his fucking trophy, thumb dragging through spit and cum, and whatever else is glistening there like he’s about to frame it. You’re still kneeling on the backseat floor, mouth parted, lips shiny, his dick out and wet and heavy on his thigh like it’s not even close to being done.

“Get on your back,” he says, voice gone low and mean. “You think I’m letting you off with just that?”

You drag yourself up, sore knees creaking, brain fogged, makeup smudged to hell, tits still shoved up from where he yanked your shirt down. The bra’s hanging on for dear life, cups pushed under your boobs, straps sliding down your arms. You start crawling beside him, trying to lie back across the small seat like some desperate little porno angel, but when your hand tugs at your skirt, instinctively trying to pull it off, he stops you.

“Don’t even think about it,” he snaps. “Clothes stay on.”

And then he says it again, slower. Voice thick. “Clothes. Stay. On.”

He’s already hovering and grabbing for your back, unclasping your bra like it’s nothing, and your tits spill out now. Soft and flushed. He hasn't even touched it yet. Just stare at it. Patrick has always been a boob guy and he has no shame in staring at it. He always does, making sure that you know he’s looking. Watch the way they bounce a little as you shift, nipples hard from the cold, from the car’s shitty AC still running like a bitch, from the way you’re halfway naked but not really. It’s messy. It’s slutty. It’s perfect for him.

You start to lie back, just half. Not laying back. Almost sitting up, but not really. Vice versa. Just rest your back against the backrest and the door. Your chest falls open, and that’s when he just… freezes. His eyes flick from your face to your chest, as something clicks.

“Actually,” he mutters. “No.”

You pause, chest heaving, tits showing, skirt bunched, bra undone, and useless around your ribs.

“I want you to ride me,” he says, voice gone dark and almost annoyed, like he’s pissed he didn’t think of it sooner. “Get on top. Right fucking now.”

You blink. A beat. Then he grins.

“I wanna see those tits bounce while you fuck yourself on my cock.”

And that’s it. His shorts are already shoved much low, waistband tucked under his balls, dick still glossy from your mouth. He shifts back against the seat, spreading his legs wider, and watches you like he’s got all the time in the world.

You climb up to his lap with your skirt still hitched up, your panties soaked, and your tits hanging out, and you swear he groans the second you straddle him. He almost shoves his face between your cleavage. His hands grab your hips and you can feel the way his cock presses up against your soaked little thong, hot and twitchy and so ready.

You barely settle into his lap and he’s already got both hands under your skirt, thumbs hooking the thin band of your thong and yanking it to the side like it’s in his way. It’s so sticky and uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want it off. He continues holding it on the side as if it’s offensive that it’s even still there. But he doesn’t even take it off. Just pulls it, elastic digging into your thigh while his cock twitches under you, already rubbing against the mess you made of yourself.

He drags the tip through your slit like he’s lining up for a test drive, slow and deliberate, head sliding through your folds and parting you open like he’s opening a path just for his cock. He does it again. And again. His cock catches right at your entrance, then glides up through the slick until the head taps your clit. He rubs it there, tip keeps poking against your clit.

You’re breathing hard. Fucked out and needy and barely keeping your eyes open. He’s just letting your eyes close because he knows it’s a sign of pleasure. It’s a win for him to know you like it. He’s just watching. Watching the way your pussy splits around him, pussy lips swallowing his cock like it wants him inside but he won’t give it to you, yet. Just keeps sliding between them, and making a fucking mess of you. Your thighs are sticky, your cunt glossed up from how wet you are.

“Fuck,” he mutters, one hand holding your hip down, while the other is guiding his cock like he’s lining it up just to tease himself with it. “Look at that. You see this shit?”

And you do. You bite your lip. You glance down, dizzy, and there it is. His dick slides between your pussy lips like he’s trying to wedge himself inside but keeps pulling back last second, tip kissing your clit with every movement, your whole cunt flexing like it’s starving for it. He watches it like he’s hypnotized. Watches it sandwich between you, thick and shiny.

He’s not pretending anymore. Not even close. This isn’t about you, hasn’t been from the second he dragged you into the backseat with his tournament shirt still clinging to his sweaty body and his shorts shoved low, cock hard and leaking, twitching like it’s got a mind of its own. You’re just something warm and wet for him to rut against. Something to sink into. Something to fuck himself stupid with and forget the match he lost.

You’re straddling him like a perfect little pillow princess. Which you are most of the time. Your thong shoved to the side, skirt yanked down to your waist, tits bouncing right in his face, and he’s using you. Just treating you as something he can use to get off. One hand locked around your hip to keep you flush to his lap, the other gripping the base of his cock like he might fall apart if he lets go. He’s sliding it through your soaked folds, rutting between them like your pussy’s pocket just made to jerk him off. He’s doing it like he’s pillow-humping like what girls do. His tip catches your clit with every slow, deliberate thrust, painting you slick and pulsing.

“Jesus- fuck,” he groans, tilting his head back before leaning forward again like he has to look. Can’t help but look. It’s just satisfying to watch. “You feel that? That’s how desperate I am. Lost one fuckin’ match and now I’m using your sloppy cunt to jerk myself off like a goddamn perv.”

Then he spits on you. Don't warn you. Just pull back slightly and let a thick glob of spit fall right onto your cunt. It lands partially on your thong. Already soaked and sticking and the rest drips right onto your folds, sliding down and mixing with the mess you’re leaking all over him. It makes you gush more and you help to rut your hips for a few times. Just a few times.

“Fuck,” he hisses, rubbing his cockhead through the spit and slicked mess, pressing hard into your clit until your thighs twitch. “You see that? Shit’s everywhere. Look at your pussy.”

He does it again. Another string of spit-dropping. This one lands right on your clit and he laughs, mean and breathless, before smearing it in with the fat head of his cock like he’s painting with your body. Your pussy pulsing with every brush of his cockhead to brush his spit on your pussy.

“Could make myself cum just like this,” he mutters. Which is true. He could just watch it. Fuck it. Just rub and ruts his dick and he will squirm and cums on it. But right now he’s just fucking through your folds with lazy, greedy thrusts. “Don’t even have to put it in. Just need your pussy messy and open and dripping so I can hump it like a loser with a cumrag. Just like this. Just like- fuck- this.”

He grips your waist tighter, rutting harder, dirtier. Whole cock sliding between your lips, swollen and wet, clit getting bumped every time like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

Your thighs are shaking. You’re dizzy from how fucking gross it is. From how much he’s getting off on it. His breath is ragged, sweat slicking his chest, whole body tensed like he’s right there. Right on the edge.

And then he takes a deep breath.

He carries you up before he sinks you like he’s slotting a piece into place.

No warning. Just one drag of your cunt over the flushed head of his cock, and he’s inside. All the way. Buried. Stretched. Stuffed. The kind of full that should be illegal. You feel so stretched around his cock. You won’t lie and say it doesn’t because he has a big cock. He’s the biggest you had. It always made you crawl back to him.

Your gasp gets swallowed by the groan he lets out, head thrown back like it’s killing him not to move. His hands flex hard around your hips, holding you there like he’s scared to lift you because he might cum right on the spot.

He doesn’t move. Just stares at your tits bouncing, your shirt shoved down, bra mangled, your skirt hiked up, his spit dripping down your cunt like you’re the best mistake he’s ever made.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice gone distant and high. “You feel that? Feel how deep I am?”

You do. God, you do. You feel it everywhere. In your gut. Like he’s in you and through you. Like he’s marking you. Like you’ll never be the same again.

Then he grips your waist and lifts you like you weigh nothing. Like he needs you higher. Like he can’t take one more second of this not being enough. Your thighs fumble for balance, hands sliding over his shoulders, and you look at him. Your slick cunt hovering right above his cock again, and he’s looking up at you like you’re his favorite brand of drug and he’s about to OD.

“Gonna fuckin’ use you,” he mutters, low and reverent like it’s a promise or a prayer. “Like you’re my fleshlight. My sloppy little fucktoy. That's what you want, baby? Want me to wreck you after losing like a pathetic fuck?”

And then he sinks you again.

Just one filthy, desperate snap of his hips upward as he drags you down, slow like he wants to feel every inch of your walls give, how every clench, twitch, squeeze, and flutter. Like he wants to memorize it as if he never had been inside of your pussy before.

You choke on a gasp. Your thighs tremble. He moans. His head tipped back, throat showing like he’s high off it. Like he’s smoking weed.

“Jesus- fuck, look at that,” he breathes, keeping you halfway down, cock buried just enough to stretch you but not enough to satisfy. “Tight as fuck. Wet like you need this. Like you wanted me to lose so I’d fuck you stupid.”

He looks down at where you’re joined, where your cunt’s stretched around the thick of him, already dripping. Already fluttering. Then he groans again, and spits. Exactly where you’re connected. He watches it hit your folds and smear between the mess of slick precum and desperation.

“You see that? You’re dripping down my balls and you’re not even on. Just gonna keep you here, warm and stupid and drooling around me.”

You make a sound, somewhere between a whimper and begging, but he ignores it. Lifts you just an inch. Then slams you down the rest of the way. He’s ball deep of you.

Your cunt swallows him. Keeping him deeper. Doesn’t want to let him go. Your thighs twitch. Your back arches and your mouth opens and hangs. He groans, grinding up like he wants to stay there, buried to the hilt, cock pulsing like he’s right on the edge.

“Fuck. Fuck, yeah. That’s it. Gonna jerk off with your body ‘til I can’t see straight.”

He grabs your tits. Greedy, rough, thumbing your spit-glossed nipples and thrusts again. Sharp and hard while his thumb continues to move and trace the soft buds against him. Controlled only by the need to ruin you.

“You hear that?” he pants. “That wet squelch? That’s your pussy. That’s you making noise for me, baby. You fuckin’ love being used.”

His hips stutter. Getting off on how wet you sound, so he thrusts again. Then again. And again. Every drag of his cock against your walls knocked something loose in your brain. Your legs are shaking, your eyes unfocused, every nerve lit up and screaming for more.

You try to help. Try to move. With just one bounce, your thighs twitch like they’re gonna carry you, and you lift an inch off him like your body still thinks it has a say in this.

But he snaps.

“Uh-uh,” he bites, hands locking around your hips, dragging you back down with a slap on your ass. “No. I’m doing it. I’m putting you on my cock like a sleeve.”

You moan, loud, helpless, and filthy, and your pussy flutters around him like it’s begging for punishment. He feels it. Groans like it hit his spine.

“Ohhh. You like that, huh?” he stated with a smirk. “Gettin’ used like a fucktoy in your little skirt?”

Another groan. He pulls your hips down and fucks up even harder.

“Pussy like this,” he mutters, “was made to get ruined. To sit on dick and not think too hard. Just bounce like a good little toy.”

You try to breathe. Try to speak. You get out something like “Can’t- ” but he cuts you off.

“Yes, you can. You’re fucking perfect. You’re takin’ me like you want it to break you.”

Then he slaps your ass, loud, sharp, before grabbing it like he owns it. He grips it, opening your ass cheeks a little too. He grinds your ass backward and forward before he continues to thrust up to your pussy.

“You know what you are right now?” he pants. “You’re a fucking cumrag with a heartbeat. And I’m not gonna stop ‘til I fill you up so good it leaks down your thighs.”

Your cunt flutters again. It made your cunt beat. Your body is betraying you completely.

“Tell me you like it,” he growls his mouth by your ear, hips jackhammering now. “Tell me you like being my fuckdoll.”

You try. You do. But all you manage is a choked-out moan, trembling against him, gasping like he’s taking your voice too.

“Fucking perv,” you whimper, shaking.

He grins. Big and mean and hungry.

“Uh-huh. Keep callin’ me that while I ruin you.”

Then he tilts his head and spits again, right where your bodies meet. Watch it mix with the rest of your slick like it’s a masterpiece he made with his cock.

“You better milk me dry,” he pants. “I wanna be leaking out of you ‘til you can’t walk.”

He doesn’t even let you move anymore after the little stunt you pulled.

Just grabs your waist, hooks his fingers under your thigh, lifts you, and starts fucking you. Using you like he’d use his hand like your pussy’s just a better, wetter hole to jerk off into.

“Fuck,” he grits out, dragging you down onto him again. “You’re gonna let me come like this? Just stuffed full of my cock, not even touching yourself?”

