#i really want to watch battleground again

[fleshybeing]

i think my favorite black and white film might be battleground, i just really like it for the reason of just liking it

[devilmademewriteit]

Playing Dangerous

part 2 of Salvatore

pairing: javier peña x afab!fem!reader

summary: sure, the fact that he’d schemed up an entire, elaborate ruse to get between your legs was upsetting. more upsetting was the fact that he refused to fess up, insisting that you needed to be protected (or at the very least—cautious) because your life was in ‘grave danger.’ most upsetting, however? that would be the fact that through it all and above everything else, you still wanted him—badly.

warnings: rough sex/smut (fingering, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content; afab fem reader; mentions of reader having long hair; bratty!reader; brat-tamer!javi; alcohol consumption; smoking; pet names (baby, sweetheart, cariño, hermosa); some angst; dubcon (slight intoxication, power imbalance, age gap).

word count: 10.7k (sorry again)

no use of y/n in this fic

hello here is part twooooo! thank you for all the love on Salvatore I absolutely love all of you so much. you don't rly need to read p1 to enjoy this, just know that: reader is the ambassador's secretary and is an asshole, Javi is also an asshole, they fucked for the first time a few days ago b/c he took her home after someone seemed to be after her life.

don’t forget to join the taglist if you’re nasty; feedback, asks, comments, smoke signals and carrier pigeons always welcome. kisses. -em<3

—

read part 3, Dark Paradise, here.

—

Let’s get in the back of your cop car, officer! - Playing Dangerous

“I am not speaking to you.”

Murphy’s eyes come alive with exasperation, a striking shift from their usual half-asleep, perpetually vacant gawp. Not quite at the point of impatience yet, his voice is soft when he responds.

“Please.”

You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. An impassive sneer makes its way onto your expression.

Not a fucking chance.

Not only were you not planning on ever doing Steve Murphy—and especially, his asshole partner—even the smallest of favours throughout your remaining time on this godforsaken planet, you’d come to the conclusion (quite recently, in fact) that you’d rather dance barefoot on broken glass than be in the same room as either member of the pair.

And it was a shame, really.

After that (now regrettable, once incredible) night at Peña’s place, everything had been fine.

More than fine. Not even awkward.

For a glorious moment, waking up next to him, ruined and sore and bruised and satisfied, sharing a morning coffee and then a ride to work—peace (and the planted seeds of something else, too) had finally settled across the worn-in battlegrounds between you, solid roots spreading with each passing second spent not bickering. For crying out loud, when he’d gotten called away to Bogotá that very same day, you’d put yourself to work keeping his place clean, going so far as to anticipate his return.

Everything had been fine.

Until, of course, you’d gotten the old Chevy serviced.

“Car’s running fine, señorita. Put that missing part back, s’good to go.”

“Missing part?”

“The spark plug—wasn’t in there when we looked.”

And the missing pieces fell into place.

How he’d waltzed into your car earlier on in the day, running his fingers along the hard, hot plastic of the dash—analyzing, observing, and finally commenting on your shitty engine. Then, he’d been conveniently there, waiting for you in the middle of the night, watching you wrestle your hood open in the parking lot after work. Hell, he took you to his place after he’d told you he'd seen a shady truck parked in front of yours… and you’d trusted him.

Without bothering to check for yourself, you’d trusted him.

You had to hand it to the man; it was a clever plan. Wear you down during the day only to corner you while alone, vulnerable, and at night, with no possible avenues for escape.

All to get inside your pants.

God.

Murphy huffs, bringing you back down to Earth. “Listen,” he rubs his temples, exhaustion weighing down the curves of shoulders, “We just want to make sure you’re safe. You don’t have to stay with him, either; Connie—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” you snap, narrowing your eyes in full view of his own. “I keep wondering, though... seeing as you're… thick as thieves, these days,” you lean forward over your desk, studying his swallow. “Was it you that shot off that gun? Or did he get someone else to participate in his little scheme?”

The agent tilts his head to the side, putting on the air of a wordless 'really, sweetheart?' before launching into a recitation of a sorely well-versed explanation.

But you cut him off, unforgiving in your suspicion. “Don’t bother, alright? Even if I did believe that, what, some 'cartel sicario'—” you emphasize the ridiculousness of the statement by tossing up a couple of well-timed air quotes “—was after me…?” and then you’re gesturing wildly to yourself, fingertips pointed straight to your heart. “I would rather die—really, seriously, die—than step foot into your home—or-or fucking Peña’s—Ever. Again.”

The mounting ire behind your breathless rambling finally wears him down; he surrenders his complexion to a look of genuine defeat. His arms drop to his sides, heavy and limp.

As you try to appear busy, fidgeting with the scattered papers and documents lying listlessly across your desk, Murphy turns on his heels, stooping toward the exit.

For a brief moment, he hesitates, coming to a slow halt halfway down his holy pilgrimage of freeing you from his fucking presence.

“Did you…” and he briefly trails off, anticipating your wrath with a wince. “Did you fill out that form?”

Irritation clouds your thoughts. Its manifestations in your body feel almost violent.

“What do you think, genius?”

You scare yourself with the aggression underpinning each and every word.

Inside the safety of your mind, your inner dialogue treats him even worse.

Go, motherfucker. Go, go, go, go, go or I’ll tear us both apart, I’ll explode, I’ll—

You hope that it’s Luck listening to your prayers (and not God), because as soon as your brain has time to register the nature of your wicked, near sacrilegious thoughts toward the man, Murphy’s yellow-dusted crown is drooping down in eventual resignation, leading the way as he trudges back to his corner.

A relief.

A short lived one.

Too short.

Because…

Well, because those fucking memories won’t stop replaying inside your mind, etched like crude Botticellis on the backs of your eyelids.

Overlaying the non-stop highlight reel of a vicious fight with Peña, just that morning—

“Well, I didn’t see a car. What I saw was you, whipping me over to your fuck-pad—and now? I see your whole... fucking masterplan to get me into bed.”

“You’re talking fuckin’ crazy. There’s no pussy in the world that’s worth pulling all that.”

—are flashes of his bare, glistening chest, an almost tangible haze of longing obscuring his eyes. You’d taken him in your mouth; you’d felt him all over: against you, with you, inside you.

And when you’re not seeing him, you’re forced to hear him, over and over and over again.

“You fuckin’ sing for me when you’re comin’ on my cock.”

So, you push certain memories away by calling on certain others, repeating every cruel word you’d ever exchanged with each other like a mantra, an affirmation.

They remind you of the man that Javier Peña truly was.

“You are the worst person I’ve ever had the shit-luck of meeting, Peña.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not too crazy about you, either. Got some serious growin’ up to do, sweetheart.”

A loud snap wrenches you back to your senses. You unfurl your fingers to reveal the broken remnants of a poor, innocent pencil you’d been white-knuckle-death-gripping.

What really had you ticking was that, after you’d hurled accusations and insults at him for the better part of an hour—totally monopolizing the space of the familiar, dusty old filing room—he’d had the nerve to continue on with his little act.

“You don’t have to stay with me—”

And his voice had been coated in poison, laced with the kind of fiery contempt that surely only a guilty man could achieve.

“—but do me a favour and just don’t be a fuckin’ idiot. It’s shit work, hiring new secretaries.”

He hadn’t waited around for an answer, leaving you alone with his final words and a mountain of your own unsaid ones.

So, you’d hissed a “fuck off” to the lingering ghost of his presence in the room, trying, in vain, to slow your shallow breaths.

You heave a sigh, forehead dropping to lay heavy against the desk.

If only you could take your brain out for the day. If only you could run it under cold water. Better yet, if only you could scrub it clean with bleach, put it in the dishwasher, run it with the damn laundry—anything to make it shiny and new and untainted.

Peña was lying.

He had to be lying.

What kind of shit sicario goes after secretaries who, beyond not knowing what they’re supposed to know about, don’t care enough to actually retain any of it?

Not a good sicario. Definitely not one who would still be alive in Medellìn, today.

It was all bullshit.

~

You weren’t the kind of person who attended work parties.

They always ran excruciatingly long. On top of that, you had to watch traumatized coworkers drink. A lot. Then, there was, of course, after-hours work-talk.

None of that had ever screamed 'best night ever!' to you.

Tonight, however, you hadn’t been given a choice: the ambassador had needed 'someone there, you know, just in case work stuff comes up’ which really meant that she was banking on you to give her a ride home at the end of the night.

Like that was happening. She hadn't been pleased when you'd made it clear to her that you were out of commission, off-the-clock, done-zo starting at fifteen to ten. You'd hoped that, at that point, she would've rescinded her original request. 

She hadn't. 

Still, Noonan had spent the week being remarkably kind to you—maybe her invitation was her (deeply misguided) way of trying to make up for the shit-storm she’d watched you face over past few days (whether she believed Peña’s dystopian, hitman fantasy was uncertain; either way, she’d witnessed your torment at his hands, and both realities seemed equally as emotionally taxing).

Despite all the hints you’d dropped about wanting the night off, she either hadn’t noticed, hadn’t cared, or thought you were just trying to be polite.

Come on.

She’d been your boss long enough to know there was no chance of you pussy-footing around out of politeness.

The event was meant to commemorate some big accomplishment—a narco sting gone right (or else, some big narco boss gone six-feet-under). The reason behind the festivities wasn’t of any importance to you—getting through the next few hours as quickly and as painlessly as possible took up all of the remaining (albeit limited) space in your head.

Because, afterwards? You were going out. 

A good friend’s bachelorette, a shit-ton of dark tequila, and the warm lips of a total stranger.

God, you needed that. Every intimate spot on your body was in desperate need of a cleanse. Your tongue, the soft skin between your thighs, the peach-fuzz on your cheeks…

They remembered him.

They made sure you couldn’t forget him.

About half-way through serving your sentence in regulatory purgatory, someone turns on the stereo. A Queen song—the one that everyone knows. You’re looking around, trying to locate the source of the sound.

It’s mostly administrative and political bodies crowding up the office's stuffy foyer. There’s an odd clink of glass meeting glass whenever someone new walks in, or else when a deal’s finally graduated beyond the negotiation stage.

It’s too highbrow, too boring and white-collar for restless DEA agents, you remind yourself.

Slowly, slowly the hours trickle by.

The music helps—every Diaz song has the minutes moving double-time.

And after what feels like centuries of excruciating small-talk, of brushing off endless, casual condescension, of staring at the clock hanging off the wall, finally, it’s time to go.

First, a last minute change (you’re not wearing a damn button-up to the bar—it’ll be a tight dress and cute shoes or absolutely nothing at all) and a quick refresher in the bathroom. Then, you’re trailing a bee-line towards the exit with 'home-free' on the tip of your tongue. 

Keep your head down. Nod. A chagrined smile to each pair of gawking eyes.

‘Cause soon? You’ll be dancing.

You’re straddling the office doors, left foot in, right foot out when an authoritative voice calls your name from behind.

Christ Almighty.

Turning slowly, you find yourself triangulated between Noonan and…

Fucking Steve Murphy.

That one looks apprehensive. The former?

A bit red in the face.

“Murphy, here,” the ambassador gestures sloppily towards the agent’s uneasy form, “Tells me he needs something. Papers, right? Think we can get that to him before you leave for your… little soirée—what do you say?”

She doesn’t catch it, but he does; your unbridled, aversive stare pierces him right between his eyes. Forcing it down (and oh, does it ever burn your throat) you etch a reluctant smile, nodding wordlessly to your boss.

God, if only money were an object. This damn job would be a short paragraph on your resume, a blip in your timeline on this Earth.

Noonan slaps Murphy on the back, harrumphing as though she’d just solved world hunger. Quickly, she finds someone new to accost (or be accosted by), swept into a different, equally-boring conversation before you can even begin to feel angry at her for putting you into such a… distasteful position.

And you whir on him.

Before the rush of accusations gets a chance to part from your lips, Murphy interrupts you, putting his hands up in mock surrender.

“I didn’t say a thing.” He sounds serious, sincere. “Swear. She came up to me and just… knew all about it.”

You narrow your eyes in suspicion. Nonetheless, your fingernails slowly retreat from their burrows in the skin of your palm.

It’s not because of his earnestness.

No.

It’s because only a serious maniac would flaunt their under-the-table bullshit so publicly, flying it right under the ambassador’s nose. Whatever those records were for (and whatever the reason why Peña and Murphy so badly needed them), it was becoming increasingly clear that they were not intended to land in either of their hands.

Murphy hadn’t been nervous because of you. He’d been nervous because of her. A little less drink, a bit more curiosity, and Noonan would've been privy to whatever it was that the pair was up to.

“Fine.”

He exhales, shoulders relaxing, dropping like stones with the release.

Without another word, you make your way down the hall, charging toward the alcove harboring your desk. Murphy trails behind, five feet back at all times like a recently-scolded school-child.

Good.

It takes a few, long minutes to get the job done.

He waits around anxiously, fiddling with your stationary (until you slap his hand away from your beloved pens and planners) and pacing around the room.

When it's done, you don’t read the form, you don’t investigate. The less you know, the better.

And frankly?

You couldn’t give less of a shit.

As the papers slide out of the printer, you warn him: “You’re gonna need a signature from their side, you know. I can only get you so far.”

He nods, taking the precious sheets in hand. “Think we got that side covered.” Then, he’s reading them over, checking to make sure everything's in order. You stand with your hand on your hip, waiting impatiently for his goddamn approval. After an eternity (really—by the end of it you’re genuinely wondering whether the man should get tested for dyslexia), Murphy hums in satisfaction, giving you an awkward, “Thanks, again.”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your half-exposed chest.

Didn’t even thank me a first time, asshole.

He spins around, aiming for the exit, when another body appears before him.

And the man stops Murphy in his tracks, deep-brown eyes trailing down to the packet of papers cradled between his partner's hands.

“Noonan came through, then.”

It’s all he says.

Your nostrils flare.

The skin on your face positively burns.

Of course it had been him. He was probably the entire reason behind the ambassador’s unusual tipsyness, too. Hell, he’d probably fed her Prosecco and half-compliments ‘til she’d been more than happy to do him a million favours.

Wasn’t that his M.O., anyways? ‘Get ‘em drunk and get my way?’

Three comfortable, familiar words find themselves sliding—easily—off your tongue.

“Fuck off, Peña.”

You surprise yourself with the cruelty of your tone, the biting emphasis of each word.

He settles his onyx eyes on you. They glaze over with hunger, with amusement, with danger.

Fuck.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, sweetheart—I will in a minute,” and he nods at his partner, effectively dismissing him.

Murphy hesitates, eyes jumping between the stand-off taking place before him. Likely, he was trying to decide which one of you was going to murder the other first.

Finally, with his beloved form tucked under his arm, Murphy heaves a sigh of resignation, and then he’s gone.

Leaving you alone with Peña.

The corners of his lips pull back into an arrogant smirk as his eyes rake over your body—done up, dressed down, and positively fuming in your little kitten heels.

“You look hot.”

It’s all he says.

Some girls would’ve killed to hear those words from him. You’d spent years watching their eyes trail his movements in the office, listening to their puling voices—'is Javi there?'—over the phone.

But it just makes you want to scream.

Fearing the actual possibility of that coming to fruition, you keep your mouth sealed shut. Tight.

Silence won’t do for Peña.

“What’d you tell me, once?” He muses softly, making his way towards your desk. “Somethin’ about this place not bein’ a… a what’d you call it? A brothel?”

Dog.

He yanks a retort from your lips as if he had full command over them. “I’m going out, asshole.”

His face twitches ever-so-slightly, just enough for you to catch the hint of emotion. Then, it’s gone.

“No, you’re not.”

Casual as ever, he does that thing: runs a finger from the corner of his bottom lip down the length of it, looks up at you through thick, dark eyebrows.

You bristle at the sheer, unwinding effect it has on you.

“Yes, I am.”

He raps his knuckles against the desk in irritation; nevertheless, his voice is soft, imploring as he persists. “C’mon, baby. I need you to listen to me, right now. It’s..." and he undresses you with a mere look, "It's not a good time for you to be goin’ to those kinds of places.”

Just like any other man.

Probably, Peña’s ego was so over-inflated that the mere thought of any of his conquests colluding with another man had him on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

Because God forbid you fuck anyone else.

God forbid you even think of touching anyone else.

And this strange, uncharacteristic possessiveness, this… need for control—it was wearing extremely thin.

The man had zero authority over you. He certainly didn’t get to preside over the choices you made during your free time.

“Don’t call me baby, Peña—I’m not your baby.” The snapped retort makes you sound so young, to the point where, for a moment,  you understand why the agent had called you a brat so many times that one, fateful night.

Still, you soldier on, focussed on freeing yourself from yet another one of the evening's grueling set-backs. “And I’m not gonna ‘listen to you’ just ‘cause you think you’ve got some sort of… machismo claim over me.”

A deft muscle in his jaw tenses. He rounds the desk, moving just a half-foot closer to you; that alone is enough to jump-start your heart, and you’re almost sure he can hear it, jack-hammering away inside your chest. You both know that being the first to step away signified weakness—concession—so you stay put (even when your legs yield to a slight wobble).

And he’s almost crooning. “You can spread those legs for half the country, for all I care, baby.” A condescending look, cast down at you over the bridge of his nose. “Not what this is about.”

Yeah, right.

“Please.” You roll your eyes. “Still working that angle?”

He takes a step forward. “Is it so crazy to think that I could just be tryna look out for you?” Meeting your gaze, he speaks earnestly—pleading through his irritation.

“I don’t need you to ‘look out for me’,” Your back grazes against the ambassador’s doors—you kick yourself internally for having subconsciously conceded to a back-step. “Especially not since the last time I thought that’s what this was?” your fingers gesture wildly between the (lack of) space separating your bodies, “You totally took advantage of me.”

A pause as the agent fluctuates from bafflement to genuine offense.

“Took adv—are you being serious?” he scoffs, shaking the coarse, dark hair on his crown. “I gave you, like, one drink.”

Victory courses through your veins at the sudden, intense flood of irritation marking his tone, the vein popping in his jaw. 

Anything to get to him, to make him tick, to scratch that itch. 

Dig. Dig. Dig.

A shrug. “Maybe you put something in it.”

His eyebrows jump up, eyes widening with the movement.

Just. So. Close.

“And… you know, I am a lot younger than you—”

“—okay, enough.”

Peña’s growled response has your voice fizzling out into nothingness. Closing what’s left of the distance between you, muscled form looming, he flattens you against the ambassador’s office doors. As one large hand slowly splays out next to your ear, the other comes up to grasp your chin. His fingers wrap around your jawbone, all the way from one ear to the other. 

You’re stuck, frozen under the weight of that dominant leer.

“Y’know,” he muses, deep and low, “It’s really fuckin’ obvious what all this is actually about, sweetheart.” Trapped in his glare, you watch his eyes grow dark, his gravelly voice falling into a register you’d never before heard it descend to. And he’s so, so close to you, close enough that you can smell him: that distinct, earthy scent of man that never failed to have your head spinning, your arms weak. “This… highschool bullshit you’ve been pullin’ since I got back… accusin’ me of all kinds of shit—"

You deny yourself the pleasure of looking at his lips when his words withdraw into an almost-whisper.

“Makes you feel real innocent, doesn’t it?

You don’t respond, concentrating on stifling the growing ache in your core, the thump-thump-thumps inside your rib cage, the lump forming in your throat.

A rarity, a miracle, Jesus turning water into wine: words fail you. 

“Know what I think, cariño?” His fingernails press into your cheeks, digging soft indents. Not to bruise—

To hold you steady.

To assure himself of his command over your full, devoted attention.

When he finally continues, his smoky breath raises the hairs along your exposed skin.

God, it must be, like, nine-hundred degrees in the room.

“I think”—and he’s toying with you, near-black eyes dancing with amusement—“You’re just embarrassed.”

Leaning in, his lips brush against the ridges of your ear, slow words washing over you in big, heavy waves. “‘Bout how easy it was for me to get between these legs.” Male, calloused fingers ghost over the skin of your thighs, creeping higher and higher up the length of your body.

“Remember how wet you got for me, cariño? Beggin’ me to fuck you so rough?”

And for a brief, suspended moment—

You do.

He leans back enough for you to watch his eyes harden, uttering an “I remember it all, baby,” as his thumb leaves your jaw to trace the highest point of your cheekbone.

And his tone turns to stone. 

“Especially when you’re acting like you need a fuckin’ reminder.”

Your cheeks grow red-hot. The ground feels unsteady under your feet—and the spell breaks.

Pig.

“You’re fucking vile, Peña,” you spit, wrenching his grip off your face. “And also, dead wrong.” Slamming into his shoulder, you aim to storm out.

He catches your arm, twisting you back around to face him. “If you go out tonight,” the man near-growls, lecturing down at you like a damn parent, “You’re putting your life and everyone else's on the line.”

You tear your wrist from his fingers, shrugging off his empty warning with a dramatic spin on your heels.

Strutting out, you leave him with a poison-coated, “Say ‘hi’ to the whores for me.”

And you’re gone.

~

It’s loud. Your feet are sore from dancing in your heels. A different, unfamiliar body is in reach in every possible direction from your own.

It’s perfect.

Five shots in and you still feel like you could take more, if only to forget the exhausting events of the day.

Less than 48 hours ago you’d been prepared—dear God, longing—to hand yourself over to a man you were now quite happy to never see again. With your hands wrapped around a stranger’s neck, you’re determined to cleanse yourself of his lingering traces.

He’s gazing down at you, male, hungry eyes gunning for the taking. Local, you guess, or at the very least South-American. After a daring look, you grab him by the collar, brushing your starved lips against his.

“Want to get out of here?”

The pronunciation isn’t great—but it does the trick. He nods enthusiastically, allowing you to take his hand in your own without hesitation. Too easy. The hard part is weaving through the agitated, bustling crowd with your nameless partner in tow.

It’s reckless. It’s stupid. But God, is it ever necessary.

Escaping your friends at the start of the night had been child’s play, and they could be counted on to be too fucked-up at this hour to notice your absence, anyway.

Good.

Your act of desperation would be remembered solely by its participants.

A gentle evening wind swirls around your tingling body, the day’s heat hanging thick in the air as you step onto the street, the syncopated thumps of Latin music fading unwillingly into the background.

Pivoting abruptly, you flatten yourself against the wall outside, pulling the stranger in close by the fabric of his blue button-up.

“Yours or mine?”

He smirks, gentle lines forming by his golden eyes. Internally, you commend yourself: the catch was quite pretty.

“Here is okay, I think.”

Then, his lips are on yours, parting you open in a sloppy, drunk kiss.

This could work.

His traveling hands already seem to be numbing some of the tension simmering under your skin.

This could work.

His rough kisses overwhelm your senses, slowly filling the hollow ache lodged at the heart of your core.

Please, God—let this work.

Just as a hand reaches up to cradle the back of your neck—

(let this work, let this work, let this work)—

Just as a pleased moan travels from your lungs into his own—

Tires screech against the pavement, slamming you back into your body, wrenching you straight into the dire moment. Tearing your lips from the stranger’s, you peer over his shoulder, eyes widening at the sight of a black Camino screaming to a stop right before you. Time stops; the windows are down, and what you know to be the barrel of a hand-gun pokes out from the backseat.

“Get down!”

Maybe it's in your head (after all, it would make sense for your psyche to summon his voice in a moment so violent); or maybe it's real. Either way, you listen to the command, hitting the ground without any reservations. And those stupid heels—you stumble, face-planting onto the pavement, scraping every exposed part of your body against hot, rough cement.

A cry of terror rips from your throat as the sound of bullets punctuates the warm, summer night—Jesus, it’s louder than anything you’d ever heard before. 

Somewhere along the chaos, the pretty stranger from the bar books it down the calle.

Everything happens so fast. A familiar Cherokee veers in the way, separating you from the attackers. The surrounding air becomes rife with lead, a terrified chorus of male and female voices joining the symphony, and you really can’t tell whether the pain in your chest is from the friction of your own harmonizing screams or if it’s bullets tearing through your body. From the ground, you watch your attackers’ vehicle take off down the street, haphazardly parting crowds of cowering civilians in its wake.

When it all stops, it doesn’t really stop.

Violence persists, ringing in your ears like a doomsday clock going off, an A-bomb alarm siren. The echoes are happy to prolong your torment.

The Jeep’s passenger door swings open. You scramble back, scampering down the pavement as adrenaline claims you in never-ending rushes.

“Get inside, now.”

You nearly sob with relief at the familiar voice. It hadn't all been in your head. Jumping up on unstable legs, you lunge into his car, jerking the door shut behind you.

Without sparing a moment, his white-knuckled hands yank the wheel to the side, veering onto a road just off the main strip.

Javier Peña’s never looked so stressed.

“You’re not gonna follow them?” It comes out as a cry, a desperate plea for retribution.

He doesn’t answer.

Which doesn’t stop you.

You want to see them punished for making you feel so helpless, and for the scrapes and bruises decorating your elbows, your knees, your palms.

“Javi,” a begging king of shout, “Why aren’t we following them?”

“‘Cause you’re in the fucking car!”

In the heat of the moment, the cutting edge of his harsh tone doesn’t bother you. If anything, it’s gentle compared to the violent sensations stewing within your body and mind.

“So?”

He takes a sharp right, slamming your side against the Jeep’s hard interior.

“Been in enough…” He grits his teeth, trying to keep his irritation in check, “Compromising situations tonight, alright? Now, just shut up ‘n let me drive.”

You pipe down, not awfully interested in getting yelled at again in your fragile state.

At first, it feels like the full-body trembles wracking your entire being won’t ever cease. And yet, by the grace of God, after a few minutes, the thundering behind your ribcage slowly subsides.

It helps that you’re still a little buzzed.

It especially helps when his driving slows and the streets begin to empty—when the shops and houses become more and more recognizable, when the night grows more and more tame.

You know where he’s headed. The safety of the intended destination has you relaxing, finally level enough to take deep breaths.

Eventually, he stops the car, cutting the engine in full view of his building's front door.

The rumbling stops, and suddenly, it's very quiet. Javier groans, leaning back against his seat, bringing a hand up to his temples. He doesn’t look at you, keeping his eyes closed behind the palm of his hand.

And oh.

He’s pissed.

“Go inside, lock the door, don’t open it for anyone.” His command, though dripping with ire, is underpinned with genuine concern. When you don’t respond, he finally shifts his gaze to meet yours, fixing you with an intimidating, severe kind of stare.

“Do you understand?”

At first, your impulse is to respond with a bitchy retort, to meet his intensity head-on with your own brand of unpleasantness. You stifle that reflex, taking stock of the situation at hand: Peña had just saved you from a flurry of bullets.

Peña… had just saved you…

And the realization hits you like a punch to the gut.

He’d been telling the truth.

Someone was really after you. Twice, now, they'd tried to take your life.

And, still? Your addled brain can’t seem to wrap itself around the idea of Peña’s innocence. Your bursting question takes you both by surprise.

“So, you didn’t take my spark plug?”

He stares at you, full mouth parted in genuine bewilderment. Then, he scoffs, breathing an exhausted exhalation. “No, I didn’t take your damn spark plug, sweetheart. That’s what I’ve been saying. If you’d bothered to actually fuckin’ listen for once in your life…” he shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, “‘Could’ve avoided all… this.”

Shame tries its best to seep into your core. You resist it, scrambling for reasons to justify your actions to him.

To yourself.

You hated being wrong. That feeling had a tendency of overwhelming everything else—of overriding rationality, itself.

So, you turn to a classic defense, an ol' reliable: deflection. “After all the shit you’ve put me through over the years, can you blame me for not, just like, blindly trusting you?”

He scowls, angling his shoulders to square off with your own.

“Never asked for you to ‘blindly trust’ shit, though, did I?” He huffs, “Jesus.” 

You try not to wince as he continues on, as the truth of his words and the seriousness of his delivery render you mute. “You’re a secretary, sweetheart. This is my job—my life—okay? When I tell you to be careful, for the sake of your own damn good, you need to listen to me.”

There’s a long pause as his words tease out your final, entangled threads of resistance.

He was right. You’d been stupid in your denial, putting yourself and dozens of others in danger.

Putting Javi in danger.

It takes everything you have to fight the tears threatening to well along your lashes. But there's no sense in allowing yourself to mourn your mistakes—at least not at this very moment.

No, now was not the time to work through your shame.

Now was the time to seek forgiveness.

To make amends.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, trying to catch his downcast eyes. 

And it’s true.

Javi shakes his head, resisting your apology. He says nothing, and your heart aches for him.

Whatever this man was—he hadn’t deserved a fraction of the hell you’d given him.

The hell you’d given him because…

Because he’d gotten close. Too close. Close enough to soften you, to see you in a way that not one single person had the right to. He’d been a novelty: the first man you’d trusted enough to be capable of handling the full breadth of yourself. And when that had started to feel volatile—as though he’d gained too much of you?

Well, you’d needed a reason to push him away. To wrench yourself back from him.

Because you’d been embarrassed.

Knowing that he’d been right about that, too, makes you feel so small, so young, and deeply naive.

Immature.

You lean over, crooning at his turned profile.

“I mean it, Javi.” His name is your weapon—you will it to wear him down—a reminder of what it sounds like leaving your lips. “I’m sorry.”

Again, silence.

It’s fucking unbearable.

Placing an unsteady hand on his knee, you trail it up his thigh—slowly. His chest hitches with the force of a deep, sharp inhale and yet, he still refuses to meet your gaze.

But you catch his reflection in the glass: a slight twinge of the eyebrows, a delicate parting of the lips, and a hint of longing within those furious eyes.

Wiggle room.

“Could you ever forgive me?” You ask timidly, seductively, fingers creeping towards the crease of his trousers and that big silver buckle looming right above it.

Finally, he turns, his expression meeting yours with a hungry (albeit still deeply annoyed) look.

That wanting you’d learned to recognize…

It excites you.

And as you tug at his belt, releasing it with tantalizing slowness, you keep your steady gaze on his undecided one, uttering a pleading, “I can make it up to you, baby.”

Wordlessly, he watches your fingers move to the button of his pants, then to his fly, working with dedication, with delicate care.

There’s movement as you reach your fingers underneath the fabric. He grows hard for you, burgeoning out of the fabric in a matter of seconds.

It’s all the invitation you could’ve possibly hoped for.

His skin is hot against your knuckles as they slide down his lower abdomen. Grasping the base of his cock, you use two hands to spring him free.

God, he’s even bigger than how you’d remembered him—bigger than even your guiltiest fantasies.

Javi groans softly when you pull him, releases a hot, shallow breath when you stroke him, and a low, breathy “fuuuck” when you finally, finally take him in your mouth.

He tastes like the salt of the ocean. This close, you can smell men's cologne mingling with sweat.

It’s heaven.

And you just don’t want him to be angry anymore. It’s all you can think about—lips cradled adoringly around his cock, tongue running up and down the long length of him—as he throws his head back in pleasure.

He eventually relaxes, conceding to the ecstasy you persuade him with. Almost drinking the uncertainty—the resistance—right out of him.

“Christ,” he groans, tangling his fingers in your hair, forcing you to take in every last inch of him. “Wanted to shut you up like this all fuckin’ day.”

It becomes a challenge to breathe, but air simply isn’t a priority with a man like him at your fingertips, as your responsibility. This, he knows, his heavy hand determining the slow, careful pace, the impossible depth, and the angle of your unspoken apology.

Growing wet and lightheaded at the same time, you loose a moan against his velvety skin.

Javi laughs, darkly. “Always got somethin’ to say, huh? Even with a mouth full of cock.”

You smile around him—taunts are good. Better than silence, anyways. “Mhmm.”

The sounds of his laughter rumbles soft and low throughout his middle—so different, so sweet and innocent compared to the wet, filthy ones produced by your mouth’s ministrations.

You give him everything you have, ignoring the droplets forming in the corners of your eyes and lips, the dull burning inside your lungs. When the tip of his cock lodges at the back of your throat, you keep him there.

Whatever Javi gives you, you take.

Happily.

Every last drop would find its home inside you, traveling down the length of your tongue and into all of your warmest places.

It was the least you could do for him.

But he has other plans. His hand bunches up your hair, tightening into a fist to pull you off of him. His cock pops out from between your lips; you’re guided up to face him.

He looks stern.

Dangerous.

Out of breath, tears sliding down your cheeks, lips glistening with the slick of your own spit—you’re a welcome sight to any man of his kind.

“Say it.”

He makes use of his free hand, wiping the coarse pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, clearing the string of saliva collecting there.

It’s not rocket science, figuring out what it is that the man wants to hear.

“I’m sorry, Javi.”

Neither of you had ever known how much an apology could sound like a prayer.

“Yeah?” Despite the gentleness of his tone, his eyes darken with lust to the point that you feel genuinely nervous about his intentions. “What are you so sorry for, hermosa?”

Fuck, the pet-names... the way his voice changed when reverting to its native tongue—rolling with confidence. At such an awkward angle, you’re forced to grip onto his forearms to keep balance. They feel strong and unbending beneath your fingertips. 

Everything… everything about him draws you in.

He just makes you crazy.

Crazy enough to smile, to turn your profile to the side, laying a long, careful kiss to his palm. Crazy enough to answer his question in a needy, whiney whisper: “for being such a brat.”

He almost smiles, near-black eyes dancing with hunger, with approval, with a playful kind of ire.

Jerking his head to the right, he gestures to the backseat. “Wanna show me how sorry you are, cariño?”

You’re nodding before the question really even registers.

He releases his hold on you, deft fingers quickly untangling from your hair.

Victory. Victory. Victory.

Then, you’re stumbling out of the passenger side, opening the door to the backseat.

(You take a second to commend yourself for driving a man so wild, making him so impatient that he couldn’t be bothered to walk the ten feet required to fuck you inside his apartment. Or, maybe he just liked letting the neighbours watch.)

Before you can even step foot inside the car, you’re being hauled by your upper arms onto Javi’s lap. He manhandles you into his desired position, spreading your knees around his thighs until your dress is hitched up, only covering your ass half-way.

After snaking a hand between your bodies, the agent runs his thumb down the slick fabric of your underwear.

Already, you’re holding back a slew of pathetic whines.

“Next time you give me head”—God, the feeling of those fingers against your clit, the bliss of them pushing your panties to the side, assessing your readiness for him—“Wanna be able to see that pretty mouth while my dick’s inside it, sweetheart.”

His lust has him speaking a bit out of breath. It makes every crude, filthy word sound sweet, almost endearing to you.

Nodding in response, you work with him—lowering yourself onto his fingers as he pushes them between your folds.

“Jesus Christ,” he smiles, head falling back in appreciation, “You’re soaked.”

His fingers curl up, pressing to please in all the right places. Your answer arrives between gasps: “You tasted good.”

That pleases him.

“Yeah?” and he’s dragging his digits out of you, letting them trail through your folds and along your heavy, sore clit before leaving you wanting, leaving that needy cunt clenching around nothing. “I bet you taste even better.”

Then, his grip is on your jaw, pressing damp spots into your skin under his index, middle, and ring fingers. With the pad of his thumb pressed firmly to your bottom lip (and the row of teeth behind it), Javi eases your mouth open, wider and wider and wider for him.

“Show me—show me how good you taste.”

His index crawls onto your tongue. You close your lips around it, sucking him in until his fingernail scratches the back of your throat. He wants to be shown, so you show him: gazing intently into his eyes, you watch his brow furrow as he studies your every movement, as he drinks in your every moan.

“Fuckin' hell,” he groans, commending your efforts. “You’d do anything I asked right now, wouldn’t you, hermosa?”

Your bottom teeth graze the undersides of his index as you pull off—“yes, Javi.” Almost instinctively, you’re reaching your hand down, letting it coast down the hardness of his chest to rub circles around the slick tip of his cock, still peeking out from his open fly.

“Not yet,” he clicks his tongue, pushing his index, and this time, his middle and ring, too, back through the opening of your lips, “Need to clean yourself off every one of these fingers, first—thaaat’s right.” You listen, obediently sucking everything he gives you. He instructs and praises, “easy—easy, cariño, there it is,” as he watches you glide up and down him in slow, big pulls, all the way down to his knuckles.

It’s fucking filthy, and he loves it, unable to keep that arrogant smirk off of his face.

He’s practically in paradise, coming up with a mental list of creative ways to shut you up.

Still, Javi allows you to multitask: all the while, your fingers continue to explore the exposed parts of his cock. Only when he’s satisfied, when his length couldn’t possibly get any harder—only then does he free your mouth, letting his damp fingers trail down the side of your neck.

The feeling sends a shiver up your spine.