You whimper. Helpless from the way he’s handling you, shoving you down onto his lap again and again. You could pull back. Could stop. But you don’t. Not when he’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Not when his dick feels so good. Maybe that’s such a slut behavior, but he’s a good fuck. It’s a rare breed.

“Jesus,” you gasp, digging your nails into his shoulder. “You’re using me like a fleshlight, Patrick-”

He just laughs. It sounds low and bitter and lets you bounce once on your own before grabbing your hips again and slamming you back down. “Don’t flatter yourself. Fleshlight doesn’t talk back.”

Your tits are already out. The shirt is shoved down, bra unclasped, and caught somewhere under the fabric, so he doesn’t bother pretending anymore. Just grabs one in his hand and squeezes like it’s a stress ball, fingers digging into the soft flesh. His thumb circles your nipple once, then pinches it hard. Enjoying how sensitive it is.

You cry out, legs shaking.

“What? You didn’t think I’d play with these too?” he pants, leaning forward to mouth at the same one he just abused. “What are they here for, then?”

He sucks your nipple deep into his mouth. He sucks on it like he’s searching for milk. As if you’re his mommy. His tongue is wet and hot and insistent while his other hand slaps the opposite tit, not hard enough to bruise, but loud enough to make you jolt.

“You’re sick,” you breathe, half-moan, half-accusation.

He pulls back just to sneer, lips wet with spit. “You say that like your pussy’s not gripping me.”

Then he yanks your skirt all the way up and groans, audibly, when he sees it. How your slick cunt’s dragging up and down his cock, swallowing him in and leaking all over him. The side of his dick’s still brushing your thong, pulled to the side but useless, just clinging to him, soaked and riding the length every time he thrusts up.

“Fuck. Fuck, look at that,” he pants, shifting under you so he can shove you down harder. “That’s what you needed, huh? Skirt up, panties twisted, cock so deep you’re gonna feel it tomorrow.”

You shudder, half-ruined already, and let him use you. Let him take it out on you.

“What?” you manage, voice hoarse. “Worried I’d let Art do this to me?”

He snaps.

The next thrust knocks the breath out of you.

“Don’t,” he growls, grabbing both tits in his hands and dragging you forward, squeezing like he wants to bruise them. “Don’t say his name while I’m inside you. Not when your fucking cunt’s this wet for me.”

You smile, barely, just enough to piss him off.

“H-hit a nerve?”

He slaps your tit again, then grabs the same one and pulls your nipple between his fingers, stretching it until you gasp.

“Call me a sick fuck again,” he pants. “C’mon. I know you want to.”

“You are,” you choke, even as you grind down against him. “You’re a fucking freak, Patrick. You don’t even care if I come- you’re just jerking off inside me like some sick fuck,”

“Damn right, I am.”

He groans. He leans his head back and watches the way your pussy sucks him in, dripping around him and grinding against the edge of your thong like it’s part of the kink. He can’t stop touching you. His hands on your tits, your hips, your ass. One hand spreads you open so he can watch the mess he’s making.

“You don’t need to come,” he mutters, voice almost gone. “You just need to stay still and take it. That’s all I want.”

And he means it.

His cock is buried in your cunt like he’s trying to hollow you out and leave himself there.

Like he’s trying to win something.

Or prove that someone else never could.

Then slowly, obsessively, he spreads your folds apart with two fingers. Index and middle in a neat little V, right above where his cock’s already plunging into you, again and again and again. “Your pussy is just screaming to get bred,” he stated.

He’s not trying to open you more, you’re already stretched, already taking him, but he does it anyway. Just so he can watch. Like it’s some fantasy he has discovered from porn he watched. Or something.

Watch your clit pulse and twitch with every thrust. Watch how it swells, flushed, spit-slick, needy, even though he said you’re not allowed to come.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Look at her.”

His voice is cracked and too low, like he’s speaking directly to your cunt now instead of you. His fingers hold your lips apart like it’s instinct, just to keep the view unobstructed.

“You see that?” he pants, more to himself. “She’s beating. Fuck- every time I move.”

You gasp, half choked because it’s true. Your clit’s twitching like it has its pulse, every muscle in your lower body seizing up around the rhythm of his cock. You can feel the way it twitches too. Clear sign you are so horny. You can feel the friction of his skin brushing past it again and again, swollen and slippery, overstimulated and raw.

And then he says it.

“I should film this.”

Your eyes snap wide. Heart beating fast. You look at him as if he betrayed you. But somehow you are turned on. But his gaze stays down, trained between your thighs like he’s hypnotized.

“I won’t,” he adds, reassuring you. “But fuck, I should. Just to remember how you look right now. All red and messy and bouncing on my cock like this.”

His thrusts pick up again like the thought alone turned him on more.

“Bet Art’s never seen you like this.”

That name cuts sharp. You don't know if he's just saying his name is making him get off it or what. You breathe in too fast, chest jolting because of course he brings that up now, when you’re weak and wrecked and letting him drag your panties to the side just to fuck you through a skirt like it’s nothing.

But all he does is smile.

He keeps holding you open. Keep watching.

Keeps using you like he wants to memorize the exact sound you make when your clit twitches under his spit, and your walls flutter around him like they’re trying to keep him in forever.

Your eyes flutter, lashes wet from tears, mouth parted like you want to say something, but can't. Oh God, you want to say something sharp, maybe mean, but all that comes out is a wrecked little sound. Your legs twitch around his hips, hips shuddering every time his cock drags past your clit again.

And when he says it? The “I should film this,” it you almost flinch.

“You’re disgusting,” you gasp, voice half-broken, half-breathless. “Actually fucking sick.”

He just grins, fingers holding your folds apart, still watching like he’s trying to memorize every twitch.

“You love it,” he says simply. “Don’t lie.”

You shake your head, barely, but your cunt clenches, tight and involuntary, around the length of him still pumping in and out. It just feels so good. So good. The way your pussy reacts to him says otherwise.

His thumb smears spit against your clit again, rough and greedy. Not to tease. Not to make you come. Just to feel the way it jumps beneath him. Just want to watch the reaction of it to his spit.

“You’re twitching like a whore,” he mutters. “Like she’s the one begging me to record it.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you hiss, but your voice is a mess now, slurred with heat and wet and some fucked up part of you that likes being seen this way. Used this way. He's the only one who can do that to you. He's the only man you let do this to you.

Patrick groans, rolling his hips up harder, dragging the fabric of your thong against the base of his cock again just to feel it grind. Just to add pleasure you are giving to him. Just to make it better for him.

“You’d let me do it, wouldn’t you?” he whispers, nose brushing your cheek. “Let me send him a clip. Just a flash. Just enough to see how sweet you look when you’re getting fucked like a toy. Or maybe a voice record.”

Your body jerks, from the thrust, from the filth, from the idea of it, and you try to shake your head, but it’s weak. Feeble. Like your brain’s just steam now. He's putting this idea into your mind that you won't even consider before. Because making a film or video of it? It's just so porn behavior.

He smiles.

“Oh, you would,” he breathes, rutting up slow, deep, his cock dragging filthy inside you. “I could pull out right now, zoom in on that twitchy little hole all red and sloppy and gaping, and you’d let me send it.”

“N-No,” you whisper, but your hips twitch forward again, and your pussy clenches like it’s protesting the lie. You are clenching him hard just to punish him a little.

He groans, laughs, even. He lets go of your throat just to slap your tit again, harder, rougher, before palming it like he owns the weight of it. You always like the way he gropes you. So filthy. It's like he owns you. That you're just some toy for him.

“Say it,” he pants. “Tell me you’d let me. Tell me you’d let me show him what a real fuck looks like.”

You shake, nails digging into his shoulders, jaw trembling. You are refusing to say it because it feels so humiliating.

“Fuck… Pat, that’s-”

“Say it.”

Your voice breaks. Come out breathless and shame is nowhere to be found.

“I’d let you,” you whisper. “I’d let you show him how my pussy opens for you.”

He groans, so deep it sounds like pain.

“Fuck- fuck.”

He spreads your slit again with his fingers, holding your folds open like he’s staging a show. Just for him. His cock glistens, soaked, the side still brushing against your thong where it’s bunched and useless.

“You see that?” he rasps, voice shredded. “She’s trained. This slutty little hole’s learned to open up just for me.”

You can’t even talk anymore. You just gasp and jolt and soft, choked sounds as his cock ruts in deep and slow and mean. He's playing with you, teasing you knowing that you are so close.

“I don’t even have to prep you anymore,” he grits, rocking up harder now, watching your clit twitch like it’s got a heartbeat. (Well maybe it has) “Just shove it in and you take it. Like you were made for this.”

You moan. Wrecked, desperate, and he smiles, pulling out just enough to watch your cunt pulse around nothing. It clenches so quick at the emptiness and you almost protest as you look at him with disbelief.

“Could take a still of this,” he mutters, thumb swiping over your clit again. “Send it with a voice note. Just you moaning his name while I stretch you open.”

Your body jolts.

“Bet he’d cry,” Pat laughs, breathless and cruel. “Bet he’d nut in his hand and hate himself for it.”

“Pat- fuck-f-fuck,” you choke, shaking.

He kisses your throat. Peppering your neck with kisses and licking it. Before he drags his cock back in, all the way, til his hips slap your ass and your yelps.

“Say it again,” he growls. “Tell me what your pussy does when it sees me.”

“It- it opens,” you sob. “It opens up for you. O-only you.”

“Yeah, it does,” he hisses, rutting harder making sure he thrust in until it touches your ass. “Because I want it to be only mine. Not his. Never his.”

And he slaps your tit again, then your ass, driving his cock so deep it feels like he’s trying to rearrange you from the inside.

You feel so close.

The sound of slick skin. Of spit and ruin. Of a girl whose body was already chosen for her.

“I’d let you,” you whisper. “I’d let you show him how my pussy opens for you.”

Pat groans, loud and broken like the words physically hit him. It's something he doesn't know that will turn him on. Imagine: him showing how he fucks you to Art and the three of you are friends. Well. Kinda. But there's tension between the three of you. The only explored is what's between you and Patrick.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hips stuttering up into you. “Fuck- you don’t even know what that does to me.”

He slams in deep, balls-deep, mean, messy. He lets go of your tit just to grab your ass and spread you wider like he’s imagining it now. Like he’s seeing it.

“What if we fucked you together,” he pants. “Both of us… at once. His cock right next to mine, stretching this pussy wide open.” Fuck and he's talking about double penetration right now. Sick. Sick. Sick.

You whimper, cunt twitching violently around him. You look up at him as if you are begging him to do it.

“You’d let us ruin you, huh?” he growls, breath hot in your ear. “Let us fight over this hole. See who can split you deeper.”

You can barely breathe, let alone speak, your body trembling as his fantasy hits too close to the truth you don’t want to admit. Because it's always been like this. You think you might like both of them.

He laughs. Low, filthy.

He grins, sharp, dark, sick with your moans spilling into his mouth like confessions.

“You’d thank us, wouldn’t you?” he breathes, fucking up into you harder. Deeper. Thrusting as if he's proving some point. “On your knees, cock in your mouth, pussy drooling around mine- saying please like you need it.”

You let out a breathy, mocking laugh, even as your hips stutter from the force of him. You shake your head like you are telling him he's unbelievable.

“Wouldn’t even need to ask,” you pant, teeth bared. “Both of you will make me take it, right? Stretch me out like I’m just some hole to share.”

He groans. His thrusts falter for a beat like he didn’t expect you to say it back, but then he snarls, grabbing your hips and dragging you down onto him.

“Yeah,” he growls. “You want it. You wanna be fucked so full you can’t move. Wanna get pinned down and passed around like a little shared slut.”

You dig your nails into his shoulders, voice syrup-slick and mean.

“You think he’d moan louder than you?” you whisper, taunting him. “Think he’d last longer while I cry on your cocks?”

His hand snaps down to your thighs, spreading you wider. He watches his cock disappear inside you like he’s hypnotized. He flicks his thumb over your clit and rubs it.

“Look at that,” he hisses. “You’re fucking soaked. All it took was the thought of us using you together.”

You smirk, but it falters, just a bit.

“D-don’t stop,” you whisper, breath shaking. “Say it. Say how you’d split me open.” She's saying those words for encouragement. For him to tell her his sick fantasies.