Without warning, he yanks down the straps of your dress and bra, pulling them all the way down until you’re postured on his lap, chest fully exposed; his abrupt movement has you loosing a stunned "Javi!" He runs his palms over the most sensitive peaks of your breasts, a hungry smile teasing the corners of his lips.

Then, he shrugs. “Told you last time I wanted to see them. Got the prettiest fuckin’ tits, hermosa.”

You don’t have time to roll your eyes, to laugh, or to really even register the vulgarity of his words, nor the taunting, degrading way they’re delivered to you. Javi’s already holding both you and himself up in one arm (and, oh, how you’d simply ached for the feel of his strength) pulling down the waistband of his pants. He maneuvers you into the proper position to receive him in, two pairs of downcast eyes watching his cock spring free, tip curving in, grazing against the fabric of his shirt.

He rushes, but it still feels torturously slow. You’re craving, needing, as he uses the dark head of his cock to ease your ruined underwear to the side, guiding himself towards your dripping opening.

This time, he’s far too impatient to make you beg for it.

Ecstasy forces your back into an arch as he pushes himself between your walls, as you feel him filling you up, up, and up—wordless mouth falling open, your heavy head collapses aaall the way back.

Immediately, a hand is at the back of your skull, forcing your gaze back downwards. “No, no, no, baby, you let me see—let me see you when you ride,” and his voice is a little strained, a little desire-stricken, a little bit softer as he settles his every last inch inside your cunt.

Your irises could be forest fires as you set your sights on his own, seeing nothing, absolutely nothing but Javier in that moment.

Moving your hips in tandem, you set your pace.

Mother Mary—it’s hard, so fucking hard to keep your legs steady when he stretches you open—wide fucking open—and as his head grazes that spongy spot inside.

He doesn’t help, either. In fact, while your hands dig anchors into his shoulders (sometimes his chest, his neck, his waist) just to keep yourself upright, his own are trailing up to the pocket of his shirt, pulling out a pack of smokes.

You mewl softly at the heat building inside your cunt, loosing an indignant whine as Javi neglects his responsibilities toward your climax.

“Gave me such a hard time today, baby,” he muses, placing a cigarette between his fingers and tossing the rest aside, “Wanna hear a fuckin’ ‘thank you Javi’ every time you come.”

His words dance around you like streetlights passing in the night, barely registering inside your disintegrating mind. How could they? With the feeling of his thighs grazing the undersides of your own, the buttons of his shirt nudging against your aching clit… how could anything else even exist?

All you can give him is an “Mhm.”

He pulls a lighter out, smirking. “‘Tough-talker ‘til this pussy’s all full, huh?”

“I-I’m sorry, baby, I’m s-sorry.”

And he laughs. “Don’t say it, cariño,” he takes your hand, placing the light inside your fist. “Fuckin’ show me.”

He rolls his hips. Your weight collapses against his chest.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, pushing you off, straightening you up before placing the cigarette between his lips, “Aaall you gotta do is light up the tip. You got it, sweetheart.”

His hands travel down to your ass, giving it a rough squeeze before his fingers splay out. He spreads you open over his thighs, watching the etchings of your lust corrupt your expression as he fucks himself—slow, deep, hard strokes—inside you.

“Fu—please, Javi—I can’t, s’too much, baby—please—”

A smile, full lips parting around the dart. “S’wrong, baby?” The words are low, breathy, teasing, contorting around the smoke in his mouth. “Can’t focus?”

God, just make him happy.

It’s the only thought you seem to be able to form. His request doesn’t seem to be up for debate, either.

So, summoning every last bit of control still lingering inside you, you bring a trembling hand up to the unlit end, a string of moans and ‘Javi’s rising from your throat.

And fuck, he’s beautiful, brimming with playful passion, orange filter hanging off those pretty pink lips.

Trying to still yourself, you flick the lighter on—the flame dances between you, illuminating the expansive darkness lurking inside his gaze. It takes everything, everything you have left to light it for him, to make that white tip glow red hot, to stay steady enough, to keep from burning him.

And also, to hold your pace. That grip of steel wrapped around your hip serves as a constant reminder—

Keep taking it.

In those final moments, he picks up his pace, of course. Your simmering blood bubbles to a boil, the flutters inside your cunt graduating into pulsing throbs.

As the flame finally takes, you feel every muscle inside your core tense—when Javi inhales his first drag, you straddle the precipice of your orgasm.

Your weight falls onto his shoulder. One of his arms reaches up to ash the cigarette; the other wraps tightly around you, bouncing you against him as exhales a cloud of smoke into your hair.

“Baby—Javi, I’m coming, I’m coming, I'm c—”

Heat builds between your thighs, and as that bundle of nerves grows heavy, pulsing with the rush of your orgasm, his thrusts only deepen.

He pulls you in close.

“I know, cariño,” Javi coos, condescending into the shell of your ear, basking in the feel of your cunt near-strangling him in adoration. “Can feel you, y’know? Got such a grateful lil' pussy,” he places a kiss to the side of your neck, groaning against the soft skin. “Always lets me know how much you love having my cock buried inside it.”

As he speaks, you try to catch your breath. To come down from your high.

It doesn’t work. Not while his hips continue to grind against yours, not while cradled between his arms like his holy beloved, and especially not with his tip still pressing against every available, wanting spot on your walls.

Javi takes another long drag from the dart. “What do you say when you come, baby?”

A big, laboured inhale, and the words come out in one, rushed exhalation. “Thank you, Javi.”

He responds with a downright cocky laugh. “You’re welcome, cariño. Good girl.”

The praise… it makes you melt.

Tangling his fingers in your hair, nails grazing the skin of your scalp, he pulls you off of his chest. Your heavy breaths mingle together in the stale heat of the Jeep Cherokee. 

You buck up, doing your best to keep pleasing him as he studies your devoted movements, as he leans back against the seat—groaning.

His hand—often glued to your rolling hip—provides you with only a mere hint of stability.

“That guy you were with,” he takes a drag from his cigarette, using his free hand to toy with one of your peaked nipples. “At the bar. You’d’ve done this for him?”

Your lips part, but no sound crosses the threshold of your lips. You’re dazed—still coming—and building to yet another peak. His unwillingness to move starts to ground you; the long length of every hard muscle beneath his arms, the round, bulging ridges of his shoulders… they become your salvation, places to lay your weight into. Riding him becomes second nature: you’re attuned to his rhythm and the desperate, commanding desires of your body.

Suddenly, you’re a part of him; when he exhales, the smoke creeps out of his lungs and into your own.

You burn right along with it.

He drops the still-smoking cigarette onto the seat next to your entangled bodies, bringing both his hands to rest against your dampened skin. One comes down hard, delivering a quick, harsh slap to your ass.

It would leave a mark.

“Tell me. Use that pretty mouth, hermosa. ‘Know you know how—used it—ran it all fuckin’ day.” Javi grunts, angling to bend over you, pushing into your guts as he wraps you in his arms, finally taking the burden of your weight off of your scraped up, wobbling knees. He continues on, “Tonight, too—been so easy, baby, lettin’ me put anything I want in there like a good lil' slut,” drinking in your cry of pleasure. He almost says it to himself, eyebrows furrowing as he reminisces, as your cunt begins to throb around his hardening cock once more. “You'd've done that for him, cariño?”

You swallow, trying to clear the stars dancing before your eyes, and that fuzzy sound of static. It muffles the symphony of Javi’s hoarse breaths, your own, helpless cries, and the filthy sound of skin colliding with—grinding against—skin.

He quickens, now, using you like a damn toy. Every rough thrust brings you closer to heaven; every ardent, breathtaking squeeze of his arms around your middle feels like angels sighing.

“No,” you breathe, closing your eyes. Your arms cling around his neck, fingers fanning through his thick hair—everything is him, him, him. He leans forward again, ducking down to kiss the hollow of your throat; you pull him in faithfully, moaning softly at the feel of his lips, his teeth under the valley under your jaw. “Only you.” It sounds like worship, sliding up an octave as that low ache worsens, as he compells a second climax out of your already-quivering body. “Only you, Javi.”

He growls, lips dragging up to your ear as the hairs of his mustache tease your cheekbone. “Prove it,” he breathes, deep thrusts growing even more erratic— needier, sloppier. You can barely hear him over your own noises, but he continues his gravelly coos inside your ear nonetheless. “Gimme another one, baby—wanna feel you comin' on my cock when I fill you up so fuckin' full, baby—show me that you’re mine—z’this pussy mine, hermosa?”

“Yesyesyes—oh God, y-yes—m’yours, Javi, y—”

Your legs seize as yet another release tears through your body. The skin of his neck anchors you in place, and you hang off of him like a rosary, digging your fingernails into the warmth of his flesh with every ounce of strength at your disposal.

He fucks you through your second climax, headed straight for his own.

“S-such a good girl, cariño—f-fuck—” Arms, wrapped around your waist, tighten enough to snap you in two as Javi crushes you against his chest, using the momentum of your entire, shaking body to finish himself off. He comes with a grunted “s-shit”—and you pay attention, wanting to commit the divine sound to memory. Swelling between your silken walls, Javi spills everything he could possibly give inside you.

A final, abrupt thrust, married with the non-stop, involuntary clench-and-release of your cunt works to cover every square inch of you with him.

When it’s over, the man refuses to let you part from him (not that you had any real desire to do so, anyway). A big, shaking hand keeps your head cradled in the firm crook of his neck, and he slowly, slowly  softens inside you. He basks in the final, weak flutters of your cunt as you lose yourself in the smell of his cologne.

His heart hammers in his chest. You can hear it with your ear pressed to his neck. Going limp, your damp forehead rolls onto the hard roundness of his shoulder.

That aching, sore opening soaks the skin of his thighs. You shiver softly, dripping onto the base of his shaft.

“Say it, cariño,” Javi murmurs, laying a rough kiss to your temple. He runs his hands up and down your bare spine, fingers dancing along your sticky skin.

You loose a breathy laugh against his golden skin. “Thank you, Javi.”

And you pull back just in time to catch his genuine smile.

It fucking melts you. Adoration, pride… spreading like tree-roots under rich, forest soil throughout your still-heaving chest.

He rubs the pads of his thumbs under your eyes, wiping clean some of the going-out makeup that had no-doubt become a total, leaking mess.

“‘Pretty when you’re nice, y'know,” he mutters, moving to cup your cheeks between his warm, hardened palms. And then he pauses, reconsidering his words. “But fuckin’ hot when you’re mean.”

A breathy giggle. “What can I say,” you whisper, trailing a few appreciative fingers up and down his forearms. “You bring out the very best in me, Peña.”

He scoffs, but smiles all the while.

Off in the distance, there’s music. Sounds of debauchery and excitement travel through the warm summer air, audible even through the closed windows. The night is alive for the rest of the city; somewhere far, far away, an engine growls, rubber tires squealing against the pull of hard pavement.

It takes him away.

Javi grasps your shoulders, pushing you up and back to effectively slide you off of his half-soft length. “I’ll wait for you to get inside,” he says, yanking his pants back up over his hips, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Make sure you lock the door, alright?”

Pause. 

What?

“You’re leaving?” You mirror him, hastily rearranging yourself—skinny straps find their way back above your shoulders, your short dress finds itself yanked down to its rightful place.

It’s awkward work, given the confines of the space.

The agent slips out from underneath you. He opens the door, rising from the backseat and straightening up with a groan. “Think I know where he was going,” he responds, mostly to himself. “I’m only, what…” a flip of his wrist as he checks the time, “Thiiiiiirty? Thirty-five minutes behind him?”

Before you know it, you’re bristling with irritation.

Again.

You throw your heels down on the street, unceremoniously shoving a cramping foot in each one. “Don’t be an idiot, Peña,” and you try your hand at standing, buckling slightly on a pair of Jell-o legs.

He comes around to your side, steadying you on your feet. Reflected in his deep-brown eyes is the same annoyance flashing across your own gaze. “D’you just expect me to be there, sweetheart? Z’that it? Every time your ass needs saving?”

Shame heats the soft skin of your cheeks. Your eyes trail down to the ground, volatile, incomprehensible emotions building with every passing second.

“It won’t happen again—I won’t-I won’t be so stupid, or-or—I won’t go out, anymore.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, well, that’s nice 'n all, but it’s sure as shit not gonna change anything.”

When you don’t respond, when you don’t look up, his edges soften. “They went to your house, sweetheart.” With his hands on your shoulders, he implores you to see sense. “It’s either we get them or they… get you.”

You exhale, hard. “You’re being dramatic.”

That does it for him.

After an exasperated shake of his head, he’s grabbing your hands in his own, placing a set of keys in the cradle of your palm.

His tone is low, demanding, unbending. “Lock the doors.”

Then, he’s turning to leave, walking to the front of the Cherokee.

Before rounding the corner, he turns his hardened profile to the side. The glare of the building’s lights dance on his tanned skin, turning the whole scene into a sort of lucid dream.

“Y’know, you’re really starting to piss me off with this whole… utopian fantasy you’re livin’ in.” He barely even addresses you, mumbling the rest of his sentiment mostly to himself. “I’m fuckin’ tired of being the only one looking out for you.”

Utopian fantasy?

You try to dismiss him—to call him ridiculous, to throw yourself into the familiar task of poking holes in his arguments—but… you can’t. Over and over, his words rush you in waves: “the only one looking out for you” “utopian fantasy” “the only one looking out for you” “utopian—”

Suddenly, you’re on a different street. In the same clothes, and in the same body, but somewhere far, far away, facing a different man. It’s somewhere very loud, where tires and knees come to a screeching stop against cement, where the downbeat of every Latin measure is punctuated by the sound of a bullet, inscribed with your initials, ripping through the static summer air.

Panic hits you like a bolt of lightning.

It doesn’t go away, either.

Not even once you’re back on Javi’s street, fossilized in amber, watching him move to the driver’s side of his Jeep.

All the fear you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel…

You’d forced him to shoulder it for you, instead.

But, inevitably, what goes around comes around. And he’s dropped your burden right back onto you with a few well-timed words.

Truth bares itself to you, settling heavy atop your bones like an ancient, primal wound. The result is a pair of unsteady legs, a perennial tremor in both, white-knuckled hands, and a crackling voice, resisting use.

“Javi…”

Only when you hear the sound of your own terror echoed back to you do you permit yourself to cry.

And there you stand. Disheveled, confused, broken—clothing misplaced, ruined, broken—

And you just don’t want him to leave.

Not now.

Not when you need him.

Not when you need someone.

Not when you think you’ve finally got it figured out, and especially not when you’re so damn close to speaking it into existence.

Realization. Acknowledgement. Expression.

It’s not a customary pattern, in your experience.

Javi stops in his tracks, stunned to a halt at the sheer emotion in your plea.

It stings when you clear your throat. “I just…” and you falter, strange, unfamiliar words sticking to your throat, sickly-sweet dried honey. Each vowel reverberates back to you, amplified by the acoustics of the empty street and their novelty.

Still, you’re not quite sure how he’s able to hear you, given that you can only bring yourself to speak a handful of decibels above a damn whisper.

“I’ve just never been important, Peña.”

You wipe a self-conscious hand across your face, clearing the sea-salt from below your downcast eyes.

Before you’re able to put a stop to it—it all comes rushing out. Averting his gaze, you ramble on in agitation.

“Not beyond being a-a pair of hands to make fucking photocopies—or as the butt of some sort of “prissy receptionist” joke or even just as some—as-as a kind of fucking challenge to men—men like you, Javier—because I… well, because I’m mean, and I-I guess it’s just fun for everyone to see how far they can take it before—before I…” You give your head a fervent shake, trying to reel yourself back in, trying to close off the monologue.

But the cracks had formed, and with nowhere to go, the mounting pressure of the seven seas washes away the rest of your weakened dam.

The agent can't even get a word in.

“Anyways, that’s-that's not the point. The point is that it just… it didn’t seem possible that anyone in this whole fucking country would even think twice about me—even if it was just to… to kill me…”

A lump forms, lodging behind your larynx.

You start to rush.

“So I really am sorry that I acted like such an asshole, but none of this makes a fucking lick of sense to me—I’m-I’m a secretary, for fuck’s sakes—I’m nothing, no one, I’m not—” and then you’re frantic—

The gunshots, the tires, the music, the spark plug, a Camino—

“Just please, don’t go, don’t—I-I know you’re mad, just—please, just don’t—”

It’s impossible to catch your breath. Every heaved sob racks your lungs, shaking you all the way down to your buckling knees.

You want to turn, to run and hide, to fling yourself into oncoming traffic—anything to end the interminable humiliation you couldn’t seem to keep from putting on display in front of Javier Peña.

And shit. No man could see a woman in the same way after this. No man would care for a woman like this, destroyed and pathetic and—

“Oh, cariño—”

And he’s there.

Those arms—so used to taking—they wrap you up, pulling you into the heat of his body, protecting you from the pointed echoes of laughter and song breezing through the night air. Those hands, the ones that bruised, slapped, grabbed—they hold—the right unburdens you of your oppressive weight, pressed flat against the small of your back. His left cradles the back of your head, laying your temple to the side of his throat.

“You’ve always been important to me, sweetheart.”

His soft murmurs tumble down your spine. That smoky breath envelops you; it reminds you of those blankets in the movies—the ones that the firemen hand out after the disaster’s over, the survivors rescued. In the denouement.

“S’okay, S’okay. I’m sorry, baby, alright? I’m not mad, cariño, it’s okay.”

Running his fingers through your hair, supporting your head like a delicate, sacred object, murmuring comforts against the softest parts of your neck—Javi goes on and on. Despite the frequent shifts between Spanish and English, you manage to catch the main gist of his crooning.

“I could never be mad at you, baby.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m not mad, cariño.”

“And I’m sorry, baby.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad.”

“I’ll stay.”

“I’m sorry.”

After an eternity, you feel calm enough to pull away. You’re a wreck, gazing up at him with big, silver-lined eyes.

And it’s then that you see him.

That you really see him.

The concern, the anguish, the affection… You’d punished him for doing the very thing that you were incapable of doing.

Protecting you.

Caring for you.

As tears continue to leak from your eyes, you take note of his beauty. Not just of his looks, but also in the sheer power radiating from him, towering like a knight over you. In those capable, caring hands—hands that had torn others apart, that had put you back together—there was beauty in them, too.

You wipe your face dry.

And you soften your tone, aiming to lighten the mood. “Stop trying to get in my pants, Peña." A sniffle. "I don’t sleep with cops.”

He rolls his eyes, the ghosts of a smile tugging at his lips. “Y’know,” he cups your face, drying the final, lingering remnants of your melt-down off your cheeks, “I waited outside that fuckin’ bar for hours  tonight. Just in case.”

Oh.

God, you’d never even bothered to think about how he’d gotten to you so quickly.

Of course he’d been there.

That truth feels… warm.

He goes on. “Watched you… saw you with that guy.” He scoffs at himself, shaking his head. “Had to look away when you came outside. S’why it… took a minute. To get there.”

That has your gaze trailing off, eyes cast down in shame, studying the worn-in rubber on the Jeep’s tires.

It would have never worked, anyway. There wasn’t a man on Earth who could ween your mind off of this one.

With the pad of his thumb against your chin, he brings you back to him. Javi commands your full attention with the just the sincerity of his stare.

“Even when you want nothin’ to do with me... I’m there, alright? I’m here, baby.”

Those eyes… softened with affection, hardened with conviction. Javier always had a way of straddling both worlds at once.

He waits for your signal, your quick nod of acknowledgement.

Then, he’s kissing you—softly. Fingers curling around his forearms, you borrow his strength to keep yourself from swooning. He holds your face as tenderly as he caresses your lips, and with every synced inhalation, he speaks yet another unspoken word into existence.

After giving you enough to make you feel whole again, he pulls away.

With his great-big-palm to your cheek, he says everything you need to hear.

“Let’s go inside, sweetheart.”

—

part 3

—

TAGLIST: @millllenniawrites @pining-and-tired @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @bookofbee @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @raeluvshammett @silkiers @jupitersmood @supernaturaldean67 @razrsharpwhiteteeth @peqchsoup @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @totallynotastanacc @dzaga890 @swedishscumfuck @killerrxger @niallsbunny @cilliansangel @snowyarcher @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @julesonrecord @bbyanarchist @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0 @princessdjarin @isitselfishifwetalkaboutmeagain @pseudonymist @goldengrapejuice @soullumii @jazzerbelle14

—

Officer Officer Everybody knows that I'm a good girl, officer No, I wouldn't do a thing like that, that's for sure The house was already on fire, I swear I'm not a liar (Well) I'm a little shaken, but I'm fine, thanks for asking Tell me, do you always work alone so late? Gosh, I'm a little shy standing here in my night gown Do you really have to put those tight handcuffs on?

Looking at me, then suddenly

I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

I've been bad, I've been wrong Playing a dangerous game I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane, hurricane, hurricane

Let's get in the back of your cop car, officer You can ask me anything you want Anything, anything

Do you have a girl? I don't see a ring on your finger Well, that's interesting Have you ever thought of dating a singer?

The flames are getting higher So is my desire It's kind of exciting Don't you think?

Then suddenly he's uncuffing me

I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

I've been bad, I've been wrong Playing a dangerous game I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane, hurricane, hurricane

Love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I can be the bad girl I'm getting you so hot You can be the good guy Tell him please stop

Love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

You can be the good guy (Officer) I'm in love Tell him please Stop (Officer) (Officer) You can be the good good (Officer) I'm in love Love in a hurricane

—

[23victoria]

𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢, 𝚂𝚎𝚝, 𝚂𝚞𝚣𝚞𝚔𝚊 ❀

∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿

𝚏𝟷 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝚡 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚜!𝚏𝚎𝚖!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

✿ 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 𝟸.𝟾𝚔

✾ 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝚢/𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚂𝚞𝚣𝚞𝚔𝚊! 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎...𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?!

❁ 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕

✿ 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎: 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝟷 𝚏𝚒𝚌! 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢! 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐!! ꨄ

𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝟸

𝚏𝟷 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿

The Suzuka Circuit buzzes with pre-race excitement. The paddock is alive with energy as teams make their final preparations, engineers tweaking last-minute details, and drivers mentally preparing for the grueling race ahead. You walk through the paddock with your helmet in one hand, exchanging smiles and nods with familiar faces. The Japanese fans are enthusiastic, their cheers a constant backdrop to the chaotic scene.

You spot Charles near the Ferrari garage, chatting animatedly with his mechanics. He sees you and waves, a friendly smile spreading across his face. "Hey, Y/N! Ready for today?"

"Always," you reply, matching his grin. "You better watch out on Turn 1. I’m coming for you."

Charles chuckles, shaking his head. "We'll see about that. Good luck out there."

As you continue down the paddock, you bump into Lando and Oscar, both engaged in a heated debate over something. "Y/N, settle this for us," Lando calls out. "Chocolate ice cream or vanilla ice cream? Which one is better?"

You laugh, shaking your head. "Oh that’s easy! The obvious answer is cookies and cream!"

Oscar stares blankly at you while Lando’s mouth drops. "I know you are lying right now, be so for real Y/N." Lando says. 

You walk away laughing, making your way to the Mercedes garage. The mechanics are busy with final checks on your car, and you take a moment to absorb the atmosphere. This is your sanctuary, your battleground. As you step inside, you’re greeted by George Russell, who gives you a friendly pat on the back.

"Nervous?" he asks, his eyes searching yours.

"A bit," you admit. "But it’s a good kind of nervous. It keeps me sharp."

George nods, understanding. "Just remember, you’ve got the skills. Trust yourself."

You give him a grateful smile before heading towards the Sky Sports interview area. The familiar setup greets you, and the interviewer, Rachel Brookes, waves you over.

"Y/N, it’s great to see you," Rachel says, microphone in hand. "The fans are excited, and so are we. How are you feeling about today’s race?"

"I'm excited," you say, the adrenaline already starting to course through your veins. "Suzuka is one of my favorite tracks. The fans here are incredible, so supportive and passionate. It’s an honor to race in Japan."

Rachel nods, smiling. "You’ve had a strong season so far. What’s your strategy going into this race?"

"To stay focused and keep pushing," you reply. "Every race is a new challenge, but I’ve got a great team behind me. We’re ready to give it everything."

"And how does it feel to have so much support, both from the fans and your fellow drivers?"

"It means the world to me," you say earnestly. "The fans' energy is infectious, and it really drives me to do my best. As for the drivers, we might be competitors on the track, but off it, there's a lot of mutual respect. It's like a big, sometimes dysfunctional, family."

Rachel laughs. "Well, we wish you the best of luck, Y/N!"

You thank her and make your way back to the garage, the race now imminent. Your race engineer, Amaria, is waiting for you by the car. Her calm demeanor is always a source of comfort.

"How are we feeling?" she asks, her eyes scanning your face for any signs of doubt.

"Nervous," you admit again, this time more to yourself than anyone else. "But ready. I want this win, Amaria. I really do."

Amaria nods, her expression serious but encouraging. "You’ve got this, Y/N. You’re one of the best drivers out there. Trust your instincts, trust your skills. We believe in you."

You take a deep breath, the weight of her words grounding you. "Thanks, Amaria. That means a lot."

She smiles, handing you your helmet. "Now, let’s go win this race."

You climb into the car, the familiar feeling of the seat and the controls a comforting presence. The world outside the cockpit fades away, leaving only you and the machine. You put on your helmet, securing it in place, and perform your final checks.

Amaria’s voice comes through the radio, calm and steady. "All systems are go. Remember, stay focused. You’ve got this."

"Copy that," you respond, gripping the steering wheel. The nervous energy has transformed into a fierce determination. You’re ready.

The lights go out, and the roar of engines fills the air. The formation lap begins, and you navigate the twists and turns, feeling the car respond to your every command. The nerves are still there, but they’re now a part of the thrill, a part of the drive.

You line up on the grid, heart pounding, every muscle tensed in anticipation. This is it.

∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿

The roar of the engines surrounds you as you race through the circuit, the familiar grip of the steering wheel steady in your hands. Lap 28 is in full swing, and you're driving your heart out for the win. You hear the crackle of the radio in your ear, your race engineer giving you updates, but your focus is ahead. The track is slick from a recent shower, and the competition is fierce.

You see Ocon in the Alpine ahead, and you're pushing hard, determined to overtake into P5. Albon is close by in the Williams, equally determined to overtake your position as well. It's a dance of danger and skill, every movement calculated, every second crucial.

Then, it happens. In an instant, the world tilts on its axis. Ocon’s car clips yours, sending you into a spin. Everything slows down as the car flips and flips and flips, the ground and sky exchanging places repeatedly. Sky. Gravel. Sky. Gravel. Sky. Gravel. The violent motion is sickening, disorienting. You can hear the crunch of metal, the shatter of glass, and the scream of tires.

The barrier looms too quickly, and then you're crashing through it, the fence crumpling under the force. You're thrown into a building, the car smashing against the structure with a bone-rattling impact. The world goes black.

The pit lane erupts in chaos. Over the radio, a distressed voice calls for a red flag. The race comes to an abrupt halt, safety cars deployed immediately.

"Red flag, red flag. All drivers return to the pits. Safety car on track."

In the Mercedes garage, the engineers and mechanics freeze. George’s eyes widen in horror as he pulls into the pit lane, the scene replaying in his mind. Amaria is calling out for Y/N, but there is no response.

In the Ferrari garage, Lewis’s face pales as he listens to the radio, his heart sinking with every passing second. Charles Leclerc feels a cold dread in his chest. He can’t stop replaying the image of your car tumbling, the wreckage of what once was a powerful machine. His thoughts are a whirlwind, concern for you overpowering everything else.

"Who was it?" Lando Norris's voice crackles over the radio, fear palpable in his tone.

"It’s Y/N," someone replies. The pit falls silent, the gravity of the situation settling in.

Verstappen stares at the monitors, the usual competitive fire in his eyes extinguished by worry. His jaw clenches from frustration and helplessness. He knows the risks and accepts them, but it doesn’t make this any easier. 

Oscar pulls into the pit, ripping his helmet off. "Is she okay?" he demands, but no one has answers. The tension is unbearable.

As the safety crews work frantically, cutting through the mangled metal to reach you, an eerie silence blankets the paddock. Minutes feel like hours. The world watches and waits, breaths held, hearts aching.

Lewis paces, unable to sit still. “Come on, Y/N. Be okay,” he mutters under his breath, his mind racing through the years of knowing you, racing alongside you. He can't lose a teammate, a friend, like this.

George sits in the car, head bowed, fingers clenched around the steering wheel. He blinks rapidly, fighting back tears. The sight of your crumpled car, the uncertainty of your fate, it's too much to bear.

Back in the Ferrari garage, Charles slumps against the wall, his mind is all over the place. He has enough scars from this circuit already, he can’t add more, he needs you to be okay. He was drifting back to the moments you shared. The camaraderie, the rivalry, the mutual respect. “She’s strong. She’ll pull through,” he whispers to himself, trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. 

Oscar and Lando exchange glances, both young, both terrified. It’s a stark reminder of the dangers they face every time they get behind the wheel. Their usual banter is replaced with a solemn silence, each lost in their thoughts, prayers for your safety.

The medical team finally extracts you from the wreckage, carefully placing you on a stretcher. The sight of your limp body, the blood, it’s almost too much to bear. You’re airlifted to the nearest hospital, the severity of your injuries still unknown.

∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿

The air in the paddock is thick, filled with tension, anger, and worry. Max stands near the Red Bull garage, his jaw clenched, his eyes scanning the sea of people for a familiar face. His voice, sharp and commanding, cuts through the chaos.

"Where is he? Where the fuck is Ocon?" Max's words echo with a mixture of anger and frustration, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri hear the yelling, their own frustration boiling over as they join Max's side. "Yeah, where is he?" Lando demands, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Doesn't he know how to drive? Look at the damage he caused out there, to Y/N."

Oscar nods in agreement, his expression mirroring their shared outrage. "It's fucking ridiculous," he adds, his voice rising with indignation. "He's a danger to everyone on the damn track."

As they push through the crowd, their eyes searching for any sign of Ocon, a commotion erupts from the direction of the Alpine garage. Lewis’s voice rises and echos through the pit lane, a voice of anger and frustration. George shouts joining him, a chorus of fury that pierces the chaos.

Max, Lando, and Oscar run to the garage, the yelling and commotion driving them forward. They reach the Alpine garage just as Lewis and George break free from the grasp of the engineers and mechanics, their eyes locked on Ocon with unbridled fury.

"Let me go! Let me go! I’m going to beat his fucking ass.” Lewis's voice reverberates through the paddock, his muscles straining against the hands that hold him back. 

George's shouts match Lewis's, “You bloody fucking idiot.” he angrily says as he tries to grab Ocons’ shirt. 

Lewis somehow manages to escape their grasp and lunges towards Ocon. Arm pulled back with a tight fist and powerful swing, he punches Ocon in the face, the force of the blow causing him to lose his balance and fall to the ground.

The scene is chaotic, a whirlwind of shouting and struggling bodies as engineers and officials rush to intervene. Max, Lando, and Oscar push forward, their own anger fueling their desire to confront Ocon.

But before they can reach him, security arrives, their presence a barrier between the drivers and their target. Strong arms grab hold of Max, Lando, and Oscar, pulling them back as they struggle against the restraint.

"Let us go! You fucker! Come here! You’re a fucking piece of shit!" Max's voice is fierce, his eyes burning with intensity.

Lando and Oscar echo his sentiments, their shouts blending into a chorus of defiance. “You bitch, if she dies it’s on you! You hear me! You don’t deserve to be a driver! How could you be so fucking reckless?!” they say as they try to get to Ocon. But their efforts are in vain as security tightens their grip, guiding them away from the Alpine garage.

Ocon is escorted away, the tension in the paddock reaches a boiling point. The drivers are told to return to their garages, the promise of further confrontation hanging in the air like a storm cloud.

Lewis, George, Max, Lando, and Oscar exchange frustrated glances as they are escorted back to their garages, their desire and anger to get to Ocon are outweighed only by their shared worry for Y/N.

∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿

Hours pass in agonizing silence. The race, ultimately canceled. Updates on your condition are scarce, and the paddock is gripped with fear. Every beep of a phone, every whisper, sends a jolt through the waiting crowd.

Finally, news comes through. You’re in surgery, your condition is critical but stable. The relief is palpable, but the worry remains. It’s a waiting game now.

Lewis and George sit side by side in the hospital waiting room, their faces etched with worry. They care for you so much, your smile and energy lighting up any room you walk into. They’ve been through so much together, and the thought of losing you is unbearable. They talk in hushed tones, sharing stories about you, trying to keep the fear at bay.

Max arrives, his usual confident stride replaced with uncertainty. He offers a nod to Lewis and George, joining them in their vigil. There’s a silent understanding between them, a shared grief and hope.

Charles walks in, his face a mask of concern. He sits across from the others, his mind still replaying the crash. He remembers you on the stretcher, lying so still, and his heart aches.

Oscar and Lando arrive together, the youngest of the group, their faces pale and drawn. They sit quietly, their presence a testament to the bond forged on and off the track.

Hours stretch on, the waiting room is filled with an oppressive silence. The doctors come and go, their expressions guarded. Every minute feels like an eternity.

∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿

Amaria your race engineer enters, her face is grave but kind, understanding the emotional toll this night has taken on everyone.

“Hey,” she begins softly, “I know how much you care about Y/N and how difficult this is, but the nurses informed us that it’s past visiting hours. As much as we want to stay the hospital staff needs to do their work, and you need to rest. Her parents are on a flight here right now, they should be here by morning. The FIA decided we will have a meeting first thing in the morning to update you all on her condition.”

There are murmurs of protest, but they are weak, born more out of exhaustion and helplessness than actual defiance. The drivers know she’s right, but leaving feels like abandoning you.

Lewis stands first, setting the example. “We’ll be there bright and early,” he promises, his voice firm. 

The others slowly rise, their reluctance palpable. As they file out, each offers a lingering glance back towards the surgical doors, hoping for the best.

Charles stops by Amaria. “Please, make sure we know the moment there’s any change,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Amaria nods. “I will. Try to get some rest. She’s in good hands.”

Charles nods, smiling weakly, “You too Amaria.”

∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿

The atmosphere is heavy as all the drivers sit in the room waiting for news on your condition. You can see the tiredness and weariness on their face. Even though they were told to get some rest it’s obvious none of them could. 

Finally, Toto and Amaria walk in. “She’s out of surgery. She’s stable, but it’s going to be a long recovery.”

The room exhales as one. Relief floods in, but the road ahead is daunting. You’re strong, a fighter, and they all know you’ll pull through. But the scars, both physical and emotional, will take time to heal.

Lewis reaches out, squeezing George’s shoulder. “Thank you, Lord. She’s okay,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.

Max nods, his eyes brightening a little. “Yeah, she is.”

Charles leans back into his seat, his eyes closed, tears escaping as he says, “She's okay, she's really okay. She's alive.”

Oscar and Lando exchange a watery glance, a silent exchange of relief passing between them.

You're okay.

𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝟸

∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿

© 23victoria 2024 I all rights reserved. do not republish, steal repost, modify, translate, or claim my work as your own.

[charliemwrites]

Since I’ve been going pretty hard on dark fics lately….

Who’s up for some childhood friend Simon?

In his worst moments, when he thinks of his inevitable premature and violent end, he hopes that he’ll be able to hold out long enough to die in your arms. Even if they have to fly him straight from the battlegrounds to you, lay him in the grass outside your flat, he wants your face and voice that puts him to his final sleep.

Most moments aren’t his worst moments. But he still thinks of you and prepares. Everything is going to you, of course. Price knows. You’ll get Simon’s tags, his mask, a flag. You’ll get a letter.

He started one night after you two reunited, a little drunk from a thank-fuck-we-survived post mission celebration. It’s a little wobbly and ramble in some places, but never threw it out - never reread it either. Finished it in one hour, three pages long.

He’s added onto it since then. On hard night, nights he misses you. When he’s nostalgic and tipsy, when he wakes up from nightmares soaked in your blood. It’s about 12 pages now. Different colors of ink, different types of pages. Even one slanted and awkward because his writing hand was broken so he had to use the other.

He doesn’t bring it home to you with him. Doesn’t want you to accidentally discover it and think it’s something else. It stays where Johnny will find it if the worst happens; Simon trusts him to give it to you.

He never really thought about it the other way round. Couldn’t stand to face the prospect again. Not when he can feel the bullet scar beneath your shirt sometimes, or sees you rubbing at it in cold weather.

(He doesn’t consider it his worst moments but he knows you would - that he’d crawl in that grave with you.)