And he does.

“Both of us,” he pants, his thrusts slowing. “Stretching this tight little hole till you can’t even close your legs. You wouldn’t be able to think.” Yeah. It sounds like something he'll do.

Your head drops against his neck. “Fuck- fuck. I’d feel everything,” you whisper. “Feel both of you inside, pushing up so deep I forget who’s who.” The thought makes you gush more. Imagine being so cock drunk that you can't remember who are the cock thrusting in or pulling back since they're working in rhythm.

He lets out a broken sound, almost feral.

“You like that?” he hisses. “Like getting filled till you’re leaking down your thighs? Filmed. Shared. Fucked till you can’t talk.”

You shudder.

“I’d… I’d let you,” you stammer, losing composure. You hold tightly against his shoulders and you take a deep breath and clench around him. “Let you send it to him. Let you ruin me together.”

He spits down, hot and wet, right onto your clit, then rubs it with fast, filthy circles. He looks at you as he does this like he doesn't need to look down to know he's touching it directly. He just knows. Like he already memorizes it.

“Gonna cum for me?” he says. “Gonna cum just thinking about two cocks splitting your pussy wide open?”

You try to hold it, jaw locked, but the words pour out of you: “Yes,” you cry. “Fuck- yes, I’m gonna- gonna cum, I’m gonna- ”

And it hits you like a brick wall, hard, wet. Your legs lock up around his waist, hips stuttering helplessly, as your body clenches tight around him.

“Pat- ” you gasp, high and wrecked. “Fuck, fuck, I’m cumming-”

“Fuck- that’s it,” he snarls, still grinding into you. Fucking you through it. “Cum on it. Squeeze me. Show me what this pussy does when it gets talked down to.”

You sob through it, whole body shaking, cunt pulsing around him, slick gushing messily down your thighs.

“God,” you whimper, dazed. “You’re so- fucking sick-”

“Yeah?” he pants, nuzzling your cheek, fingers still teasing your overstimulated clit. “And you’re fucking perfect like this.”

He doesn’t pull out right away.

Instead, with a hand still firm around your waist and the other sliding down to your thigh, he lifts you- just barely. Enough to feel the slow, obscene drag of his softening cock inside your fucked out cunt. Enough to watch your folds stretch and cling as he draws back.

Then he lowers you again, slow like he’s trying to sink you into him all over again.

You shiver, hips twitching from oversensitivity, voice caught in your throat as he does it again.

Up. Down. His eyes locked between your bodies the whole time.

“That’s it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Look at that.”

And fuck- he’s right to look.

You’re leaking around him, thick and hot. The creamy ring near the base of his cock grows messier with every slow pump of your hips, your slick mixing with his cum and sliding down your thighs in fat, ruined drops.

He does it again. And again.

Just uses your weight like a toy in his hands, dragging you over his cock, letting your hole suck and squeeze him even though he’s already softening, already emptied inside you.

“Still so warm,” he murmurs. “Still fucking twitching. Can’t even hold it in.”

You whimper, dazed and overstimulated.

“Pat,” you breathe, not even sure what you’re asking. “Too much-”

“Just one more,” he says, lifting you again to watch his cum spill out in slow, gooey trails. “Let me see what I did to you.”

And then he moans, quiet, low, like the sight alone is enough to make him hard all over again.

Then, he slows. Pauses. And without warning, pulls out all the way.

You cry out, hips jolting from the sudden emptiness, but he’s not done admiring. Not yet.

He holds you open, one hand spreading your puffy folds, the other guiding your body back until your legs fall wider, and watches. Watch as their shared cum spills out of your hole in slow, glossy drips. Down your slit. Over your ruined panties. Sliding down the backs of your thighs until it starts to cool.

Patrick groans, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen and wet. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You’re still dazed, panting. Soaked. But you manage to breathe out a wrecked laugh. “You proud of yourself?”

He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, that familiar filth curling back into his tone. “Maybe next time,” he whispers, voice low and gleaming, “we really need to try it. Me and Art. Two cocks. One perfect little hole.”

You shiver. Your pussy clenches.

And all you can do is smile, drunk on him, on this, on the sick little fantasies he’s never gonna stop pulling out of you, and whisper back:

“… you are going to kill him.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫��𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[wonderjanga]

Marvel Lying

One day, Billy realizes he can just lie. To press, to the JL (only when they really ask about his identity), and to world. And the best part is that almost no one can prove him wrong, because what’s Black Adam or someone else going to do? Prove him wrong? (I kinda already talked about this but meh) Like here’s something I can see Billy maybe doing because one time and one time alone, a reporter asked and he quotes:

Reporter: “Captain, I’m sure many people are speculating, and I’m sure it’s a question asked often, but who is your Missus Marvel?” *holds mic to Billy’s face*

Marvel: “…Huh?” *Has confused expression* “Can you repeat that?”

Reporter: “Who is your Missus Marvel?”

Marvel: “Uh… Ma’am, there is no—” *Does air quotes* “—Missus Marvel.”

Reporter: “Then who is the mother of Captain Marvel Junior and Mary Marvel?”

Marvel: “Uuuuh… Me? Technically? They’re both made from parts of me, but not parts *gestures to his lower region* of me, no.” *He shook his head.* “If I remember correctly Mary was made about 10000 years ago when one of my arms were chopped off. (He’s lying through his teeth right now. The only reason he hasn’t been caught is because of Achilles allowing him to bullshit his was through without blinking.)

Reporter: “I- I see.” *stunned*

Marvel: “And then Junior’s a…” *snorts* “…leg.” *Muffles a laugh into his hand not realizing no one will get his joke besides Freddy and Mary*

Reporter: *confused by Billy laughing but doesn’t say anything* “Interesting… Are Mary Marvel and Marvel Junior your only children? Spawn? Wards?”

Marvel: “Oh, yeah. I could more though. Like, watch this.” *Literally breaks off his ring finger, splintering the bone and everything without a single flinch. Then drops the finger on the ground and it morphs into what looks like a four year old Marvel. Billy picks him up and holds him like a parent would their toddler.* “It’s super easy.” *He’s even doing the slight bouncing that parents do when they hold their kids.* “But I don’t know… now that I’m holding this one, I’m starting to get attached. We might keep him.” *looks down at the mini Marvel, who in turn looks back at him.*

Reporter: *still horrified she watched a man, if he even is one, snap one of his fingers off like nothing. Said man’s finger nub is also still exposed to the world in all its disgusting glory. Safe to say she’s looking a little green* “O- Oh really?”

Marvel: *moves Mini Marvel around in his grip, and then suddenly throws the toddler like a paper airplane. Thankfully, instead of falling on the ground and splattering like meat pie, Mini Marvel takes to the skies is flying over the nearby crowd and such. Marvel turns back to the reporter.* “Yeah, but before that happens, he’ll have to develop a consciousness and personality. It took a bit for Mary and Junior to develop their own. Now they have their own likes, dislikes, and feelings. Who knows how long it’ll take the little guy.” (Again, he’s bullshitting this completely. He’s mishmashing Solomon’s wisdom on golems with things he makes up on the fly)

Reporter: “That’s… amazing.” *looks greener now. Looks to cameraman and motions for him to cut the feed. As soon as he does, her hand moves to her mouth.* “Oh my god, I’m going to be sick.” *runs over to nearest trashcan*

Marvel: “I guess that’s my cue to leave.” *starts to float off the ground* “Thanks for having me, miss!” *Marvel then whistles and Mini Marvel immediately stops entertaining the crowd and flies over to Billy and they fly off into the sunset.*

Elsewhere… Mary’s working an odd job for some money when she sees a tv on the news channel. She nearly has a heart attack because for three brief seconds she thought her dad was holding a young Billy in his arms like he used to. Then she blinked a couple times and realized it was just Billy as Marvel with four year old dressed like him. Fawcett kids really love Captain Marvel, huh?

(Oh yeah, and as for how he made Mini Marvel, he’s my hypothesis. When he broke off his finger, he destabilized its form and it reverted back to a part of living lightning for a brief couple of moments. Then, in an effort to not return back to the rock, as it could sense part of itself still nearby, it stabilized itself once more and forced itself to take the form of a miniature Marvel) (and if anyone makes sense of that, I’ll be darned)

[rcmclachlan]

Fuck It Friday/Sentences Sunday/Motivation Monday (Musings)

Tagged by @screamlet and @firehose118 on Friday, @station18908 and @freneticfloetry yesterday, and @ambernotember, @zeraparker, and @chococara25 today

Here's some more of the s3 lawsuit arc alt meeting au that I actually wrote into the tumblr text editor just now. Do the kids still say YOLO?

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Buck looks up and misses Peru and its huge, endless sky with a sudden, sharp ache. The LA skyline just seems to eat more of it every day. He remembers Maddie saying she got a bunch of calls during the blackout last year from people who were terrified of the giant, silvery cloud in the sky, because none of them had ever seen the Milky Way before. Sometimes he thinks he's going to look up one day and there'll be no sky at all—just a tangle of steel, concrete, and glass.

"The city wants to settle," Buck admits quietly, skirting the edge of full-on whispering. He keeps waiting for a reporter to jump out of the shadows and demand a quote. "They offered me twelve million dollars."

"Shit." Tommy lets out a low whistle, then shifts a little. It brings his arm up against Buck's. "Makes sense, I guess. The city's been hit with so much bullshit over the last few years that they'd probably throw in ownership of Library Tower to avoid the media circus alone. You gonna take it?"

While Buck was laid up on the 9th floor of First Pres after the bombing, he watched an episode of Modern Marvels on his phone centered around the history of dynamite, and when Bobby refused point blank to let him come back, all he could taste in the back of his mouth was nitroglycerine. It's been sweating out of his pores for weeks, crystalizing in every deposition he's been forced to sit through, building up at night when he can't sleep and when he checks his phone throughout the day hoping to find even one new text; and all the while he's been dreading the single spark that would send it all sky high.

He thinks of Eddie calling him exhausting in the middle of Howie's Market and tastes burnt caramel; hears Bobby's patronizing you're not ready like the crackle of a lit detacord; and the easy way Tommy makes the city's offer sound like a fair response to all of the shit Buck's been shoveling since the bombing is a shock out of nowhere.

Kaboom.

"I don't want money!" Buck explodes, sliding off the wall and shoving his hands into his hair. "I don't want a single, solitary dime, Tommy, I just want my job back!"

Normally, having someone stare at him the way Tommy's currently doing — like Buck just admitted to being a space alien or that he had a room full of porcelain dolls like his Uncle James — would be mortifying enough to shut him up, but he's been sweating nitroglycerin and no one's upended him to redistribute the weeping. There's no stopping him now. 

"D-Do you know how hard I worked to get to where I am? My doctors didn't think I'd be able to walk normally again, never mind run up ten flights of stairs with a full kit on! I did the training! I did the full course so many times I thought I'd die some days, but I-I passed every time. Every test they threw at me, I passed. I'm pretty sure they made a few up just to see if I could handle them — and I did. I did, and I was cleared by every person on that med panel and they all shook my hand and welcomed me back! I should be back!"

For a white-hot moment, he thinks he's going to take out the entire block with the sheer force of his anger. And despite being well within the blast radius, Tommy does nothing.

Panting, Buck closes his eyes and waits for the dust to settle. "Th-They covered my name."

"They what?"

"On my locker," Buck murmurs. When he opens his eyes, the world swims through a curtain of tears. "They... put her name over mine. Bosko. They just... taped right over it. Like a bandaid."

Even to his own ears, he sounds baffled. Not even angry; all his energy was expended during the blast. Now he's just hurt and confused, because no one told him. No one said they were bringing someone else in.

"I just... I don't understand how it was that easy for them."

"That what was easy?" Tommy asks, unbearably gentle, and it has Buck knuckling away a fresh, hot wave of tears. It sounds like how having your back rubbed while you're throwing up feels. Buck can barely tolerate it, but he's so grateful it's there all the same. 

Buck breathes out shakily and finally says it out loud. One final shockwave. "Replacing me."

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No pressure tags: @beanarie, @setmeatopthepyre, @leashybebes, @geddyqueer, @dharmaavocado, @politenotice, @alchemistc, and @apollabarnes (plus everyone who tagged me first!)

[theonottsbxtch]

hiiii i loved ur CL fics sm I was wondering if you could write angst of LN inspired by the song Casual by chappel roan?😭 feel free to ignore this req though!!💕 love u

CASUAL | LN4

an: this is TOTALLY not based off personal experience and TOTALLY didn't make me cry writing it, i poured two years worth of bullshit into this i hope you enjoy it. one of these scenes actually happened try and guess which one AND TO MAKE IT WORST I WAS THE JOURNALIST AND HE WAS THE SPORTS PLAYER ANYWAY

wc: 10.2k

Present Time

The city lights blurred through the rain-streaked window of the sleek black cab, each droplet a reminder of how tonight had unravelled into something far too complicated. She sat back against the worn leather seat, her fingers unconsciously tapping the small notebook resting in her lap. She hadn’t written a word.

She shouldn’t have agreed to this interview. That much was clear now. But when her editor had mentioned his name, her chest had tightened. It had been a year—no, closer to two—since the last time she’d seen him in person. But when you cover Formula 1, you don’t escape the shadow of Lando Norris for long. Especially this season. And here she was, his shadow pulling her back in, as if those tangled months had never happened.

The cab slowed, pulling up to a luxury hotel that had never seemed like Lando’s style—until it did. The polished, impersonal grandeur, the kind that screamed you were too famous, too fast to belong anywhere at all. The driver mumbled something about rain, but she barely heard him. She was too busy staring at the figure that had just appeared through the entrance. Tall, broad-shouldered, and effortlessly leaning against a pillar, Lando’s expression was hard to read, even from here. His trademark black leather jacket hung off him like a second skin. She remembered that jacket. She remembered far too much.

He spotted her through the rain, those piercing green eyes locking onto hers with the same intensity that had once sent her world spinning. For a moment, time seemed to slip backward, to late nights and whispered arguments, to hotel rooms where neither of them had belonged.

She swallowed hard and pushed the car door open. She wasn’t here for that. This was just work now. An interview, a piece for tomorrow’s newspaper. Nothing more. Lando had made it clear a long time ago that they were nothing more.

She stepped out into the rain, the cool drops on her skin grounding her just enough. Lando didn’t move, but his gaze followed her like a predator’s, waiting to strike.

"Long time no see," he called out as she approached, his voice low and edged with something she couldn’t quite place. 

She flinched at his voice, directed towards her. Like it had all been some fleeting game, some disposable moment. The thing was, she had been the one who’d tried to keep it light, who’d pretended she didn’t care. But Lando had always seen through her. And now, she wondered if he could still see what a mess she was beneath the practised professionalism.

"Yeah," she forced a tight smile, trying to pretend that his voice didn’t sting. "Just work, Lando. Let’s keep it that way."

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk curling the corner of his lips. “If you say so.” He said it like a challenge, like they both knew this wasn’t just a story for either of them.

She held her breath, her heart pounding far too hard for someone who had promised herself she was over this. Over him.

But deep down, she already knew the truth: there was nothing casual about Lando Norris. There never had been.

Two Years Ago

It had been a suffocatingly hot afternoon at the Austin Grand Prix. The sun hung heavy in the sky, the smell of burning rubber thick in the air as engines roared, and tension crackled around the circuit. But none of that had mattered when she was with Lando.

Just minutes before, she’d been in his driver’s room, his body tangled with hers, skin still warm from the way their desperation had collided. It had been fast, rough—like all the moments they’d stolen in between races. And for a fleeting second, she had believed that maybe this time was different. Maybe this time, he’d let her in.

But as she stepped into the paddock, adjusting her shirt and fixing her hair, she heard his voice, sharp and careless, coming from around the corner. She should have walked away. But curiosity, or maybe the sick need to hear, pulled her closer.

"I don't know, man," Lando’s laugh broke through the air like glass. "It’s casual. She’s just another girl. You know how it is."

She froze, her breath catching in her throat. She pressed herself against the wall, just out of sight, the words slicing through her. Just another girl.

She heard the other driver—was it Pierre? Or maybe Charles—murmur something back, his voice muffled, like it didn’t matter. Nothing anyone else said mattered after that.

All she could focus on was Lando. The way he spoke about her as if the last hour hadn’t happened. As if they hadn’t just been in his room, their bodies and hearts closer than they had ever dared admit out loud.

Her stomach twisted violently, shame and anger rising in her chest. How could he act like that? Like none of it meant anything? Like she didn’t mean anything?

She pushed herself off the wall, her heart hammering. She had to leave, get out of here before the flood of emotions swallowed her whole. But just as she turned the corner, she came face-to-face with someone who could unravel her even more.

Lando’s mother, Cisca Norris, stood in front of her, a soft smile breaking across her face the second she saw her .

“Darling, it’s been too long,” Cisca’s voice was warm, so achingly kind, as she pulled her into an embrace.

She wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to run, but instead, she wrapped her arms around Cisca and tried not to let the tears fall. Cisca held her like she was more than just another journalist, more than just another girl passing through Lando’s life. The woman had always been good to her, always treated her with affection that felt too close to motherly.

She couldn’t break now. Not in front of Cisca.

“Yeah, it has,” she managed, her voice thin as she pulled back and forced a smile. Her chest was burning, her throat tight. Cisca’s eyes searched her face with that kind of intuition only mothers had. She must’ve known something was wrong, but she didn’t ask.

“You should come by later,” Cisca continued, still holding her hands in hers. “Dinner with the family. It’ll be nice.”

She nodded, her vision blurring as she made some excuse, something about needing to finish a story. Cisca finally released her, her touch lingering as if she could sense the storm brewing inside her.

The second Cisca was gone, her composure cracked. She made her way to the bathroom, her legs unsteady as the pain crashed over her in waves. She locked herself in a stall, her back pressed against the cold tile wall, and finally let out the breath she had been holding.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to erase the image of Lando’s smirk, the sound of his voice when he had so casually discarded her like she was nothing.

She had always known it couldn’t last, that Lando wasn’t the kind of man to settle down, least of all with someone like her. But hearing it like that—hearing him reduce everything they had been to something so meaningless—tore something inside her she hadn’t even known was fragile.

She thought of Cisca, of the warmth in her embrace, and it only made the ache worse. There was no pretending now, no saving face. The line between Lando’s world and her own was more jagged than ever. She didn’t belong, not here, not with him.

She had barely pieced herself together by the time she left the bathroom stall. Her reflection in the mirror looked foreign, hollow-eyed and shaky, her hands gripping the counter as if the world beneath her feet might give way. But she didn’t have time to fall apart. Not here. Not now.

The media pen was bustling with the usual post-qualifying chaos—drivers weaving between journalists, cameras pointed in every direction, reporters asking the same rehearsed questions. She’d done this a hundred times, and today should have been no different. But today, every movement felt like it was being held together by string, and she was one breath away from snapping.

As soon as she arrived, her producer, Mark, waved her over, holding up the microphone with a nod. She forced a smile, plastering on the face she always wore when the cameras were rolling. She could do this. She had to do this.

Lando was already there, standing with a few other journalists, casually leaning against the fence like he hadn’t just torn her heart in half an hour ago. He looked almost too relaxed, that signature smirk playing on his lips. When his eyes met hers, something in them flickered—like he knew. Like he could see how fragile she was, and he wasn’t about to make it any easier.

"Hey," Lando drawled as she approached, his voice low and smooth. He flashed her a grin, the one that used to make her stomach flip. Now, it only twisted the knife.

She kept her face neutral, gripping the microphone a little tighter. "Lando," she said, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside. "You had a solid qualifying. What are your thoughts heading into tomorrow’s race?"

He tilted his head, his gaze never leaving hers. "Oh, you know," he said, his tone almost playful. "Feeling good. Always do when I’ve got the right motivation." He winked, just subtle enough that the cameras wouldn’t pick it up, but she caught it. And she hated that her heart still skipped at the sight.

She fought to keep her composure, swallowing hard as she moved on to the next question, doing her best to keep it professional. But every answer Lando gave was laced with innuendo, his eyes lingering on her in ways that felt too personal. Too raw. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him to stop playing games, to stop acting like everything between them was fine when she was barely holding it together.

"Alright, thanks for your time," she said, ending the interview with a tight smile as the camera finally cut. Her hand was shaking, the adrenaline rushing through her veins like fire. She needed to get out of here. Fast.

But before she could move, Lando stepped closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Sweetheart," he murmured, his voice so quiet no one else could hear. "I'll meet you at the hotel later?"

She stiffened, her entire body tensing. She turned to look at him, her eyes wide, disbelief flooding her chest. How could he be so casual, so careless? Did he really think she’d just meet him after what she overheard? After the way he’d reduced her to nothing?

Lando’s fingers brushed against hers, and for a split second, he took her hand, bringing it to his lips. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through her, just like it always did. He kissed her hand gently, like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t just broken her in two.

She yanked her hand away, her breath catching as the pain clawed at her chest. She couldn't do this. Not again. She forced a small, tight-lipped smile, nodding as if she was agreeing, but inside, her heart was shattering all over again.

"I’ve got to—" she started, her voice cracking slightly as she turned back to Mark, her producer. "I need to go. Tell them I’ll be back later."

Mark frowned, concerned. "You alright?"

"Yeah, I’m fine," she lied, her throat tightening as she backed away, already feeling the tears pressing against her eyes. "Just… something came up."

Without waiting for his reply, she slipped through the crowd, moving faster now, desperate to get out of the media pen, away from the cameras, away from him. She barely made it around the corner before the sob hit her, choking her breath, her chest heaving as she pressed her back against the wall, her hands trembling.

She couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears spilled over, hot and heavy, her body shaking as she gasped for air. How could he do this to her? How could he look at her like that, touch her like that, after treating her like she meant nothing?

She tried to steady herself, wiping furiously at her face, but the more she tried to hold it together, the more everything crumbled.

"Is that you?" A familiar voice cut through the fog, and she looked up, blinking through her tears to see Oscar standing just a few feet away. His brow furrowed in concern, his normally playful demeanour replaced by something much more serious.

"Oscar," she croaked, her voice barely a whisper. She tried to pull herself together, to stand up straighter, but it was no use. The floodgates had opened, and there was no stopping it now.

He stepped closer, his expression softening as he realised what was happening. "Hey, hey, it’s okay," Oscar said gently, his hand resting on her shoulder. "Come on, let’s get you out of here."

She shook her head, embarrassed, ashamed that anyone had to see her like this. "I’m fine, I just—"

"You’re not fine," Oscar cut her off, his voice kind but firm. "Let’s get you somewhere quiet, okay? You don’t have to pretend with me."

She nodded, her vision still blurred with tears as Oscar guided her away from the chaos of the paddock, his arm around her shoulders, his presence steady and warm. She didn’t have the strength to protest, not now.

For once, she didn’t have to hold it all together. And maybe, just for a moment, that was enough.

Oscar’s arm was strong around her shoulders, a steadying force as he led her away from the paddock, away from the media pen, and away from the chaos of her unravelling thoughts. She didn’t resist, couldn’t find the energy to argue, not with the weight of everything crashing down around her. She was barely holding herself together, her body trembling, her breath hitching with every step.

They walked in silence through the back corridors of the paddock, Oscar casting glances at her every few moments, his brow furrowed with concern but not pushing her to speak. When they reached the quiet of his driver’s room, he opened the door without a word, guiding her inside gently.

She wiped at her face again, trying to compose herself, but the tears wouldn’t stop. She felt exposed, like her heart was laid bare for anyone to see, and the shame of it was almost as painful as the heartbreak itself.

“Sit down,” Oscar said softly, leading her to the small couch in the corner of the room. “You don’t have to talk. Just breathe, okay?”

She nodded, sinking into the couch, her hands still trembling in her lap. Oscar crouched down in front of her, his gaze soft and full of something like understanding.

Before either of them could speak, the door to the room opened again, and she looked up to see Oscar’s girlfriend, Lily, stepping inside. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene—her  tear-streaked face, Oscar’s protective stance—and immediately crossed the room to join them.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Lily’s voice was full of sympathy as she sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "What happened?"

She shook her head, her throat tightening, unable to form the words. She didn’t want to say it out loud. Didn’t want to admit that Lando still had this kind of power over her.

Lily didn’t press her, just held her closer, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”

Oscar sat beside them now, his gaze serious as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Lando?” he asked quietly, and her silence was enough of an answer.