But it’s almost happened again. You’re sitting caddy-corner to him at a briefing table, listening to Price as he explains the situation. Simon’s watching you watching Price. Your shoulders are relaxed, fingers fiddling with your temporary access card. Not nervous, just occupied while you focus.

You’re not worried at all. Simon feels like he’s falling apart right here. One shake of the stupid uneven table and all his pieces will just slide apart into a useless pile.

Without looking away, your hand slides across the table and hooks around his. He doesnt startle - he’s ghost right now, and ghost is rock solid - but his fingers twitch around yours. You shoot him a quick smile and then refocus on Price, picking at a worn patch on the skeleton design of Simon’s glove.

Duct tape for a collapsing soul.

Price concludes, “You’ll stay here, safe and sound with an escort.”

Simon speaks up for the first time in what feels like days.

“I’m not bein’ deployed, skipper. Not right now.”

Price snorts. “‘Course not. You’re on leave with little miss here in sweden.”

“Sweden,” Simon repeats, unimpressed. Not one of the Laswell’s better lies.

“Land of tall blondes,” you chime.

“No one else knows I’m a blond.”

You shrug. “Their loss.”

Simon snorts, you grin, and Price dismisses you both in short order.

You’re staying in Simon’s room; the captain didn’t even offer you temporary quarters. Not that you minded, happy to toss your things amongst his and climb into his bed.

He cleans his favorite gun impulsively at the desk while you futz around on his computer - probably investigating the latest set of unreleased movies he bribed from Laswell.

“You get ten minutes of brooding left and then we’re getting food and watching a movie.”

He scowls down at the magazine, oiled cloth in hand.

“I’m not brooding.”

“It’s like you have your own lighting. I swear those shadows are darker next to you.”

“That’s just how light works.”

“Oh it would have been so much cooler if you said, like, ‘I am the shadows’.”

He pauses, casts you a long, flat look. You beam.

“Ooh, yeah, with that face too! C’mon, say it!”

He blows out a dramatic breath, then grumpily repeats, “I am the shadows.”

You laugh, hopping up from the bed to approach. He shifts his gear out of the way, clearing a space for you to lean against his desk, your knee touching his.

“Im alright, Si. There’s nowhere safer I could be.”

He sets the pieces in his hands aside, flexes his fingers spasmodically.

“Could just not know me. Anywhere would be safer than knowing me.”

You click your tongue, purely derisive. “That’s stupid.”

“That’s just facts, babes.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s your guilt complex. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here.”

He arches his eyebrows - not that you’ll be able to see it past the mask. But you know him well enough to just know.

“Right here?” he challenges. “On a military base? With who fuckin’ knows out to get you? Just because you lived two doors down from me in kindergarten?”

You sigh, that one that tells him you’re employing extra patience purely out of love and experience.

“Right here, Si. Wherever you are,” you confirm.

“Should cut your losses,” he says, trying his best impression of the machine he became after he lost everyone but you. He’s never felt less protected in the mask.

As always, you see right through him.

“A bullet couldn’t take me from you, Simon Riley. The ‘Ghost’ doesn’t stand a chance.” You curl your fingers around the back of his neck, duck down until your forehead knocks against the hard mask’s. “Because it’s me n’ you ‘til the sun stops rising.”

An oath made of picked daisies and shared blood. The weight of it presses on his chest so hard he feels buried again. Layers of earth crushing him, you up above, the only heaven he knows or needs.

“Me ‘n you,” he rasps.

You let him stay like that another moment. Absorbing the warmth of your fingertips, crept beneath the edge of the balaclava. Breathing with you until he’s sure you’re synched. Heart, breath, blood, down to the firing of your neurons.

“Alright, no more brooding. You’ll feel better with some food.”

Simon exhales, sloughing off the gloom and pessimism that weighs on Ghost’s shoulders. You’re here, right here. Nothing will happen to you when he’s still breathing.

“Think I have a few more minutes.”

“Nah, it compounds when I brood with you.”

“You brood like a rainbow broods.”

You snort and flick at his mask, tugging him up with you towards the door. He lets himself settle, listening to your cheerful babble all the way to the mess.

[romanstheory]

Ride Slow a Bronco Nima One Shot

Warnings: Smut, Size Kink, Edging, Alcohol, Bronco x Fem OC

Word Count: 2,610

Person in the picture

"Respectfully Hunter, I'm not doing this match" Hands crossed tightly around my chest, my weight bearing on my right leg. "I told you I'm not doing another tag match and I meant that". The last tag match I was in I got abandoned and forced to compete in a handicapped match at NXT battleground. Hunter lets out a low sigh before rubbing his frown lines. "Look Lena that's understandable but this is what Creative has come up with for you. It's either this or nothing." Fuck. It's either this or nothing... this or nothing. My face curls into a frown before I finally respond "Who is my tag partner? Blair? Indi? Candice?" Not that it matters, whatever bitch he has me teaming with won't have my trust. Simply get it, destroy, and get out, I don't even want my hand raised at the end.

"Well creative is trying to mix things up around here... No pun intended. You'll team with Bronco Nima, they've got it planned out for a while since he split from OTM when the two of you got drafted to Smackdown from NXT." Hunter looks over his glasses at me "We're trying this all out to see how the crowd reacts. You two are total opposites so we figured it would be interesting." Bronco Nima... Even in NXT we didn't really speak. "We're your guinea pigs" A sarcastic huff leaves my lips before I shake my head slowly. "This or nothing Lena, just think about the opportunities this could bring. If this all goes well we could introduce a mixed tag title, of course, you and Bronco would automatically get a title shot." Hunter says resting his hands on his desk. An opportunity to make history makes this whole tag team thing more appealing.

"Some people are out in the ring rehearing and warming up, I heard Bronco is out there too. He already knows about the plans so I would go make a game plan with your new tag partner" He says before shuffling through a stack of papers on his desk. I nod and make my way to the empty arena. Voices echo through the deserted place. Superstars are littered around the ring, but only Bronco is inside. Rolling, running the ropes, shadow boxing. His 6'5 frame is striking even from a distance. I jump onto the ring, standing on the apron watching him. It's criminal how good he looks, sweat beading on his forehead, muscles pumped full of blood, a grimace across his face. I can just barely see over the top rope due to my 4'11 height.

Suddenly he stops what he's doing an that grimace turns into a smirk. "Can you even see over the ropes?" He chuckles. A swift eye-roll is my response to him. "You gonna come in or are you gonna fight with the ropes to get a good look?" His hands rest on his hips as his chest heaves up and down fighting to fill his lungs with air. Quickly I duck under the middle rope and get into the ring. "I'm guessing Hunter finally told you?" He says walking closer to me. With every step I feel smaller and smaller under the presence of..... him. "He did, and I'm not exactly happy about it but he mentioned a mixed tag title" Keeping my eyes on his feels like a full time fucking job at this point.

"Yeah, he said he knew you would give push back about it." He chuckles, that fucking chuckle. "You were talking shit about me with my boss?" My reply is quick and sharp. "Look I'm not exactly happy about it either I just came from a tag team the last thing I want is to be shoved back into one. That's beside the point, we're a team now so I need you to get your head outta your ass so we can practice" Bronco replies "I want us to try this finisher". My eyebrows raise to my hairline, nobody has ever talked to me like that. But shock aside I listen. We run the ropes and practice bumps over and over again until we have some sort of chemistry, and then it's time to try the finisher Bronco was so adamant we do. He slaps my hand to tag me in, I climb to the top rope, he backs into the corner. I step onto his shoulders, his hands in mine.... they have to be at least three times the size of my hand. Oh god.... My mind is racing... Get it together Lena. Once I'm stable I release his hands, and do a front flip onto the superstar laying on the mat willing to take the bump to help us.

Swinging my curly hair out of my face I smile and look up at Bronco who is returning the look. "Do that tonight!" Carmelo Hayes calls from outside of the ring. "I told you it was gonna be fire!" Bronco says grinning. He sits on the middle rope, gesturing for me to go through. I can help but to put my ass in his line of vision as I exit the ring. His gaze is like fire burning a hole through me. Before I know it he's just steps behind me, I can feel him still silently staring at me before I turn around quickly. "It's rude to stare Bronco, if you're going to look at my ass then at least tell me it's nice" I crane my chin to look up at him. "I don't know what you're talking about." He says with that dumb ass smirk on his face again.

---

I haven't seen or talked to Bronco all night, I huff loudly before lacing up my black boots before heading to the curtain. Jumping up and down in place to hype myself up I close my eyes and lean my head back. Soon after I feel those eyes burning through my body again. "You really have to stop staring at my ass dude. It's unprofessional" I say not bothering to look back or even so much as open my eyes. "It's crazy to assume that your ass is the one i'm looking at. There's a lot of ass around here, chaparrita" He says now standing next to me. "Yet clearly mine is your favorite because you keep staring a hole in it" Raising an eyebrow I shift my weight to my left hip, lips pursed together.

"Just don't fall on your fat ass while you're on my shoulders and we're cool. Wouldn't wanna bruise it" He winks when our music comes on... It's time.

---

My chest heaves as I climb to the top rope, Bronco already waiting in front of me seething at our opponent. His muscles tense as he awaits me to step onto his shoulders. The lights hit him in a way that makes him look damn near like a God. One foot and then the other onto his shoulder and then his big hands take mine just like we practiced. The crowd roars with excitement and he takes one, two, three steps and releases my hands before I front flip and land on the opponent. "one, two, three" The crowd screams before the bell rings. Flipping my hair out of my face I get up and scream. Celebrating, I walk backward straight into Bronco unknowingly. My ass presses into his thigh and those hands.... those big hands of his rest on my hip softly before reality sets in and my heart drops before I pull away from him.

"That was dope as hell!" Carmelo says dapping Bronco up before pulling me into a hug. "Welcome to the big league yall. Aye I got a section tonight and some of us are linking up y'all should pull up." My mouth opens to reject but Bronco interrupts "We'll be there" He says glancing down at me. We'll be there? Why the fuck would he say that? I..... We just worked our asses off in the ring the last thing I want to do is hear music blasting, I want to relax... But since he's already committed us to going I guess I'd better go take a shower. With an eyeroll I begin walking to the exit. "You really gotta get rid of that attitude of yours." Bronco says from behind me. "I don't have to do shit!" I retort. "I'll get rid of it for you, chaparrita" I can hear the smirk in his voice. "And stop calling me that! What does it mean?" I turn sharply. "Short, shortie, you're short" He cackles as he walks past me.

---

The music beats through my body like a drum, I refuse to ride with Bronco to the venue so I make my way through the crowd alone stopping at the bar to take a shot or two of liquid courage. I approach the section guarded by a security guard who lets me in without a word or hesitation. I walk in, immediately locking eyes with Bronco who has a glass of dark liquid to his lips. My body warms from the shots of liquid courage I took in minutes ago. Slowly, so slowly he walks toward me, gulping down the liquid. It feels like all eyes are on us, I can't tell if it's the alcohol making me think we're the center of the universe or if everyone really is staring. Wrapping his arm around me he bends down until his lips ghost my ear "You look good" His voice is rough and smooth all at the same time. I melt into his touch, I can't help myself.

I turn to him, pressing my body against his. He raises his eyebrows, sliding his hands down to squeeze my ass only making me press further into him. "You keep it up and we bouta leave early" His voice just loud enough for me to hear above the bass of the music. As much of a good time as that sounds like, my liquid courage has kicked in and I want to dance. Grabbing his big hand I lead Bronco further into the section moving my hips to the beat, my ass settles on his thigh like it had earlier in the ring. His lips purse into an o shape before he rests his hands on my hips, swaying back and forth with me. I can feel him growing behind me. but honestly, it just makes me move faster and closer to him. He buys us another round of shots before sitting on a nearby chair, pulling me into his lap.

"You know all these dudes keep staring at you, right? Like real hard" he chuckles "Trick basically broke his neck when you walked in". So I wasn't tripping. I shrug and gaze into the crowd of superstars in front of us all dancing no doubt drunk out of their minds. If they're staring, we might as well give them a show, right? Softly but firmly I grab his chin and press my lips against his. The taste of henny was still on his lips. Again his strong hands grip my ass, harder this time as if he's trying to rip my shorts off. Our lips disconnected with a smack, and our faces were still so close that I could feel his breath on my skin. "Don't do me like that if I can't have you, chaparrita." Bronco's voice low and raspy and I swear he could feel my excitement through my clothes the way I can feel his. Suddenly kissing him wasn't enough, I need all of him.

"I never said you couldn't" I purr into his ear. Bronco's eyes widen and he moves me off of his lap, standing quickly. "I'll catch you later Melo, something came up" Bronco says quickly dapping Carmelo up again but he says nothing only laughs. 'something came up' yeah his dick.

---

The hotel room for clicks shut behind us, my body buzzing with lust and liquor. Clothes fly off faster than anything i've seen before. Bronco picks me up with those hands I keep imagining around my neck. He presses me against the wall hungrily kissing my neck and chest. He nips and kisses my skin like he's been waiting for this moment, like he's been fantasizing about it and finally had his chance. It feels like a dam has broken between my legs when my eyes shoot open. My body craves his on mine, I need to be closer. His eyes meet mine, dark and low and without a single word exchanged he moves to the bed. Slowly he slides one finger into me, my body aches with a need for more.

"It's dripping already." He groans. His fingers are long and thick, it only makes me wonder what his dick looks like. Quickly he begins pumping his finger into me, eyes never leaving mine as I squirm around gripping the sheets like my life depends on it... and it very well might. As soon as my climax threatens to undo me he takes his finger out. "We come together." Is all he says. My body aches with need to release. He wants to edge me on, two can play that game. "Lay down." I demand and he listens willingly. Slowly I begin to straddle him, making sure he gets a good look at my body. I circle my hips around his long thick dick. Bronco grips my ass, making me gasp softly.

"You are about to make me lose my mind" He growls softly. Planting soft kisses along his neck and jawline I grind back and fourth along the length of him, precum threatening to come out. "We come together, remember?" I whisper before stopping my motion. Something animalistic takes over him and he digs his fingers into my hips, a surge of pain and pleasure jolt through my body before I lift myself and push his length into me slowly... so.... slowly. I sigh loudly, my body relieved to finally have him. Quickly I bounce up and down on him. Softly he grabs my hips, stopping me from raising again. "Ride it slow" He says softly "I wanna enjoy it, all of it." His voice is like some sort of mix between a moan and pure need, he needs to see it all.

Slowly I rock my hips back and forth, grinding and bouncing in between. His eyes drift around my body but always land back on my face even when he rubs soft circles around my swollen clit. My legs are stretched open around his thick waist, his long muscular arms glazed with sweat drape over my legs. "Fuck!" He growls "Lena! Fuck!". My name on his tongue is sexy. He presses himself into me from underneath making me yelp. "You're so fucking sexy" He groans. His dick glistens with my juices as he pushes in and pulls out of me over and over again from under me.

I bite my bottom lip and close my eyes, is this euphoria? My climax is approaching. His mouth gaped open before an inaudible sound left it. Lightning strikes through my middle and I let out a final yell at the same time that he lets out his final swear word and we are both finished. We come together. I collapse on his warm heaving chest before sitting up, hands in the area my face just was. "They're all going to know we fucked when we go back in next week." I say softly. A chuckle "Then they'll know not to stare so hard next week too." He replies

[siriusblack-the-third]

Matching Misfortunes: Peter Pevensie

I binged read and watched the Narnia books and films, and idk what possessed me but I wrote. so. Let's go. Please check out the other parts for the other siblings!

.

Peter’s skin itches.

He heaves even breaths through his nose as he leans back to avoid the sloppy punch Easton throws at him, and stops himself from going for the throat for the third time in half as many seconds.

This is the fourth fight he has gotten himself dragged into since term began on Monday. It is Wednesday today, and Peter’s blood pounds in his ears, through his limbs and his flexing fingers as he holds back; doesn’t hit hard, doesn’t go for the liver or the heart or the head, does not give into the bloodlust that whispers siren songs of battle and blood-covered blades in his ears. He stops himself, clenching his fists and dodging the abysmal hits from the three boys that surround him, and refuses to lift a hand against these insolent children.

He is a King.

He is a boy stuck in a schoolyard brawl he did not start.

Peter’s skin itches.

He wants to claw it off— he imagines that this is what snakes must feel when their body gets much too big for their scales, and they have to go through the painful process of shedding their outer layer and come out stronger and larger. He suppresses a grim twist of his lips as he kicks out— harmlessly, wrestling against the lust that sings a song of death in his ears— at that idiot Michael’s knee to send him sprawling to the ground with a yelp, and thinks that what he went through was rather the opposite, really. He grew up, and then was forced into a body too unfamiliar, too awkward, too inexperienced. Too young.

He was a King.

He is a boy stuck in a body too unscarred to be a King’s.

Kenneth lunges forward to try and grab him around the waist. Peter easily steps out of the way, the part of him that is a seasoned warrior clawing to the forefront of his mind simply to scoff at the graceless flailing of limbs that these children call fighting. Lucy could do better.

Lucy did do better, twelve years ago. Or maybe it was five years ago.

The timelines blur together, in his mind; he can no longer tell whether he is in England or Narnia. He is wearing his school uniform and he is wearing his royal garments, he is walking the halls of Westbrook County Boarding School and he is walking the halls of Cair Paravel. He holds the blunted school practice broadsword in his hand and he holds the razor-sharp Rhindon in his calloused hands, he is a boy and he is a King.

“Fight back,” Easton snarls, dark brown hair falling out of its previously carefully styled place, and Peter thinks of how he has seen scarier Mice dig their teeth into the throats of Minotaurs and suck them dry of blood. He blinks, and the image of him sinking his own teeth into Easton’s throat flashes across his mind’s eye. He blinks again, and he’s back on this makeshift battleground where the mice are gone and his sword is gone and he is in clothes too uncomfortable and the skin is stretched taut over a body that is not really his—

“Fight back, Pevensie, you coward!”

High King Peter the Magnificent of Narnia, Commander of the Armies, Emperor of the Lone Islands, the Lionheart Warrior King, Protector of the People, wants to grab him by the throat and shatter his jaw into a thousand pieces for that grave insult upon his character. Instead, he laughs in his face and sticks out his tongue, like a small child.

He is nineteen, and he is thirty-three. He is not a child, in either world.