She sniffed, trying to hold back another sob, but the pain was too sharp, too fresh. She’d overheard Lando brush her off like she was nothing. And then he had the audacity to act like everything was fine, like they could just pick up where they left off—like it didn’t matter that she was breaking.

Lily exchanged a look with Oscar, her eyes narrowing in frustration. “Darling,” she said gently, turning toward her, “you can’t keep doing this to yourself. He’s… he’s not good for you.”

She swallowed hard, blinking back fresh tears. “I know,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

But knowing didn’t make it any easier. Knowing didn’t stop her heart from racing every time she saw him, didn’t stop the ache she felt when he touched her, when he looked at her with that smug confidence that twisted her insides. She had told herself so many times that she needed to stop. But every time she tried to pull away, she got sucked back in—into the whirlwind that was Lando Norris.

Oscar sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “He’s using you, mate. You deserve better than this. Better than him.”

She flinched at the words. She had thought, once, that Lando could be more than what everyone said he was. She had thought, in those stolen moments between races, when it was just the two of them, that he felt something for her, too. But she couldn’t ignore it any longer. He didn’t. Not the way she wanted him to.

Lily squeezed her hand gently. “You need to end it,” she said softly but firmly. “For good. Before he hurts you any more than he already has.”

She knew they were right. Oscar and Lily had always been kind to her, more like family than colleagues. They had seen it from the outside—the way Lando toyed with her emotions, the way he pulled her close only to push her away when it suited him.

She inhaled shakily, her heart still aching, but there was a flicker of something else now. A quiet, growing resolve. She couldn’t keep letting Lando tear her apart, not like this. She couldn’t keep waiting for him to change, for him to see her the way she wanted to be seen.

“He’s not worth this,” Oscar added, his voice gentle but firm. “I know he’s my teammate but you deserve someone who’s actually going to be there for you. Not someone who makes you feel like you have to hide how much you care.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting their words sink in. She knew they were right. She had known for a long time, but it was easier to lie to herself, to believe that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. That Lando would show up for her, the way she had always shown up for him.

Lily’s arm tightened around her shoulders, her voice soft but steady. “Darling, you don’t have to do this alone. We’ve got you.”

She nodded, her throat tightening again, but this time it wasn’t from the heartbreak. It was from the quiet understanding, the sense that maybe, for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t as alone as she had felt.

She sat there for a while, letting Lily and Oscar’s presence anchor her. They didn’t push her to talk more, didn’t force her to explain everything. They just let her breathe, let her fall apart without judgement.

And for a moment, she felt the weight on her chest lift just enough to see things clearly.

She knew she shouldn’t go meet him in that hotel room. She knew it had to end. For good.

But she went back.

She went back to the hotel room, even though every part of her knew she shouldn’t. She told herself she was just going to tell him it was over, that she couldn’t do this anymore. She told herself that she wasn’t going to let him pull her back in.

But the second she walked through the door and saw Lando standing there, leaning casually against the desk with that damn smile—like he’d been waiting for her, like she was exactly what he wanted—her resolve crumbled.

“Hey, you,” he said softly, his voice warm in that way it always was when they were alone. He pushed off the desk and crossed the room in a few easy strides, pulling her into his arms before she could even think about saying no. “Missed you.”

She froze for a moment, her body tense in his arms. She wanted to believe him, wanted to sink into the comfort of his touch. But her mind was screaming at her to remember, to think of what she had overheard in the paddock. She’s just another girl. His voice echoed in her head, sharp and cruel, even as he held her close now, as if she was anything but.

“I thought about you all day,” Lando murmured against her hair, his lips brushing her forehead. His hands slid down her back, pulling her closer, and she couldn’t help but shiver under his touch. He had always known how to touch her, how to make her forget everything else.

She wished it was enough.

He tilted her chin up, his green eyes searching hers, and for a second, she saw something there—something real, something that made her heart ache with the hope that maybe, just maybe, he meant it this time.

But then the words he’d said to his mates resurfaced, slicing through her like a knife. It’s casual. She’s just another girl.

Her throat tightened, but she forced a small smile. She had come this far, hadn’t she? Why couldn’t she just leave now?

Because you want him to care, a voice in her head whispered. You want to believe he’s different when it’s just the two of you.

Lando pressed his lips to hers, slow and sweet, like he wasn’t in a hurry, like he could take all the time in the world with her. And for a moment, she kissed him back, letting herself get lost in it, letting herself pretend that maybe the things he said didn’t matter. That maybe this was the real Lando—the one who held her close, the one who kissed her like she was the only thing that mattered.

But the more he kissed her, the harder it was to silence the voice in her head. The harder it was to ignore the truth that was gnawing at her.

You’re just another girl. It’s casual.

His hands slid under her shirt, fingers tracing soft patterns on her skin, and she shivered again, but this time it wasn’t just from his touch. She couldn’t stop thinking about how he had reduced her to nothing more than a fleeting moment in his life, something disposable. It didn’t matter how tender he was being now. It didn’t matter how much she wanted to believe that this was something real.

“Lando,” she whispered, pulling back slightly, her chest tightening. She didn’t know what she was going to say, but she knew she needed to say something—anything—to stop herself from falling deeper.

He smiled at her, that lazy, cocky grin that always made her knees weak. “What is it, baby?” he asked, his hands never leaving her, like he couldn’t bear the distance between them for even a second.

She wanted to ask him. She wanted to confront him, to make him explain why he could hold her like this but talk about her like she was nothing when she wasn’t around. But the words stuck in her throat, too heavy, too painful.

Instead, she let out a shaky breath and shook her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Lando’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, like he was trying to read her, but then he kissed her again, deeper this time, and any chance she had of stopping this slipped away. His hands slid down to her hips, pulling her flush against him, his breath hot against her neck as his lips moved lower, kissing along her jaw, her collarbone.

And for a second, she let herself get lost in it, let herself drown in the sensation of his touch, the way his hands felt on her skin, the way he knew exactly where to kiss her to make her forget everything else.

But the words kept creeping back in, no matter how hard she tried to push them away.

Just another girl.

Lando’s hands were working their way under her shirt, his fingers brushing the bare skin of her waist, and her heart pounded in her chest, but not in the way it used to. Now, it was pounding with fear, with the knowledge that this would never be enough.

He was whispering something against her skin, something low and sweet, but she couldn’t hear it over the roar of her own thoughts. She felt his hands tugging at the hem of her shirt, and she let him pull it over her head, let him kiss her again, harder this time, like he couldn’t get enough of her.

But she wasn’t really there. Not fully.

In her mind, she was back in the paddock, hearing his laugh, hearing him reduce her to nothing. The way he talked to his friends—so casual, so careless.

Her body responded to him, the way it always did, but her mind was miles away. She was too distracted, too hurt to fully give herself to him the way she always had before. She wanted to be here, wanted to feel that connection again, but it wasn’t working. Not this time.

Lando didn’t notice. He never noticed when she was pulling away, not really. He was too focused on what he wanted, too caught up in the moment to see the cracks forming in her resolve.

As he pushed her back onto the bed, his lips trailing down her stomach, her heart twisted painfully. She should stop this. She should say something. But she didn’t.

Because as much as she hated it, as much as it hurt, part of her still wanted to believe in the version of Lando that was in front of her right now. The version that kissed her like she was the only girl in the world.

Even if she knew it was a lie.

The hours passed in a blur, a mixture of whispered words, shared breaths, and touches that felt both familiar and distant at the same time. She lay beside Lando afterward, her body nestled against his, her head resting on his chest as his arm wrapped lazily around her. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, like this was where she belonged. Like nothing outside this room mattered.

But it did.

The silence between them felt heavier now, thick with unspoken truths and the weight of everything she wasn’t letting herself say. She listened to the steady rhythm of Lando’s heartbeat under her ear, trying to ground herself in the moment, trying to make it feel real. But her mind kept drifting back to his words—just another girl—and no matter how close he held her, it felt like he was slipping further and further away.

For a moment, it almost felt peaceful, lying there in the quiet of the hotel room, their legs tangled together under the sheets. Lando’s fingers traced absent-minded patterns on her arm, like it was second nature to him now. She wanted to hold onto that feeling, wanted to believe that this, at least, was real.

But then his phone buzzed on the nightstand, cutting through the stillness.

Lando sighed softly, shifting beside her as he reached for it. She felt the absence of his warmth immediately, and the hollow ache in her chest returned.

He glanced at the screen, his thumb swiping across it before he answered. "Hey, mate," he said, his voice low, casual. Like the moment they’d just shared didn’t change anything, like nothing had shifted.

She stared up at the ceiling, her breath catching in her throat as she listened to the one-sided conversation.

“Yeah, I’m at the hotel,” Lando continued, his tone easy, unconcerned. “What’s up?”

There was a pause, and she felt Lando shift again, his hand brushing absently against her bare skin of her hip as if he wasn’t even fully aware of her presence anymore.

"Alright, yeah," he said after a moment. "I’ll come down in a bit. Dinner sounds good." He laughed softly, the sound sending another pang through her chest. "Tell Max not to leave without me."

When he hung up, Lando turned his head to look at her, flashing her that easy, crooked smile. "That was the guys," he said, already starting to untangle himself from the sheets. "We’re heading out for dinner."

She forced a small smile, trying to keep her voice steady. "Right. Yeah. Sounds fun."

Lando leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before climbing out of bed. He moved with the same casual confidence he always did, completely unaware of the storm raging inside her.

"I won’t be long," he said as he pulled on his shirt. "Maybe I’ll bring you something back."

She just nodded, unable to find the words. She watched him button his jeans, the same knot of confusion and hurt tightening in her chest. How could he act like everything was so simple? Like she was just… there, waiting for him whenever he decided to come back.

Lando tossed a quick grin her way as he grabbed his jacket from the chair. "I’ll see you later, yeah?"

"Yeah," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "See you later."

And just like that, he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. The room felt so much bigger without him in it, the space beside her cold and empty. She stayed there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, her thoughts spinning, trying to make sense of everything. But the more she tried to piece it together, the more it felt like everything was unravelling.

The sound of her phone vibrating on the nightstand snapped her out of her thoughts. She glanced over, her heart skipping a beat when she saw the name flash on the screen: Cisca Norris.

She hesitated for a moment before swiping open the message.

Hey, darling! We’re heading out for a little shopping trip tomorrow. Just me and Flo. Thought it might be fun to have some girl time—want to join us? xx

Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes stinging as she read the message. Cisca had always been so warm, so welcoming, treating her like she was part of the family. She had this way of making her feel like she belonged, like there was a place for her in Lando’s world.

But it only made everything harder now.

She could still hear Lando’s voice in her head, so clear, so dismissive. It’s casual. She’s just another girl.

Her hands trembled as she typed out a response, her fingers shaky on the keys.

Thanks, but I don’t think I can tomorrow. Hope you all have fun though xx

She hit send before she could change her mind, before she could give in to the crushing weight of guilt pressing down on her chest. She knew Cisca didn’t mean to make it harder, didn’t know what was really going on, but it felt like a cruel reminder of everything she wasn’t—a real part of his life. She was just someone he kept in the shadows, someone he could pretend to care about when it was convenient.

The tears came before she could stop them, hot and relentless, blurring her vision as she lay there, staring up at the ceiling. She’d tried so hard to hold it together, to convince herself that maybe, just maybe, things would be different this time. But it wasn’t different. It was the same as it always was.

Lando would leave, and she would be left behind.

She lay there, her body still against the cool sheets, the emptiness of the room pressing in on her. The tears wouldn’t stop. They spilled down her cheeks in silent waves, and for the first time in a long while, she didn’t even try to hold them back. The room felt too quiet without Lando’s presence, without the pretence of connection he so easily crafted when it suited him.

Her phone buzzed again, a small ping echoing in the quiet. She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to face any more reminders of what she couldn’t have. But her gaze drifted toward it, her blurry vision focusing on the screen as a new message from Cisca popped up.

That’s a shame, sweetheart. Maybe next time? You’re always welcome with us. Big hugs xx

The kindness in the message felt like a punch to her gut. You’re always welcome. But how could she ever feel welcome in a world where Lando could say one thing to her face and another behind her back? How could she fit into the life of someone who treated her like she was disposable—like she was nothing special?

She clutched her phone in her hands, her knuckles white, as her tears continued to fall. Her mind replayed the moment in the paddock, hearing Lando laugh, hearing him reduce her to just another girl, nothing more than a casual fling. And yet, here she was—back in his hotel room, back in his bed—still hoping that maybe he would see her, really see her, the way she saw him.

Her chest tightened painfully as she stared up at the ceiling, the dull ache spreading through her like poison. She had tried so hard to be strong, to keep her distance, to protect herself from this exact feeling. But it was like Lando had a hold on her, one she couldn’t break no matter how much she knew she should.

She wiped at her face, trying to steady her breathing, but the sobs kept coming. She couldn’t stop thinking about the way Cisca treated her like family, like someone who belonged in their tight-knit circle. It was so different from how Lando treated her—warm and genuine. It made it worse, somehow, knowing that his family liked her, that they welcomed her, while he just kept her at arm’s length. It hurt in ways she hadn’t expected.

She curled up on her side, pulling the sheets tighter around her, as if they could shield her from the truth. She had been waiting for a moment like this, where Lando would be kind, where he would hold her, and she would feel safe. But no matter how close they were, she always felt that distance. He’d given her his body, sure, but nothing else. And she’d given him everything, every piece of herself, only to be left empty.

She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, trying to muffle the sobs that were choking her. Her body shook with the force of it all, the heartbreak, the shame, the overwhelming feeling of being used and discarded. She had always been so careful in her life, always kept her guard up, but Lando had slipped past her defences with such ease.

The minutes ticked by, the silence of the hotel room swallowing her whole. She stared at the ceiling, the tears finally slowing but leaving a hollow ache in their wake. Lando would be downstairs by now, laughing with his mates, carefree, as if none of this mattered. As if she didn’t matter.

Her phone buzzed again, and she flinched, afraid it might be him—afraid that any text from him would pull her deeper into this pit she was already drowning in. But when she looked, it wasn’t him. It was Lily.

Hey, just checking in. Everything okay? Xx

She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat making it impossible to answer right away. Lily had been so kind to her earlier, so gentle, and part of her wanted to reach out, to tell her the truth, to admit that she had come here even after she knew she shouldn’t.

But how could she explain this? How could she tell Lily that, even after everything, even after Lando had made it clear she didn’t mean anything to him, she had still come back? She had still fallen for his charm, for his soft touches, for his empty words.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, uncertain of what to say. The shame felt too heavy, too consuming. She didn’t want anyone to know how weak she felt, how much she had let Lando hurt her.

Instead, she typed a short reply.

I’m okay. Thanks for checking in xx

She hit send before she could second-guess herself, the lie sitting heavy in her chest. She wasn’t okay. She hadn’t been okay for a long time.

Another tear slid down her cheek, and she wiped it away quickly, frustrated with herself for still crying over someone like Lando. He wasn’t worth it. He never had been.

But knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.

The bed felt cold without him, even though she knew his warmth was only temporary. That was the thing with Lando—it was always temporary, always fleeting. And she was tired of pretending it wasn’t.

She pulled her phone closer, her thumb hovering over Lando’s contact. She thought about sending him a message, thought about telling him that this was the last time, that she couldn’t do it anymore. But she knew that he wouldn’t care. He’d smile, maybe say something sweet, and she’d fall right back into his orbit, trapped by the promise of something that would never come.

With a shaky breath, she dropped the phone onto the nightstand, rolling onto her back once again. The tears had stopped, but the ache remained. She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep, to forget, just for a few hours. But she knew that when morning came, the reality would still be there—Lando would still be Lando.

And she couldn’t keep doing this to herself.

She got out of bed and she tried.

She had tried to pack. She really had.

She had grabbed her suitcase, tossed in a few clothes, and told herself that it was over—that this would be the last time she’d let him do this to her.

But then she’d stopped, staring at the half-packed bag, her hands frozen mid-motion. She couldn’t bring herself to finish. The idea of leaving felt like admitting defeat, like walking away from the small, fragile hope she’d been clinging to. The hope that maybe, just maybe, Lando would change.

And so, she had left the suitcase open on the floor, unfinished, just like everything else between them.

The hours dragged by in painful silence. She sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes unfocused as she stared at the door. She should go. She should pick up her things and leave before Lando came back, before he could draw her in again with his soft smiles and casual charm.

But she stayed.

She stayed because part of her wanted him to come back. Wanted him to kiss her, hold her, make her feel like she wasn’t just another girl, like she actually meant something. Even though she knew it was a lie.

Her phone buzzed a few times on the nightstand, but she ignored it. She didn’t want to deal with anyone else right now—didn’t want to answer Lily’s worried texts or face the concern in her friends’ voices. They didn’t understand. They didn’t know what it felt like to be caught between wanting someone and knowing that they would never give you what you needed.

The sound of the door clicking open snapped her out of her thoughts, her heart jumping into her throat. Lando stepped into the room, the faint scent of alcohol and laughter clinging to him as he kicked off his shoes. He looked relaxed, like he’d had a good time, like the night out had done exactly what it was supposed to—take his mind off things.

“Hey, you,” he said with a smile as he spotted her still sitting on the bed. He held up a brown paper bag, a familiar logo stamped on the side. “Brought you something to eat. Thought you might be hungry.”

She stared at him, her stomach twisting at how easy it was for him. A quick thought passed her mind, wondering what he had said to his mates when he brought home some takeaway. He acted like nothing had happened, like everything was fine. She wanted to be angry, wanted to ask him how he could do this—how he could come back here, act so normal, after everything he’d said about her.

But she couldn’t. The anger was there, buried deep inside her, but it was swallowed by the familiar pull of Lando’s presence. She hated how he could disarm her with something as simple as a smile, hated how even now, after everything, part of her wanted to reach out and take the food he’d brought, to thank him, to let herself believe that maybe this was him showing that he cared, in his own way.

“Thanks,” she murmured, her voice hollow.

Lando crossed the room and set the bag on the nightstand before sitting down beside her on the bed. He leaned in, brushing a kiss against her temple, his hand resting on her knee as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her breath hitched at the contact, her heart betraying her as it fluttered in her chest. She thought of the highs, the way Lando could make her feel so alive, so wanted. She thought of the times when it was just the two of them, when he would hold her and everything else would disappear. Those were the moments that kept her here, that made her stay, even when she knew she shouldn’t.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice tinged with just enough concern to make her believe, for a second, that he might actually care.

She forced a smile, nodding even though she felt anything but okay. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m fine.”

Lando’s hand slid up her arm, his fingers gentle as they traced her skin. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her lips, slow and deliberate, as if he was trying to remind her of the connection they shared. And for a moment, she let herself get lost in it. She let herself believe that this was real, that Lando’s touch meant something more than just the physical.

“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” Lando said after a few seconds, pulling away with a lazy grin. “I won’t be long.”

She nodded, watching as he disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of the water starting up a moment later. She stayed where she was, her mind racing. The kiss had been warm, familiar, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the doubts, the pain that had been building inside her all night.

With a sigh, she glanced toward Lando’s phone, which he had tossed carelessly onto the bed before heading into the shower. The screen lit up with a notification, and despite herself, her eyes flicked over to it.

It was a text. From one of Lando’s friends.

You’re staying with her? Has she not got the hint yet?

Her blood turned to ice.

The air seemed to leave the room all at once, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe. The message stared back at her, mocking her, confirming everything she had been trying so desperately to ignore.

Has she not got the hint yet?

Her throat tightened, tears welling in her eyes again as the words sank in. Lando’s friend was in on it—on this twisted game Lando was playing. He knew. They all knew. And still, Lando had brought her back here, kissed her like she meant something, only to laugh about it with his mates behind her back.

Her hands trembled as she set Lando’s phone back down, her vision blurring with fresh tears. She couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t keep pretending that this was okay, that she was okay. Lando didn’t care about her. He never had.

The sound of the water running in the bathroom felt distant, like it was coming from another world, another life. She sat there, her mind numb, her heart breaking all over again. She should’ve left. She should’ve finished packing her bag and walked out of that door the moment Lando left for dinner. But she hadn’t.

And now she was paying the price.

Lando emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, his hair damp and tousled from the shower. Water still clung to his skin, the dim hotel light casting a glow across the muscles of his chest and arms. He looked every bit like the Lando that had drawn her in from the start—effortlessly attractive, with that air of confidence that always seemed to follow him.

She couldn’t deny it. He was beautiful. Anyone would fall for him at first glance, and she had. But now, as he stood there, looking every bit the part of the man she had once thought she could love, the attraction didn’t hold the same weight it used to.

Sure, he was magnetic, the kind of person who could pull you into his orbit with just a smile. But what had that really gotten her? A heart that was constantly breaking, and a life lived on the sidelines, waiting for scraps of affection. The price she paid for being with Lando wasn’t worth it anymore—not when every touch, every kiss, every whispered promise felt like it was laced with lies.

Her chest tightened as she picked up her phone from the nightstand, her fingers curling around it like it was her lifeline. She had to get out of here. She couldn’t sit here, pretending everything was okay, pretending that she didn’t see that message, didn’t know exactly what Lando’s friends thought of her. What he thought of her.

“I’m just going to get some cutlery from downstairs,” she said, her voice shaking slightly as she tried to move toward the door, away from him.

But Lando’s hand shot out, gently pulling her back before she could make her escape. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, and she could feel the warmth of his skin, the way his touch still made her heart stutter despite everything. His brows furrowed slightly, his eyes searching hers.

“You’ve been off lately,” he said, his tone soft but probing. “Is it work?”

Her heart raced, panic flooding her veins. He was looking at her like he was genuinely concerned, like he cared. But she knew better now. This was part of the game, part of the act he played so well. And she had to lie—because the truth would only expose just how far she’d fallen for him, how deep this had gone for her, and how little it had meant to him.

“Yeah,” she replied, forcing a weak smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Work’s just been a lot lately.”

Lando’s grip on her wrist loosened, but his eyes didn’t leave hers. He leaned in slightly, his voice soft, almost affectionate. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

She swallowed hard, her throat tight as she fought back the storm of emotions threatening to spill over. She wanted to scream at him, to ask him how he could ask her that after everything—after the lies, after the way he’d treated her like she was nothing more than a fleeting distraction.

But instead, she did what she always did. She lied.

“Of course I would,” she said, the words tasting bitter as they left her lips.

Lando’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he let go of her wrist, his hand dropping back to his side. He smiled, that same easy, careless smile he always wore, and for a second, it almost felt like he believed her.

“Good,” he murmured, brushing a quick kiss against her temple before stepping back. “I’m glad.”

She nodded, her heart heavy in her chest as she forced herself to stay calm, to not let the cracks show. “I’ll just be a minute,” she mumbled, slipping away from him and heading for the door before he could stop her again.

As she stepped into the hallway, the air felt cooler, sharper, like a small relief from the suffocating warmth of Lando’s presence. She leaned against the wall for a moment, her phone still clenched tightly in her hand, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Her mind was spinning, her heart aching with the weight of everything she couldn’t say.

She had lied to him. Lied to protect herself, to protect whatever was left of her dignity. But deep down, she knew the truth. She couldn’t keep doing this.

Not anymore.

She didn’t make it far before the tears started. Her steps slowed as the pressure in her chest became too much, the weight of everything crashing down on her all at once. She turned a corner in the hallway, eyes blurry and throat tight, searching for somewhere—anywhere—she could hide.

She spotted a door slightly ajar, marked with a plain “Staff Only” sign. Without thinking, she slipped inside, closing it behind her. It was a cramped janitor’s cupboard, the air thick with the smell of cleaning supplies and stale mop water. But it was quiet, dark, and, most importantly, away from Lando.

Her back hit the wall, and she slid down to the floor, curling in on herself as the sobs broke free. She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to muffle the sounds, but it was no use. The tears came in waves, the pain too raw, too overwhelming to control.

She hated herself for coming back, for believing, even for a moment, that things would be different. For letting him touch her, kiss her, knowing deep down that none of it meant what she wanted it to. And now, sitting alone in a janitor’s cupboard, hiding like a child, all she could think about was how foolish she’d been.

With shaking hands, she grabbed her phone, barely able to see the screen through the tears. She scrolled to Lily’s contact, hesitating for only a second before pressing the call button. It rang twice before Lily answered.