Sometimes, he wishes he was. Sometimes, he wishes he was thirteen and in his mother’s home, he wishes he had never left for Professor Diggory’s mansion.

Most times, however, he wishes for something he has almost given up hope for, something he was forced to give up five and a half years ago. He wishes, oh so dearly, for a faithful sword made of mithril in his hand and a heavy crown woven out of golden flowers on his head. He wishes for one last chance to step out of this world that was once his but no longer is, and into a world where he was once High King Peter the Magnificent, Commander of the Armies, Emperor of the Lone Islands, the Lionheart Warrior King, First of the Beloved Four, Protector of the Narnian People.

Easton yells as he lumbers forward, and Peter, too embroiled in old memories of running his fingers through the unicorn Ethrys’ snow-white mane while galloping through grassy fields, does not see the punch coming until it is too late. The loud smack of knuckles against flesh echoes through the school courtyard, and the impact of the heavy fist on his cheek is like an electric shock to his senses.

For a second, he blinks dazedly. And then his brain registers it properly. The pain flares, and with it so does blinding hot bloodlust.

‘Fine,’ he thinks as he lifts a hand to wrap his fingers around Easton’s forearm in a death grip, a high-pitched whistle echoing in his ears and red creeping into the edges of his vision as it zeroes in on the many weaknesses in the three boys’ defenses. ‘You want a fight? You’ll get one.’

It takes him four seconds to get the three imbeciles on their backs, one howling in pain from a dislocated shoulder, the other because of a broken nose and the third from a bruised kidney. His fingers flex around the hilt of a sword that he no longer owns, and he reminds himself that he is not allowed to kill, not in this world where he is not a King and does not lead wars.

He stares down at Easton, the image of a blood covered sword and a slain warrior at his feet flashing behind his eyelids when he blinks. He opens his eyes and the boy stares back, hand clutching his shoulder and face becoming paler and paler the longer Peter holds his terrified brown gaze.

“Don’t bother me again,” he says flatly to the three of them, and turns away, ignoring the teachers that are hurrying across the lawn with yells of his name tumbling from their lips. He lifts his gaze and locks it with Edmund’s for a second, brilliant blue meeting identical brilliant blue, before both of them turn away. One royal brother melts into the crowd of students without a whisper, and the other stalks off towards the dorms with blood on his ever-bruised knuckles and memories of a different world singing through the veins of a body that is too young for the mind it contains.

He is a King, celebrated and honoured for his services to a hallowed land.

He is a mere boy sitting on the roof of the boarding school, fingers flexing around the hilt of a sword that no longer belongs to him, nothing more than a memory he cannot let go of: a memory he refuses to let go of even after five and a half years.

[bones4thecats]

Hii can I request Ror Buddha meeting with his wife yasodhara again unexpectedly? Except his wife is the most chillest,nonchalant woman ever. Thank you💕

A/N: Hello there Anon!! I’m guessing you wanted the reader to be themed after his wife Yasodharā, so I did that. I hope this was what you wanted!! Enjoy~~

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●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・

🍭 He left, just up and left you and your infant son without saying a simple goodbye. And it stung, it stung you for the rest of your life. Your son asked about him whenever he found it fitting, in which you just gave him the basic info in which you knew of him at the time, which is rarely, if ever, changed. And until your death, you never saw him again.

🍭 You just enjoyed your afterlife alongside your son and your old close friends until the eldest Valkyrie sister came to speak to you of a battle that was being held against the gods.

🍭 Ragnarok.

🍭 Of course, you refused to fight them, you weren’t fond of getting violent for barely any reason besides keeping humans alive.

🍭 Instead, Brunhilde asked you to oversee the contestants to make sure certain ones didn’t get the wrong ideas. And you agreed, knowing certain ones from the talk around your palace in Valhalla.

🍭 At the time, you were watching the still healing Sasaki and Jack when you heard the announcement coming from Heimdall’s horn down on the battlegrounds. And you would never forget the words that echoed through the land.

“ I’m gonna fight for mankind. Ya dig? “

🍭 They sounded so familiar, yet so distant.

“ If the gods aren’t gonna save mankind, then I will. And if any god gets in my way… I’ll kill ‘em. “

🍭 It was your husband, the one who left you and your son in that palace centuries ago. But you couldn’t think to yourself for long before the obnoxiously loud cries of anger from the gods interrupted said thoughts.

🍭 “What is the matter with you?! Why would you, how could you betray us?!” One yelled.

🍭 Buddha sighed and held the horn up to speak, allowing Heimdall to sigh and stand beside him, giving up from jumping to grab the instrument.

“ I care for my kind, some more than others, even if I never showed it when I should have most. And I’m gonna make up for that here and now, if anyone has a problem with that, well, oh well. ”

🍭 Your heart fluttered, knowing what he had meant.

*Let’s skip for after the fight, as fighting is not my thing to write*

🍭 He was all bruised and bloody, his long hair draped behind his back as the air moved it swiftly away from his face. You stood up and began to run to the healers after he was rushed away, fearing the worst, though you didn;t show it, not wishing to worry your son and fellow humans.

🍭 Seeing his state in the healing room was gut-wrenching, but you knew you needed to do this now, or else you’d regret it like no other time. Knocking on the door, you trudged in after hearing his light ‘come in’.

🍭 It was now or never. And you picked now.

“ Hello there, my dear. ”

🍭 His eyes widened as he turned towards you. Your voice was one he would never forget in millions and millions of years.

🍭 “Y/N? Is that really you?” He asked, eyes straining to stare at your form. You walked carefully to the healing god, a smile spreading farther across your face with each step. You had looked at his face, still youthful as ever.

🍭 He was still your husband.

🍭 “Yes, it is me, love.” You replied.

🍭 He smiled, laughing as he watched you grab the side of his face and hold it towards your’s.

🍭 “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?” He asked.

🍭 “No, and you haven’t either, seeing the stunt you pulled down there, going against the gods and all.” You jokingly answered.

🍭 “Well, we have a lot to catch up on, now don’t we?” Buddha jokes.

“ Yes, my love, we do… ”

[kitthepurplepotato]

Chapter 3 - “Pillow Talk”

Summary: Katsuki is “forced” to tell his parents about his girlfriend. Later during the night, he shares his true feelings with Y/N.

Warnings: Swear words, that’s it!

Season 1 💥 Season 2 Chapter 1 💥 Master List

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Mitsuki’s mug falls on the floor as she takes in the view in front of her.

It’s not like she wasn’t sure these two will end up together eventually and there was also that phone call with Katsuki which made his son’s intentions with this girl obvious, she just didn’t think her boy will actually do it so soon. Plus, they acted more like two bickering siblings, teasing each other through the whole evening. Even though they were sharing a blanket they didn’t move towards each other at all. Mitsuki was sure they have a long way to go before the time feels like right for them confess to each other.

So… this… in front of her… was a massive surprise. Mitsuki stopped breathing when his son looked at Y/N with that confused and longing look. She froze completely when Y/N looked back at him. She has no idea how much time has passed since the impromptu staring contest but when she blinked herself back to life the two were kissing on her sofa, in each other’s arms while the movie rolled on the TV, completely ignored by the whole family.

Mitsuki didn’t mean to drop her mug and ruin the moment; she wanted to wait it out and then start yelling profanities to his ungrateful son of a bitch son who forgot to tell her about this massive change in his life.

“I’ll clean that up, honey.” Masaru jumps up from the sofa, leaving the soon-to-be battleground, the coward.

“Katsuki fucking Bakugou.” Mitsuki sneers. “Didn’t you forget to tell me something?!”

“Oh shut up, old hag.” Katsuki rolls his eyes while Y/N tries her best to hide under the blanket. “Stop staring and watch your fucking cheesy movie.”

“Oh, you mean the cheesy movie that made you do cheesy fucking shit on my couch that ended up in a make out session right in front of your parents?!” Mitsuki says, not believing his son’s shenanigans.

“Jesus, I kissed my girlfriend, put my head on a fucking spike!” Katsuki retorts, offended. She’s gonna kill this boy.

“Katsuki, that’s not the problem here.” Y/N mumbles under the blanket.

“Then what is the fucking problem?!” Katsuki yells, utterly confused. Mitsuki still can’t believe his son listens to someone.

“You didn’t tell her we are a couple! I knew this is a terrible way to tell them. Your father already ran away.” She sighs.

“Why didn’t you say so?!”

“Like you ever listen to anyone you fucking madman!” Y/N appears under the covers now; apparently she’s had enough time to get over her embarrassment.

“That’s true.” Katsuki deadpans and looks between the two ladies with a confused face. “Now what.”

“Oh my god, you are insufferable.” Y/N sighs again. “Mrs. Bakugou, I am dating your son.”

“We ain’t dating.” Katsuki retorts and you look at him with a confused look on your face. “We are in a serious relationship so get used to her cuz she’s ain’t going anywhere. Don’t bug her with your wedding dress designs though, she might freak out.”

“Are you not freaking out?” Y/N asks, utterly confused now.

“Why would I? It doesn’t matter if it’s now or in a few years, it will eventually happen, we might as well get over with it.” Katsuki deadpans. Mitsuki can’t help but snort at that.

“Really romantic Katsuki, can’t wait.” Y/N rolls her eyes but there is a slight blush on her cheeks.

“Okay, you menace, I’ll make it so fucking romantic you will cry your fucking eyes out. You just wait.” Katsuki clearly took it as a challenge which is funny and sad at the same time but to be honest, you knew what you’re getting into when you said yes to be the madman’s girlfriend; you might not have cheesy stories to tell your kids but funny ones?! You’ll have a shit ton of those, that’s for sure.

“That’s it.” Mitsuki throws her arms in the air. “I’m bringing out my wedding dress ideas!”

“MOM!” Katsuki yells after his mother but it’s a lost cause; the book is in her hands already.

~•💥•~

As the sun goes down and the world gets dark, another uncomfortable conversation is about to happen.

The conversation about…

“So, Y/N is sleeping with you, right? I ain’t gonna wash the sheets for no reason, work smarter not harder and shit.” Mama Bakugou looks at you two. Well, this is awkward.

It’s not like there is any shame in not sleeping together yet, one way or another, you haven’t been together for that long, but it’s still such a sensitive topic and you are quite sure your boyfriend does not want to have that conversation with his mother.

“Whatever he wants, I’m fine with both.” You mumble quietly. Katsuki rolls his eyes and tries to play it cool.

“Get ready to get your ass kicked, Menace.” He smirks. What the fuck does he mean by that?! He was fine the last time you shared a bed! And before… oh wow, you actually forgot you spent a few nights together already due to a a mission that went terribly wrong. The mission ended up with you two making out on Katsuki’s office desk though. Your cheeks heat up as you remember his soft touch in the middle of the night, on the day he got quirked by the villain, Anguish; and the time he pulled you close and inhaled your scent to calm himself after a nightmare, a day prior the incident.

“Uhm… wait until you wake up on the floor, Blasty boy.” You try to smirk back, but you probably only make yourself look like a foolish teen trying to flirt with the coolest boy in the class.

Mitsuki jumps into your conversation.

“I’ll ignore you two bantering like you’ve never slept in the same bed before.” Mitsuki says, her hands up in the air in surrender and moves towards her room to retreat for the night.

“Oi, we’ve slept together before.” Katsuki retorts, offended, yelling after his mother with a red face. “I ain’t scared to share a bed with my woman! Put in your earplugs, just in case.” Katsuki retorts and you roll your eyes; that’s a fucking bluff but what can you do with his fragile masculinity? It’s a part of him, let’s be honest.

“TMI, son. Good night.” She looks at her son one last time with one brow raised mockingly.

“Fuck off, hag.” Katsuki spits and makes his way towards the bathroom. “Let’s wash up.” He stomps away aggressively, pulling you with him for some weird ass reason. You stop in the middle of your tracks; Katsuki needs to take the chill-pill. Right now.

“Katsuki, calm down. First of all, you have no clothes to change into. Second of all, I’m quite sure you don’t want us to wash up together, but correct me if I’m wrong.” You grin while Katsuki rolls his eyes aggressively.

“You are still a fucking menace.” Katsuki grumbles as he changes his route to go back to his room instead.

“And you still like me.” You tease but his answer makes your insides churn in an uncomfortable way.

“I don’t like you.” Katsuki announces, his voice strong and unwavering; they also sting like a bitch. You’re rendered speechless. “Yeah, think about that.”

You will… definitely… think about that.

~•💥•~

“So… why did you act like a thirty year old virgin in front of your own mother, Katsuki?” You ask while Katsuki shuffles as far away from you as possible on the bed. It can’t get more awkward than this; your mind is still clouded by his cruel words and Katsuki… is being Katsuki. Rude and distant. You can’t believe this man was kissing your scars just a few hours ago, kneeling in front of you like you are the most valuable treasure the world has ever seen.

Well, family does that to people sometimes, you guess. You can love and appreciate your family but sometimes, it’s just hard be yourself around them. You can only hope his facade will slowly crumble as Katsuki takes a few deep breaths and settles in the bed.

“I don’t fucking know.” Katsuki grumbles. “It was so fucking awkward to talk about this with her. She always makes me feel so fucking small. She always does that and I hate it.” He shuffles to the side of the bed so you can’t see his face. This might not be the comfortable conversation you’ve been looking for, but seeing Katsuki’s vulnerable side is so rare you feel genuine gratitude towards the whole situation.

“She loves you. So much.” You mumble into your pillow, moving your body to the other side to face his bare back. It’s full of scars, probably rough to the touch, but you would do anything to be able touch all of them, slide your fingers over the broken tissue, one scar after another until you trace every single one on his body; you want to remember them all, have them carved into your heart so you can see them even when your eyes are closed and your mind is fuzzy. “She worked months on those wedding dresses, Katsuki. Months. One of them had small explosions embroidered onto the fabric which only you could see; it looked pure white from the distance. She took me into the family without a single fucking question, because she trusts you. Some people suck at showing affection and love, and it definitely runs in the family, but Katsuki, you are so fucking loved here.” You sigh, your hand reaching towards his back unconsciously. You take your hand back in the middle of the movement, terrified of scaring him away; vulnerable Katsuki must be handled with care and caution like a wounded wild animal; one single mistake and the softness is replaced by sharp teeth and aggressive growls.

“I can’t do it. I don’t know how. I can’t see it either. I can’t see someone loving me, there’s nothing here to love. I’m a fucking mess. I don’t know what I’m doing and I fucking hate this feeling.” The end of sentence is muffled by his pillow but you can hear it loud and clear. This whole situation reminds you of the day he got quirked and you hate it. Really, really hate it.

“Katsuki, can I touch you?” You ask hesitantly. Katsuki nods but doesn’t move towards you so you put your hands on his back and trace the scars, just how you wanted in the first place.

“There is so much to love, Kats.” You smile and Katsuki’s body tenses under your touch. “For instance, today you made me stand up for myself and ask for the food I like. You made me feel like I can have what I want. You reassured me you want me in your life forever. You looked at me like I’m the best thing in the world, while we watched that stupid movie with your mom. You kissed my scars like they are something to cherish and not something to hide. You gave me your favorite old T-shirt to sleep in.” You smile fondly.

“How do you know it’s my favorite T-shirt?” Katsuki asks, his voice deep and tired.

“Even though it’s freshly washed it still smells like burnt sugar.” You admit and take a deep breath to inhale the sweet scent. Katsuki doesn’t move towards you, he’s still facing the wall instead, but he takes a deep breath and sighs, some of the tension leaving his body with his exhale.

“When I said I don’t like you… I really don’t think I do. I don’t think it’s the right word. It doesn’t feel right.” Katsuki mumbles. Your hand stops on his back and your breath hitches. You have no idea where is he going with this; is it a good or a bad thing? Fuck, you are really tense.

“Describe it.” You whisper, snuggling closer to his back. He tenses for a second, but it doesn’t last long.

“I don’t like people in general. They annoy me. I always hated them, I hated how it was necessary to be surrounded by them to stay on the top; when I was a child, I kept a few idiots around just to have some people by my side… Just to bully the shit out of Deku and share the blame. I hated them. I thought I hated Deku even more, but… I really don’t. He annoys the shit out of me but he’s been the one constant thing in my life, the one person who stayed by my side even when I fucked everything up. When I was attacked by the sludge monster, those fuckers just left me there to die. But Izuku… he tried to save me even though he was very weak back then. Even though I told him to go and die, he decided to die for ME. And even then, I still resented him, the whole idea of him being my closest friend. I fought against it and made his whole life miserable, yet he stayed. I might have apologized to him, but I’ve never said thank you. I can’t do it.” Katsuki sighs, deep in thought. “Then Eijirou came along… that fucker was a true menace; I yelled at him so much yet he only grinned and looked at me like it’s a fucking praise. I hated him so much for being a nuisance, I thought he’s nothing but another useless idiot who’ll run away from me with the first chance he’s got. Then he saved my life. It was so fucking dangerous, Y/N, but he did it anyway. Then you…. Fuck.” Katsuki’s voice wavers. “You just barged into my fucking life, yelling and clawing at me at every available moment, then turned my whole fucking life upside down and I don’t even know who the fuck I am anymore. All these fucking feelings are choking me. I don’t know what to do with them. I thought I have everything I wanted except the number one title, but then I started to feel like something’s missing and hated you for it. I still do. You made me want all the things I thought I’ll never have. You opened up these fucking doors and I don’t know what to do with them. I know I should be thankful, but I’m not there yet. But one day, I’ll tell you how fucking thankful I am that you pulled me out of my misery. It’s like the world was black and white and you painted it with fucking colors, but they hurt my eyes so much, even though it’s so pleasant to see them. I don’t like you, Y/N. The word is too shallow. It means fucking nothing and you are way more than that. I feel like if this would be just a dream and I’d wake up from it, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. It’s like a part of you lives inside me and I’m a fucking zero without you in my life. I can’t see myself without you Y/N, and it really fucking terrifies me. You are my weakness. You are the bane of my fucking existence. You are something I’ve never wanted but I can’t live without. You are really important to me. A part of me. That’s what I feel. I hate it.”

You don’t know what to say. Your face is wet with tears, ugly sobs bubbling up as you repeat his words in your head, slowly understanding the implications of them.

You want to pour all your feelings into him, kiss him until he understands how much you love this side of him and how thankful you are for his existence. You want to go to bed with him every day, exchanging vulnerable secrets with each other under the blanket of the night, safe and content in each other’s arms.