“Sweetheart?” Lily’s voice was soft but immediately laced with concern. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

The floodgates broke, and she couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out, her voice a broken, shaky whisper. “I hate myself,” she sobbed, choking on the words. “I hate that I let him do this to me. I keep going back, Lily. I hate it. I hate me.”

“Where are you?” Lily’s tone shifted, calm but urgent. “Tell me where you are. I’m coming to you right now.”

She swallowed hard, trying to catch her breath enough to speak. “I... I’m in some janitor’s cupboard. Down the hall from Lando’s room. I—I didn’t know where else to go.”

“I’m coming, okay? Just stay there. I’ll be right there.”

She nodded even though Lily couldn’t see her, clutching the phone to her chest as she waited, her sobs quieting but still leaving her body shaking. She felt so small, so utterly broken. The seconds felt like hours, each one dragging by in painful silence.

It wasn’t long before there was a soft knock on the door, and she heard Lily’s voice. “Darling? It’s me. Can I come in?”

She reached up, her hand trembling as she unlocked the door. Lily slipped inside, her face full of concern as she quickly closed the door behind her, blocking out the world. Without saying a word, she knelt down beside her, wrapping her arms around her tightly.

She broke all over again the moment Lily held her. She clung to her friend, burying her face in her shoulder as the sobs wracked her body. Lily didn’t say anything at first. She just held her, her hand gently stroking her hair, her presence a quiet reassurance in the small, dark space.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered through her tears. “I keep... I keep letting him hurt me, and I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t stop. I hate myself for it.”

“Hey, no,” Lily said softly, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes. “Don’t say that. You’re not the one who’s wrong here. He’s the one messing with your head, making you think this is normal. But it’s not your fault, okay? It’s not.”

She shook her head, the tears still falling. “I just feel so stupid. I saw a text from his friend... asking if I hadn’t gotten the hint yet. They know. They all know, and I’m still here, like some pathetic—”

“You’re not pathetic,” Lily interrupted, her voice firm but gentle. “You’re strong, darling. Stronger than you think. And I know it hurts right now, but you don’t deserve this. You deserve so much more than what Lando’s giving you.”

She tried to breathe, but her chest still felt tight, her mind spinning with shame and self-doubt. “I don’t know why I can’t just leave.”

Lily squeezed her hand, her eyes softening with understanding. “Because when someone gets into your head like that, it’s not easy to just walk away. He made you feel special, even if it was for the wrong reasons. But you’re not alone, darling. You’ve got me, you’ve got Oscar, and we’re not going anywhere. I’ll be here with you until you’re ready to leave, whenever that is.”

Her lip quivered, fresh tears welling in her eyes. She nodded, grateful but still lost in the ache that Lando had left behind. Lily’s words were like a balm, but the pain still sat heavy in her chest, raw and unresolved.

Lily leaned back, adjusting so that they were sitting side by side, their backs against the wall. She kept holding her hand, her thumb tracing soothing circles over her knuckles. “We can stay here as long as you need. You don’t have to face him right now. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

She let out a shaky breath, closing her eyes as she leaned against Lily, her body still trembling from the tears. “But he hasn’t done anything wrong,” she murmured, trying to convince herself, even as the words tasted bitter. “He just... he just doesn’t know how I feel.”

Lily pulled back slightly, her gaze intense as she looked into her eyes. “Yes, he has. Don’t lie to yourself, sweetheart. It’s not just about what he’s done; it’s about how he makes you feel. And right now, you’re hurting, and that’s not okay. You deserve someone who cares about you, not someone who’s playing games.”

She bit her lip, frustration mixing with sadness. “I know, but...”

“No buts.” Lily interrupted, her voice steady. “You’re worth more than this. You don’t have to keep accepting less than you deserve. You know that, right?”

She nodded, but the ache in her chest remained, a stubborn reminder of the tangled mess of emotions that Lando had stirred inside her. She felt like she was being pulled in two different directions: her heart yearned for the connection she had with Lando, while her mind screamed for her to walk away, to protect herself from more pain.

“What if I just... went and got my things?” she whispered, almost to herself. “I could just—”

Lily shook her head firmly. “You shouldn’t have to do that alone. I can call Oscar and ask him to pick up your stuff from Lando’s. He’s supportive, and I’m sure he’d be more than happy to help.”

“Are you sure?” she asked hesitantly, the thought of involving Oscar making her heart race. “I don’t want to make things weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Lily said, her voice soothing. “It’s what friends do. You need to take the first step in reclaiming your space. Let’s get your things, and then we can figure out the next steps together. You don’t have to face this alone, and you don’t have to keep putting yourself through this.”

She nodded again, feeling a flicker of gratitude for Lily’s unwavering support. It felt good to have someone in her corner, someone who believed she could do better, even when she struggled to believe it herself.

“Okay,” she finally said, her voice steadier now. “Let’s do that.”

“Good,” Lily replied, squeezing her hand tightly. “I’ll get Oscar to come over. And remember, you’re stronger than you think.”

Present Time

Now, standing in front of him in the rain-soaked street, she wondered if he even remembered that day. If he had any idea how much it had gutted her. The memory felt like a ghost, haunting her thoughts, each painful recollection mingling with the cold raindrops cascading down her cheeks.

“Should we get started?” she said, her voice a little too sharp. The rain was mixing with the ache in her chest, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand there, looking into those eyes that had once made her feel seen. Once. She hated that feeling of vulnerability he inspired, but even more, she hated the way it was fading.

Lando tilted his head, studying her with that signature smirk tugging at his lips. It was the same smirk that had once made her heart race, ignited her passion, and made her forget her own worth. But now, it only deepened the resolve she had built since their last encounter. There was a flint in his eyes, a spark that had once drawn her in, but she refused to let it affect her anymore. Those flames of desire he ignited had left her burnt before, and she wasn’t going to let it happen again.

“Yeah. Let’s get started,” he echoed, his voice smooth but tinged with a hint of something darker lurking beneath. She could sense it—an undercurrent of his charm that was both magnetic and dangerous.

They both knew this wasn’t just another interview. Not for him. Not for her.

But she wasn’t that girl anymore. She wouldn’t let him see her fall apart again. Not this time. Each raindrop felt like a reminder of her strength, a symbol of her resolve to stand firm against the tides of emotion that threatened to wash her away. She took a deep breath, grounding herself in the moment, and steeled her gaze against the storm brewing in her heart.

“Let’s talk about the last race,” she said, forcing her voice to steady. “You seemed to be struggling with the new tires. What do you think the team could do differently moving forward?”

Lando's brow furrowed, momentarily surprised by the shift in her tone. It was almost like he was used to her fawning over him, allowing his charisma to overshadow her professionalism. But not today. Not anymore.

He responded, launching into technical details, but she could see his focus drifting, his smirk slipping just a little as he searched her expression for any trace of the girl he had once known—the one who had been captivated by his every word. But he wouldn’t find her here, not today.

As he spoke, she fought to keep her expression neutral, not letting the echoes of their past seep into her demeanour. The way he moved, the way he gestured—there was still an effortless charm to him, but it was fading, like a sunset after a long day. She wasn’t here to be dazzled; she was here to reclaim her narrative, to make sure he understood that she had grown.

“Uh, sweeth-” he said suddenly, cutting himself off from finishing the per name she used to love, his tone shifting as he leaned closer, invading her personal space. “You seem… different. What’s going on?”

The intensity of his gaze was like a spotlight, and for a moment, she felt the familiar stir of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. But she clung to the memory of that cramped janitor’s cupboard, to the warmth of Lily’s embrace, and the strength it had given her. She wouldn’t let him in, wouldn’t let him see her falter.

“Just focusing on the questions, Lando,” she replied, her voice crisp and steady, eyes locked on his. “I’m here to do a job.”

He narrowed his eyes, clearly thrown by her tone. The playfulness he often relied on was nowhere to be found, and for the first time, she saw uncertainty flash across his face. It was intoxicating, seeing him taken aback. It reminded her that he wasn’t invincible.

“Fine,” he said, his tone shifting back to that of a confident driver. “I can handle a little professionalism. I admire it, actually.”

“Then let’s keep it professional,” she shot back, her heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and exhilaration. There was something liberating about standing her ground, about showing him that she wasn’t afraid to push back.

As they continued their exchange, a storm raged on outside—water pouring down in sheets, thunder rumbling in the distance. But here, away from the rain, she felt the weight of her past begin to lift. She wouldn’t allow Lando to pull her back into his world of uncertainty and heartache. She was building her own life now, with friendships that mattered, goals that fueled her, and a vision that didn’t include him.

With each word, she drew a line in the sand, reminding herself that this was her moment, not his. She had reclaimed her voice, and she was ready to use it.

the end.

[beforetimes]

if there's one thing that can be said about peter maximoff, it's that he's always got his ear to the ground when it comes to gossiping. it's like, his thing by now. if anyone wanted to hide their secrets from him they'd be fresh out of luck because despite how much he darts around and lets himself trail off sentences in the middle of them to zip off and do something else because he got tired of slowing himself down in the middle of it, he is surprisingly good at being quiet when he needs to and being at the right place at the right time. he has a very good record when it comes to this stuff, so he knows it's not bullshit when he's figured out that his dad—which, like, wow, his dad?—is in the dating scene. he knows it. what's more of a surprise is that he's gotten all strung up with charles xavier, of all people.

which, like, peter doesn't hate the guy. he doesn't! he was just under the impression that ten years ago—wow, ten years really fly when you really think about it, that day feels like forever ago and yesterday at the same time—that charles and erik hated each other. so he guesses he missed the memo where they kissed and made up after punches were thrown in the pentagon's elevator by a drenched, half-sober man who looked like he would laser erik to death with his eyes the way scott tries to do to peter about four times a week without even taking off his glasses in case he'd accidentally make it stick. though he couldn't, because, like. peter is very fast. duh.

so. the evidence behind his claims goes as follows (of course he collected evidence, peter says to ororo, affronted, when she asks if he even had proof. what was he, an ameteur?):

1. erik keeps taking lunch breaks.

it's not like he didn't before but he was definitely less likely to. when they were rebuilding the x-mansion after it blew up and he was their heaviest lifter, it would be rare to peel him away from all the construction. erik was actually weirdly good at building, which peter didn't really expect for some reason because he was always under the impression all the guy did was like. terrorize people. or kill them. or twist spoons into pretzels just because he could. but no, nowadays he's been taking more lunch breaks than ever and it's a very pointed difference, even though they've already finished construction a few months ago and erik didn't really have a reason to stay. unless the reason to stay was so he could be with charles! (scott stares at him with that unimpressed, laser-eyes look again so peter flips him off and continues past the sputtering).

2. he's also like, weirdly nice now?

which isn't to say that peter didn't think terrorists couldn't be nice. which sounds bad but erik might be the one exception. anyway, when peter saved him about a decade ago he remembered the guy being kind of an asshole when he met up with charles for the first time and yes he knows that it puts a damper on his dating theory, jean, but he's not done yet so wait a second. anyway, he was less of an asshole when he came back to help fix the mansion after trying to kill the whole world so peter guessed he kind of swings on a pendulum between good and evil and whatever they get on that day is like the worlds most important and demented coin flip. that's besides the point. so when he was back here to help fix things up he stayed out of everyone's way and he wouldn't do much to bother anyone because in peter's opinion erik didn't want to scare the little kids who knew of his reputation even if they didn't know his face. but, like, now he's been here a while it's like a complete 180. peter caught him teaching a seven year old how to tie his shoes the other day. a thirteen year old shortstack was rocking back and forth on her heels while erik got her a book from one of the higher shelves of the mansions newly refurbished library (who knew that once you saved the world there would be at least one or two places willing to donate books on top of charles' infinite wealth?). it was like stepping into the twilight zone. but it was real. like, peter saw the hint of a real smile on erik's face one time when he saw the man looking over the grassy field of the school. it freaked him out a bit.