“Are you crying?” Katsuki finally decides to show his face, turning around so you can see he him rolling his eyes. If it wouldn’t be so dark you would see how red-rimmed they are. “You are such a sap.”

“Oh, shut up, Kats.” You murmur and push yourself closer, your arm slowly snaking around his ridiculously thin middle. When Katsuki doesn’t pull away, you rest your head on his chest, snuggling impossible close until you are nothing but a mess of limbs. None of you say a anything after that, all the unsaid words swirling around you in the shape of tiny blades, they carve into your heart, quick and painful, but you try your best to resist.

I’m in love with you.

It’s not the right time to say it, so you bare with the pain in your chest and close your eyes; you take a deep breath, your mind already hazy from the scent of burnt sugar.

It’s a good kind of pain, because you know that one day, you’ll be able to speak freely about all of this and he’ll say it back.

And when that day comes, you’ll be the happiest person in the entire world.

Another day, another week, another month, another year… it doesn’t matter. You are willing to wait for eternity if it’s needed.

“Good night, love.” You mumble half asleep, not even aware of the words stumbling out of your mouth.

“Yeah. That’s the word.” Katsuki mumbles back, but you are way too sleepy to understand it.

The sleeps take you quickly in the safety of Katsuki’s arms and you don’t remember the last time you’ve slept so soundly through the night. One day, you need to thank Katsuki for that.

… Next Chapter!

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Potato ramble:

- This chapter was so cute 😭😭😭😭 (I’m also fangirling because I wrote this a few weeks ago so I kinda forgot how cute it is 😂) I love how Katsuki finally confessed in his own weird way.

- The way he described his feelings is actually a reference for the wedding chapter in first season where Y/N asked him how would he describe his dream partner. He literally said the same thing back then 😭

- Also, if you haven’t read the first season: Katsuki tends to talk a lot in bed and it’s easier for him to speak freely about his feelings before or after sleep so most of the emotional conversations will probably be in bed in the later chapters as well. The bed and the darkness is Katsuki’s safe place after all.

- The next chapter will be 18+, so if you are underage/not comfortable with that kind of stuff just ignore next week’s chapter; there will be a brief summary in the chapter after for those who decide to skip it! I’m trying my best not to make this season too explicit but Katsuki has his mind of his own and he just does things? (I don’t know how normal people write, but for me, my characters have their own mind. I had so many plans in the past that I had to scrap because I felt like that’s not what the character would do in certain situations. I’m a weirdo, I know.) When these two get their shit together there will be less of this kind of content, so don’t worry!

~•💥•~

Taglist: @sixxze @iwannahaveaprettyaesthetic @hanatsuki-hime @cloroxisadelectabletreat @cheesenmax @coffeent @smolsleepybat @therealpotatobish

[lafayette-paw-arts]

How would the vees react to one of them almost dying or actually dead

Oh you want an angst meal with extra sad. Comin' up!

There was the one time that Velvette got caught up in an extermination, she had been so badly hurt she lost consciousness. Valentino and Vox got there before the final blow was struck. Val's wings had been completely flared out to make himself look as big and intimidating as possible, Vox meanwhile appeared in a flash of electricity that just didn't leave him, sparking off his body and swirling around his claws dangerously. They were both absolutely pissed but Valentino had a very important job, getting Velvette to the safety of the tower. So he grabbed her and flew off as fast as his wings would take him while Vox had quite the time electrocuting the shit out of those angels. Obviously it didn't kill the angels but it did stun them long enough for Val to get away with Velvette. The angels had recovered fast tho and one had managed to throw an angelic spear through his screen, it nearly killed him, he had just enough energy to get himself into the power grid and get back to the tower where he promptly collapsed and shut down. Valentino was alone to deal with both of them on the brink of death, panicking and worried they'd never wake up, he patched up Velvette's wounds the best he could and screamed through the intercom for someone to send Vox's technician up to the floor they were on to fix his screen. It was the most terrifying night of Valentino's afterlife and one he REALLY doesn't want to repeat. (so that one is kind of a twofer)

Valentino has thankfully only been near death once, he pissed off the wrong person who set a trap for him and and tortured him for days using an angelic weapon they had picked up. This fucker made only one mistake, posting a picture about it online, Velvette saw it, her and Vox were there so fast. Vox started to deal with Valentino while Velvette took the angelic weapon and literally impaled the person up the ass with it, face it to say they were dead and she posted the pictures of it all over social media as a warning to anyone stupid enough to even think of trying something like that again.

Velvette wasn't around for the last time Vox and Alastor actually fought, she's only heard about it from Valentino since Vox doesn't like to talk about it. She knows Val will tease Vox about it to his face, but when Vox isn't around it's a totally different story. Valentino spins a tale of a horrifying night finding Vox on the destroyed battleground, thinking he was dead from the fight (especially because Alastor was nowhere to be seen so he assumed the victor left) He had been enraged trying to find Alastor but the deer demon was long gone, a small glitch from Vox was what indicated he was still alive which Val almost cried from relief. He took him back to the tower and got him fixed up, then proceeded to watch over his unconscious body for weeks with no sign of him waking despite how many times the technician told him Vox was fine it was just taking time to recover. (He wasn't happy to hear of Alastor's return and is happy Vox seems to be keeping his distance and just poking from afar this time)

Hope that does it for ya. I don't do character death stuff really, near death or believed death sure, not actual death. It's just not my style

[leeknot]

Chapter 7: The Descent

Previous | Next

The days blurred together, each one more suffocating than the last. You could feel it—the tension, the watching eyes, the constant presence of those who had once been nothing more than patients under your care. Now, they were something darker, and you were no longer just a doctor. You were a prize to be won, a battleground for their twisted affections.

---

It started with silence. At first, it was a small thing—Jungwon stopped knocking on your door, Niki stopped pacing the hallways, and Sunoo’s sharp remarks seemed to vanish. But the silence was worse than any outburst. It was as if they were all waiting for something, watching, breathing in unison as they prepared for the next move.

It didn’t take long for the silence to become overwhelming.

You began to find little signs of their presence everywhere: a flower left on your desk, a note tucked into your bag, a brief, lingering touch when you least expected it. It was as though they were trying to remind you that they were always there, always watching.

Jake, however, didn’t play the games the others did. He remained by your side, though his watchful eyes seemed to weigh heavier with each passing day. He never let you out of his sight. He followed you to the cafeteria, to your office, even to the bathroom.

“Jake,” you said one evening, your voice low with frustration, “I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to do this.”

His gaze softened briefly, but it quickly turned hard again. “I’m protecting you. You’re in too deep to see it, but I see it. I see all of them, and I see how far they’re willing to go to get what they want.”

“Jake, I can handle myself.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he just stepped closer, his body a protective shield, and that was when you realized: Jake had already decided that he wasn’t leaving your side, no matter what.

---

It wasn’t long before Niki’s frustration started to spill over. You had hoped that by distancing yourself, by keeping things professional, you could keep the tension from escalating. But that was a foolish hope.

You found him in the courtyard one afternoon, pacing in tight circles, his eyes wild with frustration. His movements were jerky, like a predator restrained by invisible chains.

“You think you can control me?” Niki asked as soon as you stepped into his line of sight. His voice was low, dangerous. “You can’t. None of you can. This isn’t about therapy anymore, Doc. This is about power.”

His hands clenched at his sides, his breath coming in short bursts. “I don’t care what you think. I’m not going to let you slip away from me. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you mine.”

The venom in his words was palpable, and for a moment, you thought he might snap. But then, just as quickly as the rage had built, he laughed, a low, bitter sound.

“I’ve already won,” he said. “And so have the others. You just don’t see it yet.”

You didn’t respond. What could you say? The truth was clear: you were caught, and there was no escaping them.

---

Sunoo’s sweet smile had turned cruel. It wasn’t playful anymore; it was a mask, hiding something darker beneath.

One evening, after the group therapy session had ended, Sunoo approached you with a look of mock concern on his face.

“You look tired, Doc,” he said, his voice sickly sweet. “Maybe you need a break. Maybe you need to get away from all of this… stress.”

“I’m fine, Sunoo,” you said, though your body was aching from the constant tension. “I’m just trying to keep up with everyone’s progress.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, leaning in a little too close. “I know you’re trying. But you’re not really in control anymore. You never were. They’ve all staked their claim on you, and now it’s just a matter of time before you give in.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s so much easier when you just stop pretending. You could have everything you want, you know. All of us. If you just stop fighting.”

The words lingered in the air, suffocating, poisonous. You wanted to push him away, to scream, but you couldn’t. You were trapped.

---

The breaking point came on a night when you least expected it. You had managed to slip away, to find a few moments of solitude, but you knew it wouldn’t last long. You could feel the weight of their gaze from every corner of the building, each of them silently waiting for the right moment to make their move.

It was Jake who found you first. He knocked on your door, but before you could respond, he opened it and stepped inside. His eyes were dark, his expression unreadable.

“We need to talk.” he said quietly, though there was no room for argument.

You were about to say something, to tell him that you needed space, but before you could, Niki appeared in the doorway, his posture tense, his fists clenched at his sides.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Niki said, his voice low and controlled. “You can’t shut me out.”

Sunoo appeared next, his smile wide and unsettling. “This has gone on long enough. We’re all done pretending.”

Jungwon was the last to enter, his eyes soft but filled with a possessive intensity that made your skin crawl. “You can’t keep running, Doc. Not anymore.”

Before you could react, the room seemed to close in on you. You felt trapped, cornered. The mirror on the far wall caught the dim light, reflecting a fractured image of the four of them standing there, watching you. It was like a nightmare come to life.

You knew, deep in your gut, that there was no escaping them now. You were theirs. And the realization shattered something inside of you.

---

taglist: @nshmrarki @lakoya

[rita-repulsa-ke]

The Reveal

Agatha feels a sudden bitterness welling in her chest, remembering her coven fastening her to a stake.

Teach me, she had begged. Please, teach me! Help me control it!

Instead, they’d chosen to die. Maybe Rio would like the same choice.

Technically a sequel to First Meeting, but you don't need to have read it. Agatha finds out Rio's true nature in the most Agatha way possible, by trying to get Rio to kill her.

After the first time they have sex, Agatha almost doesn’t say it, that’s how good Rio is in bed. But in her experience, it isn’t a good idea to drag these things out. Not that she’s worried about getting attached, but Rio is canny, as well as sexy and a little crazy. She’ll figure it out, if she hasn’t already, and so it's better for Agatha to get what she wants as soon as possible.

So she sits up, stretches lazily, runs her tongue over sore, bitten lips and says, “Wow, you are really shit in bed.”

She does get a thrill out of the way Rio’s eyes, half-closed, sated with pleasure, snap open to stare at her. Less thrilling is the way the other woman bursts into ear-splitting hysterics. “Liiiiies,” she says, scrambling to sitting to catch Agatha’s mouth with hers. It is a kiss akin to a final showdown, pistols at dawn, a duel to the death. Agatha returns it with equal ferocity, seduction is a battleground she rarely loses at, but for once, she finds that she's overmatched, left melting under the unmistakable hunger in the other woman's kiss.

It's a battle she almost doesn't mind losing.

Rio pulls back, leaves her with bruised, bitten lips and aching for more. “You’re going to have to pick a better insult than that,” Rio purrs, watching her half-lidded and smug. “You weren’t exactly quiet.”

Agatha feels her cheeks heat. “Fine. My turn, then," she says and leans down to kiss Rio.

She sees the other woman ready to meet it with force, do battle with tongue and teeth, but Agatha meets instead her with spun-sugar sweetness, delicate as a butterfly’s wing, slightly parted lips and shared breath, her hand cupping Rio's cheek like the other woman were the most precious thing in the world.

And she’d thought so before, but when she breaks the contact, she’s sure. Her new toy likes that so much. She's watching Agatha with blown pupils, her breathing coming in short, sharp bursts. "…Do that again," she whispers.

“Here, darling, let me,” Agatha purrs, savoring the power in this, as she does it over and over again, kisses as sweet as honey, soft as satin. She moves closer and pulls Rio against her, fingercombs her hair. Kisses Rio on the nose once and this is not her kind of interaction at all, she really prefers it rougher and hungrier, sex instead of affection, but the reaction makes it worth it—she’s got a trembling pile of green witch in her arms and once again, she contemplates waiting, savoring this a little longer.

But the longer you held on, the worse it was when it ended.

So she pulls back, looks into those beautiful eyes and prepares to blow it all up. “You like that, huh? No one ever nice to you? Stick with me, and I can take good care of you,” she purrs, one finger prodding Rio’s cheek. “You can be my dog.”

The other woman sighs deeply, like a sleeper being disturbed in the midst of an amazing dream. “Okay, Agatha, have it your way.”

Some part of Agatha is a touch disappointed. It would have been nice if it had lasted just a teensy bit longer.

But relationships are short-lived and power is forever.

Rio’s power blasts toward her, jagged black and green, and that’s more like it, there’s so much of it and it can all be hers—

Except when she reaches for it, her lungs lock up in her chest, her heart stops mid-beat and she’s aware of what’s happening for the space of single breath before the electrical activity in her brain stutters to a halt.

When she jerks back to life, her heart banging around in her chest like a prisoner trying to escape their cell, it's to Rio’s banshee shriek of a laugh. “Whoops,” the green witch says, watching Agatha doubled over, sobbing for breath, more aware of her lungs than she's ever wanted to be. “Too much for you, baby?”

“How did you do that,” Agatha gasps.

Rio reaches out and ruffles her hair, which Agatha would normally protest to, but she's busy re-experiencing what it is to be alive. “That’s your first question?”

“No. My first question is, can you teach me to do that?”

Rio stills, stares at her with something uncomfortably like delight, entirely the wrong emotion for this conversation. “I can’t.”

Agatha feels a sudden bitterness welling in her chest, remembering her coven fastening her to a stake.

Teach me, she had begged. Please, teach me! Help me control it!

Instead, they’d chosen to die. Maybe Rio would like the same choice.

She summons her magic to her, staticky purple threat dancing through the air. “Reconsider,” she says, a nasty smile crawling across her face.

“Agatha. Not I won’t. I can’t,” Rio says, gentle, patient. “Look.”

She drops the mask and Agatha’s power dissipates as she gapes, open-mouthed, at Death.

“Oh,” she says. “You’re beautiful.”

When Rio asks about this later, Agatha will deny saying it, but now she is utterly entranced by the sheer beauty of Death. She’s killed so many, but she’s never realized how breathtaking a part of the natural order could be.

Death looks mildly startled, then her skeletal features curve into a tranquil expression, the promise of a peaceful end. “You are never quite what I expect," she says, her voice a sepulchral whisper that raises the hair on Agatha's arms, but in the best way possible.

In response, Agatha leans up and kisses her, a brush of her lips over Death’s, chaste, even a bit overawed.

“…That was also really mean,” Rio adds after a number of heartbeats, each of which Agatha appreciates getting to have. “What you just said.”

Agatha snorts, more like herself. “Well, I was trying to get you to blast me. Being mean is kind of the point.”

“Still, maybe at least apologize before demanding I teach you all my secrets?”

“Should I? You did kill me over it, though. That seems like a decent enough revenge.”

”Other people might be afraid."

Agatha meets Death’s eyes and now there’s no awe, only Agatha, the smile on her lips certain to the point of madness. “I am not other people.”

Rio’s breath catches, and her mask falls back into place. Agatha isn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. “Agatha Harkness…” Rio says, and there it is again, completely unwarranted affection verging on adoration in the other woman’s eyes. No one has ever looked at Agatha like that before.

She doesn't exactly hate it.

“So what now?” Agatha asks, curling closer, pressing a kiss to the corner of Rio’s lips, playing with her fingers.

“You promised me bodies."

“I did.” Not crazy after all. Something far more interesting. “And I will provide.”

“Then I guess you’re stuck with me,” Rio murmurs.

“How will I live?” Agatha says, her smile playful, seductive. "You know, come to think of it, I was very mean to you before. Let me make it up to you."

As she leans forward and kisses Rio properly, taking her time with it, intent on making Death swoon, it occurs to her that she can't kill this one, that she might really be stuck with her. Of course, eventually she will leave on her own, when she gets tired of Agatha. Everyone does.

But, a treacherous thought whispers in the very back of her mind, what if she stays?

If you haven't, consider reading the Ritual of the Rose, now on AO3. Or, for fluff, try Flirting or for more of Agatha having issues, try rio stays

[goddess-in-heaven-and-hell]

Invisible Strings Pt. I - Gwynriel One-Shot

Surprise attack lol. I'm alive.

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: language related to war and violence, angst

Gwyn and Azriel have to part ways before the Shadowsinger flies off to war.

Gwyn always liked the moments just before a storm. When the heavens brew up a potion of lightning and thunder, winds picking up speed and oceans growing wild with restless energy. It was like the world came to a momentary halt, nature stopping its breath for a second. Then, chaos erupts. During times like this, the priestess usually finds herself nestled into a cozy armchair by a big window, watching with rapt attention from the security of her home.

But what happens if your home suddenly became the center of the storm, tension building painstakingly slow? What if your very foundations started to shake and crack, and you didn’t know which way to run for safety?

Only two days ago did the autumn court and Koschei’s army declare open war against the allegiance of Prythian. Even though the territory of the Night Court wasn’t a battleground, their troops were currently flying and marching south – to meet either victory or their end. Cassian and Nesta have been gone for two weeks now, scouting and preparing for battle. 

To say Gwyn was a nervous wreck was an understatement. The mere thought of Nesta and Cassian sent her spiraling. The heaviness of war loomed in every dark corner of the library, in the shadows of her room. With a surge of anxiety came the shame – because was she really standing there, in the warm and safe halls of the House of Wind, panicking and feeling sorry for herself, when her friends faced the real threat?

When Azriel was about to head into the center of fighting?

She would just about manage to go about her routine if it weren’t for that that little, persistent, cruel thought. It snuck up on her all throughout the day, only to leave her shaking between the rows of books. Azriel would join their friends tomorrow morning. And she might never see him again.

Bracelet in one hand, a light in the other, Gwyn ascended the stairs leading to the house proper. She didn’t even know where he chose to spend his last moments in peace, but her legs carried her all the way to his room nonetheless. The light pouring through the slit of his door told her enough, yet she still didn’t quite know how to go about this. What could she possibly say to make this situation better? Did he even want a ‘goodbye’, or was he better off pretending that this moment wasn’t as severe as it felt? Her shaking fingers placed the bracelet in her pocket, then formed a fist to knock on the door.