3. charles knows how erik takes his coffee

this is admittedly one of his weaker arguments from the lead-in, peter concedes when he gets blank stares from storm, jean, scott, and kurt. like, even kurt! he didn't think that was a look he could pull from that kid. anyway, peter says that it's pretty damn obvious that erik has a whole thing when it comes to charles being in his head. he's heard from someone who heard from a friend who eavesdropped on a teacher who overheard charles and raven after a faculty meeting that the helmet erik wore all the damn time when he was evil was to keep charles from getting into his head. which explains a lot. anyway erik has a complex about charles getting in his head. but he doesn't wear the helmet now and peter heard charles one morning when he was getting ready to start the day off by eating at least two and a half boxes of poptarts. he heard the man say something like coffee? and he heard erik reply with a hum and charles went how dyou want it and erik said don't you know already? and peter had peered in then and seen erik gesture to his head. and he wasn't defensive about it at all and charles had this really weird look on his face that peter spend a few seconds examining in hyperspeed before getting away from the whole thing because the vibes were so weird. but yeah. erik let charles into his head just for some coffee after spending like two decades trying to keep charles out of his head. which has to mean something (and peter knows he's hooked them now because even scott is leaning in like he's interested and that kid would pretend he had a ticklish throat and needed a water bottle more than anyone else in the immediate vicinity if peter was on fire in front of him).

4. all the chess boards

like, they're all over the place. it's excessive. there's a different game set up in the library, on a table in the garden, on charles' desk in his office, on erik's desk in his office and his bedroom. and no one touches them because no one likes fucking chess except for cute little ten year old jenny because her grandfather taught her before she accidentally turned his house into clouds and seventeen year old thomas who's a prick because he thinks he's more distinguished than anyone ever because he came all the way over from europe or whatever the fuck and peter can't see either of them sitting down to play one game, let alone multiple. and he knows chess is charles and erik's thing because he saw the board in erik's room one time—(you were in his room? ororo asks with a very deep look and peter nods and goes yeah we've been bonding lately but it's kind of one sided because it's more like me showing up and him tolerating me until i leave but like it's progress!)—and peter asked before erik could get a chance to politely kick him out and erik actually paused and told him that chess was a shared hobby of theirs from a few years back and get this, peter says conspiratorially, leaning forward as the rest follow suit. he smiled. like a full on real smile with teeth. and peter was so taken aback he was like that's sweet man and then left before he could be kicked out. and now he knows that the only people who play chess in this mansion are dickhead european thomas and sweet little jenny and charles and erik, all the games all over the place have to be charles and erik's which means they spend a lot more time together than he thought before. and they plan to spend it together because a lot of these games are half finished, like they leave and come back every few days depending on how much free time either of them have. (and now everyone looks thoroughly hooked because the evidence peter brings is good because peter is a hell of a gossip, dammit. he won't have people questioning his skills when it comes to this. he was made to be at old little women's tea parties where they talk about their evil husbands doing war crimes. that's what he guesses goes on there, anyway, considering his first gossip session with his mom went that way)

5. charles is happier now

and jean frowns at this one right off the bat but no one really says anything because the way peter said it was soft and kind of less jokey than the rest of his tirade. because it was something he wasn't really expecting? because charles wasn't sad per se, he was always happy in front of the kids and he didn't try to drag them down with his own moods and ever since the guy got sober he's looked a hell of a lot more put together than when he showed up on peter's doorstep, tired and hungover and just plain heartbroken. but even in that small time frame between defeating apocalypse and the mansion being rebuilt, he was just... sort of happy. happy he lived, maybe. happy the world made it and his mansion was being rebuilt so he could home all these poor kids without anywhere to turn to that understood them. but wow, the stark difference between a charles that was kind of okay and a charles that was happy was like night and day. he was just so much brighter now that it took peter aback sometimes. he hummed under his breath whenever peter walked by him in the halls at a human speed and those old withered plants in his office started to stand taller, as if someone finally started watering them. and hank stopped staring at charles the way he did when peter met them a decade ago—waiting for something to give. so, yeah, charles is definitely happier now when no one even knew he was unhappy at all. and it all started when erik started taking lunch breaks.

and jean and scott and ororo and kurt are looking at him less like he's pulling their legs and more like he's made a point that makes them a little sad which wasn't the goal but he gets it. charles is like, jean's dad in a way, and the rest really look up to him despite only being here just shy of a year, so to hear this guy that they always saw as this strong bastion of optimism and goodwill was just sort of sad all the time right under their noses was probably depressing the hell out of the four of them. but it was the truth. and peter knows it was because he can practically see them recalling how the professor was before he got there and before he made up with erik.

so yeah. peter is right. erik and charles are probably dating and now four more people know that charles is happier than he was before and erik is too. and privately, peter thinks maybe if erik is happy to find family in charles, he'd be happy to find family in peter, too. but that's something for another day. he's just suddenly aware of the fact that he's so glad these guys who were so bent out of shape and angry and irritated and heartbroken and assholeish ten years ago are looking at each other like the sun took up custody of both their smiles or whatever.

anyway i'll see you guys later, peter tells them, and races off before they can say anything. he's already halfway across the school and in his room playing pac-man before any of them can blink.

[rafeandonlyrafe]

eventually

words: 700

warnings: established relationship, college student!reader, long distance relationship, cheating, not a happy ending, wheezie is a queen as per usual, mentions/implications of hooking up but the fic is pretty sfw

“it'll be… it'll be really hard and i understand if you want to break up.” just the words coming out of your mouth breaks your heart.

“is that what you want?”

“what?” you shake your head quickly, moving to sit even closer and taking rafes hands in yours, squeezing them tightly. “i love you. i don't want us to ever break up, but im going to college three hours away.”

“we will just have to go long distance.” rafe raises your joined hands and kisses the back of your hand to your fingers. “im not giving up on the only good thing in my life.”

“oh, rafe.” you pout, launching yourself forward into a tight embrace.

--six months later--

you smile at the email approving you to take your exam early. it's the last one you need and considering you already have a 4.0 in the glass, you don't see it dropping just because you get less time to study.

you quickly close outlook and open up your text messages. as much as you want to tell rafe that you'll be coming home two weeks early, you also really want to surprise him.

hey wheezie girl!! I need your help…

--

“where is he?” you whisper as wheezie let's you into the house.

“in his room.” wheezie also keeps her voice low. “he might be asleep though so i don't know if you want to wait.”

“no.” you shake your head quickly. you just got home and the first thing you did was drive to tanneyhill, you're not sure if you can wait even a minute longer. “i got it from here, thanks girl.” you give wheezie a big hug. “i missed you too, ya know.”

wheezie hugs you back before letting you tiptoe up the stairs, keeping your steps as light as to not wake rafe.

you take a deep breath when you see his door, excitement filling in you knowing he's just on the other side.

you grip the brass handle and turn it slowly, attempting to keep the door from creaking as you step into the dark room.

your eyes take a second to adjust to the darkness, the morning light blocked out by the heavy curtains. you recognize a figure in bed and take a few steps closer, but with every movement, your heart drops further.

the sob rips from your chest before you even realize you're crying, waking rafe instantly.

“baby?” he sits up quickly, his voice frantic. “what are you doing here?”

“baby?!” you squeal. “you don't get to call me baby when there's a girl in your fucking bed!”

the clearly naked girl, gripping the blanket to her chest is now awake and staring at the both of you in confusion, probably some touron who had no clue what she was getting involved with.

“p-please.” rafe stutters, standing quickly. “it doesn't mean anything, i don't even remember her name i just needed to-”

you hold your hand up. “i don't want to hear it. i can't believe you… this is over. we are over.”

you walk quickly out of the room and stumble down the stairs, feeling like the house is suffocating you.

you don't even realize that you bump directly into ward, practically crashing into him and forcing him back into rose.

“y/n, what's wrong?” ward asks just as rose asks you when you got home, the whole family knowing when to expect you.

“what's wrong is your son is a cheater.” you give rafe a glare as he stands at the top of his stairs in only his underwear.

“rafe-” ward growls out. he knows how good you are for his son, he's seen the shift in his behavior since you left.

“baby, i still love you, she means nothing to me! it was just casual-”

you leave the house as his pleas continue, not wanting to hear another word of his bullshit arguments, knowing two years has now gone down the drain.

“im sorry.” you look up to see wheezie standing by your car. “i didn't know for sure but… but i guessed. i know you needed to see it with your own eyes. he went to a party last night and-”

“oh, wheeze.” you quickly give her a hug. “it's okay. ill be okay.”

“you will?”

you don't know the answer to that question, not for certain as you look back at the house, rafe stood in the doorway but not following you as ward lectures him.

“not any time soon.” you admit honestly. “but i will be. eventually.”

sfw taglist: @winterrrnight @bejeweledreverie @ethanthequeefqueen @ladyinbl00d @drewsephrry

[weebsinstash]

In your Cecil work, you mentioned how he’s seen reader naked with all monitors and stuff. But to be a little freaky/sinful, has he seen them also pleasuring themselves? I can only imagine the amount of murder he’d be willing to do for the unfortunates who decide to comment their enjoyment. If not if they have those Superman abilities, do you think they knew they were being spied on and took someone home to bone to mess with him.

You know how in the first season Cecil straight up tells Mark something along the lines of "the GDA knows everything about you, from your daily routine to the porn you jack off to". Well :)

Imagine in a "Nolan's child who hides their powers" scenario, or I guess just in general as a viltrumite/alien hybrid or someone who the government was always keeping tabs on for whatever reason, you suddenly develop your powers, but also, something more, and you can suddenly hear the buzzing and electrical hertz of the hidden cameras in your room. Like... what the fuck do you even do in response to that

God... god... remember in Death Note where Light predicted he was being watched by the police so he would do shit like read dirty magazines to maintain his cover of "behaving like a normal young man". Imagine you making the realization that like ... you had a daily or some real specific masturbation habit and you're like "oh fuck, I can't suddenly change what I'm doing or it might tip them off that I know something or make them suspicious"

Reader begrudgingly continuing to jack off like normal and you KNOW people are watching, for survival's sake. Reader having their first real conversation with Cecil as he's touring you through the GDA and you finally go "no bullshit" and hit him with the bluntness question possible, "so are you one of the men who watches the cameras in my bedroom or has it been someone else watching me masturbate" and it actually manages to make him stutter and stumble to answer

Cecil literally ordering everyone else out of the room whenever they're watching the footage and he knows you're about to jerk off, because, he's obsessed enough with you that not only does he see it as "protecting your modesty" but also he literally cannot stand knowing other people are seeing you in such an... intimate and vulnerable state. He's protecting you, obviously :) he's not a pervert, he promises--

Cecil having the utmost pokerface as he watches you pleasure yourself but his cheeks are still-- actually, he's technically covered in a synthetic skin so COULD HE even blush??? We're gonna pretend he does. Cecil trying to be all stonefaced but he can't stop his face from turning red and the way you manage to make him sweat

Ngl... I really like the idea of Reader who, upon unlocking their powers, basically becomes like, you took the fucking pill from Limitless and you become this, super memory unlocked brain capacity genius and you quickly pick up on how Cecil's heart rate increases whenever he talks to you and you compare it to, say, how he treats "equal threats" like Mark and Omniman and you quickly form the hypothesis he's got some weird crush on you. Maybe you test your theory out or try to trip him up by, say, hitting on another member of the Guardians or another superhero. Your superhearing picking up Cecil grinding his teeth from the other side of the room as you make some flirtatious inappropriate comment to a coworker or hero/alien you just met. I'd be out here giggling twirling a piece of hair around a finger, "so, is there a Mrs Battle Beast?" as Cecil then creates some diversion or reason to pull you away. "There's a mudslide in the Philippines and we need you to help the search and rescue efforts" "but you guys never ask me to help with shit like that?" "Just shut up and follow me"

Some... lose-lose scenario where you try to defy Cecil and the GDA and he won't let you and fabricates some justification for locking you away or putting some sort of method of control on or in you. You being completely restrained as Cecil tells you it's for your own good, for the planet's own good, until you "can calm down and see the light" and you can tell he's... suspiciously into it as he sees you completely at his mercy, even reaching out to touch your face, or even... other parts of you.

Donald just out here, "sir I brought you the documents you requested and-- sir do you have an erection watching the new recruit??? Are you peeping on their bedroom again??" "Shut up, Donald. Get your glasses fixed and do your damn job. I'm just watching them fight a giant alien monster"

You can't deny Cecil gets results, so everyone who has suspicions that he's being a lil... freaky... just has to put up with it or convince themselves they're imagining it, but... they're not :)