Upon entering, Gwyn couldn’t help but notice how perfectly normal everything looked. His bed was as pristine as ever, a fire burning merrily in the hearth, Azriel slouching over papers in front of it. But his bags were packed, weapons stashed neatly by the door. Gwyn’s eyes stung with tears that she quickly blinked away.

“Hey you.”, she offered a greeting, her voice only wobbling slightly. Azriel looked up from his reports, face neutral, if not slightly amused.

“Gwyn.”, he replied, nodding his head towards the couch for her to sit. She obliged, if only to give her knees a rest, while Azriel stood to stack away the documents. Up to this point, it was routine. For the past year or so, they found themselves drawn to each other, with Gwyn visiting him in the library or his room for evening chats, or Azriel coming down to her workplace for a quick lunch.

“Would you like something to drink, eat?”, he asked casually as he resumed his seat in the armchair before the fire. Gwyn declined, fidgeting slightly in the loaded silence that ensued. But he wasn’t offering her a conversation starter, and she didn’t know how to voice her own thoughts.

Gwyn knew for a fact he knew why she was here, that she physically couldn’t bear the thoughts of battle in the loneliness of her own room and had to see for herself one last time. To see his face: brows furrowed in concentration as he read, the little tilt to his head when he listened to one of her pointless stories, the rare, but ever so beautiful grins when she managed to surprise him with some unexpected quirk of hers.

But laughter was the last thing on her mind now. And the more she looked at him, the blurrier her vision got.

Azriel let out a startled, slightly pained laugh as the first tear escaped down her cheek. Gwyn tried to blink the rest away furiously, but all that ended up doing was produce more waterworks. She barely noticed Az kneeling in front of her and gently reaching for her hands. Only as the warmth of him seeped into her cold fingers, and she beheld his amused expression, did she choke out a laugh as well.

“You know, I came here tonight to cheer you up.”, her voice came out all weird. It held all the pent-up emotion from the past weeks, mixed in with the absurd comic of the situation. Gwyn couldn’t help thinking that she behaved exactly like one of the book characters of long passed times, the hysterical damsel in distress. If she fainted now, she’d sink straight through the wooden floor all the way into the mountain itself.

The way she was feeling, she wouldn’t have put it past herself.

“Worked like a charm.”, the Shadowsinger reply wryly while caressing the backs of her hands with his thumbs in a soothing manner. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call you ‘cheery’, but you definitely offered distraction.”

Gwyn’s lips stretched into one of those smiles that only needed one more depressing thought to slip into full-on wailing.

“I can’t bear it.”, she whispered, shaking her head.

“It’s just war, Gwyn. It happens every few decades, and so far, I’ve managed to survive quite a lot of it.”, Azriel, bless his soul, was trying to reason with her. “Besides, believe me when I say I have entered spying missions that posed more of a danger to me than open battle. I can look after myself. And if I fail, there are hundreds of other warriors out there who have my back.”

He has talked enough for the tears to subside slightly. Gwyn listened with furrowed brows, trying very hard to focus her vision enough so that she might soak up the look on his face. She contemplated his reassurances for a bit.

“Sounds like a lot of bullshit to me, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel only grinned back at her, shrugging his shoulders. The nerve of this male!

“You’ll be the death of me.”, she said, feeling a little more like herself. Enough so that her cheeks started to stain slightly. Did she really just come to his room only to break out into tears? When she was the one waking up in her safe, comfortable room tomorrow morning without the prospect of dying?

“Gods, Az, I’m so sorry.”, she quickly whiped away her tears, only briefly mourning the loss of his touch. There were more important things to focus on tonight that her stupid crush. “I shouldn’t have barged in like that. I didn’t even know if you wanted company tonight or just some silence. I can only imagine how stimulating and stressful a war camp might be and now I’ve robbed you of your last moments of peace.”

She winced apologetically, her hands clinging to each other in her lap. “If you’d like, I can go and we forget this ever happened.”

But Azriel held onto her as she made to stand up, effectively making her bounce back onto the sofa. “Don’t go, please.”

The look they shared as he said that could have measured a second or a minute. Either way, Gwyn was unable to tear herself away from his gaze, the sudden intensity in it. But she managed to nod, leaning back on the sofa and assuming what she hoped was a natural and relaxed position.

For the next hour or so, Gwyn tired her very best to ignore the looming threat hung above the room like stormy, dark cloud. She tried to be as engaging and bubbly as usual, because that was what he deserved. Distraction, and a bit of amusement, to get him through the night.

They only noticed the time passing when the House dumped another log of wood into their nearly dying fire. Two sets of eyes flicked to the hearth, then to the clock in the corner, two pairs of legs sprung into motion.

“I am so sorry Az. You should have been in bed-“

“for about two hours.”, Az concluded slowly, as if coming out of a trance. “I’ll walk you to the stairs, yes?”

They went in silence, any pretense of normality broken. Gwyn counted the steps they took from his room to the stairs, each one thundering more loudly in her head than it should. She couldn’t shake the feeling of profound panic, of her life being over as soon as she stepped foot into the library.

So she stopped dead in her tracks, forcing Azriel to turn around.

“I’ll come with you.”, she blurted out, her body so full of adrenaline she didn’t even feel fear mixing into her personal cocktail of emotions as well. “Why didn’t we think of that! I just come with you, and I’ll help you with your work and help with the wounded and then it will be over more quickly.” She nodded to herself as she rambled, barely registering what she said. “I can share a tent with Nesta, I can clean, I can even fight if worse comes to worse!”

“Gwyn, you can’t honestly mean that.”, Azriel’s low voice was like a balm that settled over her anxious heart. With him, she could do it. Could face war.

“Yes, I do mean that.”, Gwyn replied, “I’ll be of no use in the library anyways, way too distracted and fidgety to do any proper work. We can ask Clotho for permission right away.”

Gwyn moved past him, her body working on autopilot, to inform Clotho of her apparent death wish. But a warm, solid hand grabbed her forearm and gently pulled her back. Towards an even warmer, sturdier body. Before she could react, her whole being was enveloped in the scent and feel of Azriel. Gwyn’s panicked mind decided she liked it there. It felt like home.

“No.”, Azriel simply said, wrapping both his arms around her and holding her close.

Gwyn made to protest, but Azriel’s voice continued to rumble through his chest. “I’m not saying you aren’t a good fighter, and I am not saying that because you’re a female you should stay here. But hear me out please?”

Gwyn nodded against his chest, her own arms now finding purchase on his back.

“War is different than anything you have ever seen before. It’s not like the Blood Rite, where you are spread out across fields and woods and sporadically fight, or simply avoid it. War means close fighting, shoulder to shoulder, having to step over your own dying allies to push back the enemy. War is loud, and chaotic, and absolute hell on earth.”

The priestess was crying into his shirt now, trying to listen to the truth in his words, trying to acknowledge the fact that her knees wanted to give out at the mere thought of such a scenario. But that other, unreasonable part of her did not want to let him go there on his own.

“Gwyn, war means you’ll have to stay in a camp full of warriors. All of them sizable, all of them getting increasingly angry and lonely as time passes. And as much as I’d wish for it, I wouldn’t be there all of the time to keep an eye on you. Nesta and Cassian won’t either. Do you hear me, love?”

He pulled back, coming face to face with her. Gwyn whispered a defeated ‘yes’. She hadn’t even found the courage to visit Velaris yet, still jumped when hearing male voices that weren’t familiar to her. What on earth made her think she could face this?

“I’m sorry to leave you behind.” Azriel shook his head, his hand coming up to reach for her face, only to be dropped again after a second. “But in all honesty, I’m not sure if I could do my best while knowing you’d be there.”

Gwyn nodded, stepping away from him just a bit. Her mind had gone all fuzzy with the smell of him. “I understand. Maybe… maybe next time?”

She didn’t understand immediately why he laughed at her words. All her body knew was sadness.

“What?”

Azriel’s voice still held some laughter as he answered, “Only you would wish for another war to happen just to prove me wrong.”

Gwyn realized what she said a second later. Gods, she must have forgotten her brain in the dormitory before coming up to meet him. What was happening to her?

“So, this is goodbye?”, she concluded, finally feeling the cold of the stairway creeping up her legs and arms now that the Shadowsinger didn’t scare it away.

“Yes. But only a temporary one. I’m not easy to kill.” Now, his hand did come up to cup the side of her face, his thumb wiping away the tear stains. She caught his wrist with her own hand, stepping close to him again and – encouraged by whatever condition her mind was currently in – pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.

“Promise me to write. And promise me to stay alive.”, she said, her voice again wobbly with emotion.

Azriel had a pained look on him. Like a man deeply regretting something and wishing with all his heart to turn back time. But he managed to repeat the promise to her. And he managed to keep his distance, despite the slight lean of his body towards her.

“Oh!”, the priestess exclaimed with a start. If she had forgotten, she’d have kicked herself repeatedly for the foreseeable future! Reaching in her pocket, she rummaged out the bracelet she made for him. It seemed pathetic now, really, the delicate strings of yarn next to the Shadowsinger.

But his eyes softened as he beheld the present. “I wanted to give that to you. You don’t have to wear it, of course!”, she quickly added, now thinking he might not want to parade this token of affection around in a war camp. “But I like to think it’ll protect you.”

Azriel swallowed. Then he simply held out his right arm. Her fingers, thankfully, did not shake as she managed to tie it around his wrist. Blue for his siphons, black for his Shadows, and white for peace and protection. The charm she knotted into the bracelet held her wish for him, that he might return to her in one piece.

“I’ll honor it. And my promises to you.”, he said. And before Gwyn could fathom what happened, her Shadowsinger wrapped himself around her once more, squeezing with more force than necessary. “I’ll come back to you, love. And I’ll make things right.”

Gwyn didn’t really know what he meant, but her heart danced around her chest regardless. Also, did he just call her ‘love’? It sounded so natural, so normal that she almost didn’t catch it.

After a while, he pulled away again.

“See you around, Berdara.”

She didn’t find the right words to reply immediately. When she finally did, he was long gone, blended in with the Shadows surrounding them.

And with this second, piercing her chest like a strike of lighting, her own personal hell had begun.

[piko-rose]

A Talk Between Two Hedgehogs

Psssst. Hey. You. Yeah, you. You want some Sonadow hurt/comfort? Well... HERE YA GO! TW: Mentions of death, implied self-hatred and swearing

-

"What the hell are you doing here...?"

Well, that wasn't what Shadow was expecting at all. When he approached, he was expecting perhaps a dumb quip or a joke, or whatever annoying one-liner Sonic would say.

Maybe he should've expected less when he sees the hedgehog sitting by a tree, watching the barely cloudy dusk resting behind the oceans of Seaside Hill.

The moment Sonic said those words, head turned to glare into his soul, with tired emerald eyes, Shadow wasn't sure how to respond. When was the last time Sonic was this upset?

For a second, he glanced over to a bandage around Sonic's elbow.

He might've already guessed in his head what he might be upset about...

"Uh..." Is all Shadow could mutter out. He looked anywhere but Sonic, trying to come up with a much, much better response then just a stupid, small "uh".

When he did look back, Sonic turned back to the dusk sky. "If you got nothing to say, then go away..." He huffed tiredly, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his head down, cheek smushing his frown.

Shadow sighed a quite exhausted sigh. "I just want to talk." He finally says.

The blue speed demon blinked. Confused. He refused to look back at him. "...About what exactly?" He didn't want to start anything with Shadow, he just wants it over with.

"I just... want to talk, Sonic." He repeated, with such a soft yet guilty tone in his quiet voice.

An hour before whatever's going on here, there was an Eggman fight. Which is usual, if not, normal, for most people. Especially for Sonic and his friends.

Well, Shadow wouldn't call it "normal," but it is a usual occurrence. An annoying one, even.

An Eggman battle is the last thing Shadow needed. He already had a pretty rough day, and Eggman is just not who he wanted to deal with.

And at that time, he didn't even wanted to deal with Sonic either.

Rouge and Omega were already there at the battleground, while Sonic and his friends hogged half of the Badniks already.

Last time Shadow checked, Eggman stole the Master Emerald. Again. At least it wasn't Rouge this time, otherwise Knuckles would be just as mad as him.

For a while, it was just him and Sonic having to deal with the robots, and it felt like hours when Sonic kept on rambling and chortling out jokes, like he's having the time of his life.

Truly a hellscape for Shadow.

He wouldn't really claim Sonic as his enemy per say, but he does get on his nerves more times than none. He's not exactly his friend either. Just... Some hedgehog that an awful lot of people look up to.

He knows he means well but... He never shuts up.

Once they found the Master Emerald, with the assistance of Knuckles, it was hard to get it out of the base when Sonic kept taunting the mad doctor, as he kept ordering Badniks after him.

He had no clue how Knuckles is used to this by now, but hearing his constant laughter, and his loud jesters, and those weird nicknames he gave to the doctor, Shadow wouldn't even last for another minute.

An annoying hedgehog is, in actuality, the last thing he needed.

After a long, tiring day at G.U.N., trying to fix Omega with Tails' help, and dealing with his own kind of trouble with bad guys, he needed a break. So badly.

He was just so tired of beating up robots, so tired of moving around, so tired of carrying the Master Emerald, so tired of everything be so loud, so tired of hearing dumb jokes.

He was just tired of hearing his voice every five seconds.

He was so tired of Sonic.

So, goddamn tired.

"Would you just SHUT THE HELL UP ALREADY?!! I cannot STAND hearing your dreaded voice at a time like THIS!! Do you even UNDERSTAND how insufferable you are right now?!"

"Whoa, whoa, hey! Take it easy! A-And don't drop the Emerald-!"

"Excuse me? Who is talking here, Knuckles??"

"Dude, will you chill? I was just-"

"How could I chill if you never shut your trap when your life is on the line! The last thing I needed is a fool's voice flooding my aching head!"

"I just-"

"I try SO hard to keep this to myself, but I swear to GAIA, I wish you NEVER had a voice!!"

... ... ...

Silence never sounded so deafening.

Looking back at that moment, it was not one of Shadow's proudest moments. He knew the second all of that was spilled out, he was going to regret it.

And the moment a laser shot into the Blue Blur's arm, knocking him back to his senses, it was more than just regret.

He had to leave the room before things escalated. Knuckles was already yelling at him, and Sonic's cries of pain didn't help either.

Everything was so loud.

And so, left he did. Leaving Knuckles with the Master Emerald, and Sonic, on the ground, surrounded by Badniks and bleeding from the elbow.

It's no wonder Sonic was upset.

No. He was angry.

He was angry at him.

Shadow knew it, but he nearly forgot until he saw the look in the hedgehog's eyes when they met again after the fight. He never planned to leave Sonic like that.

He never meant to snap like that.

Yet... Here there were, far apart from each other, one hedgehog standing a few feet away, looking down at his air shoes, unsure on what to do with this uneasy feeling inside of him, and one sitting by a tree and cliff, trying so hard to forget those things that other hedgehog said to him and just wishing he would just leave him alone.

The two fight every now and again, but their recent one was... Different.

It wasn't like the usual races, or the confrontations, or the insulting nicknames. It was unlike any fight they've had.

But why?

They fight almost all the time, why was this one the one that shook the two the most?

Perhaps...

Perhaps it was the belief on how serious Shadow was. Maybe... Sonic genuinely believed he never wanted him to talk again.

Is that why?

If so, then he felt worse.

Shadow was already looking back on the fight, but looking back now, it was dreadful. Not Sonic's voice. It was never his voice that was dreadful.

What's truly dreadful was why Sonic is upset about this in the first place. He needed to understand and make amends for now. He just wanted to talk.

He wouldn't want to leave Sonic like this. He doesn't want to. He already regret leaving him with a bruised elbow, he ain't leaving him with a bruised heart.

"...Fine." After what it felt like forever, Sonic sighed and finally spoke out one, small word that allows Shadow to stay with him.

He wouldn't show, but he was pretty relieved to hear that word come out of his mouth.

Slowly, Shadow walked towards him and carefully sat down next him him, legs crossed. He once again looked at his feet, then back at Sonic, who was still not facing him, only facing down at his own feet.

He still seemed angry, yet those eyes tell a different story. They looked sad. Hurt, even.

Shadow's eyes lowered, paining him to see the blue hedgehog like this, somehow. He was so used to seeing Sonic so bright and happy all the time, and then this happened.

A long exhale escaped from Shadow, still trying to process the right things to say. He kept looking away, then back at Sonic. The more he looked back, the more he felt terrible.

He could've sworn the fourth time he looked back he could tell that Sonic was crying earlier. His eyes appeared to be wet and his cheeks looked like they had little, faded streams going down his chin.

Shadow doesn't know what to do. But, if he doesn't know what to say either, then... He's still going to stay. He's not leaving until that annoying smile comes back.

If he truly wanted that smile to come back, then maybe it's not so annoying after all.

It wasn't even that annoying at all.

"Sonic..." He finally said his name, yet quietly, but quiet enough for Sonic to hear. He still wasn't looking at him, but he listened.

He glanced at the bandage again.

"First off... I want to know if you're feeling any better." He said.

Sonic briefly looked over to him, then at the bandage on his elbow. He sat up for a moment and placed his hand on it. He looks up to fully face Shadow and see his expression.

Calm. Focused. Soft.

It was an odd, yet soothing look for him. It confuses Sonic.

"...Why'd you care?" He says, raising an eye brow.

The Ultimate Lifeform's eyes rose hearing that. 'Why'd he care?' What kind of a question is that? Trying to push his surprise aside, he resumed trying to reason with him.

"B-Because... I wanted to make sure that you're not hurting." He mentioned.

"Pfft. Yeah, sure. Right. Okay." He faked a chuckle, not believing a word he's saying. "Shadow the Hedgehog, making sure no body's hurt. Now I've heard everything."

Okay, now he's becoming annoyed again.

"Sonic, it may not look like it, but I think about everyone else's safety. Right now, yours is my main focus."

"Then you're wasting your time." Sonic retorted calmly. "I'm fine. You can go now."

Shadow's brow furrowed. "I am not leaving you, hedgehog."

There was a moment of silence between the two. They both looked away from each other. Shadow closes his eyes, calming himself, and Sonic stopped placed both of his hands on the grass, watching the sunset again.

As Shadow opened his red and shining amber eyes, he looks back at the azure hedgehog, still in slight disbelief that Sonic would doubt his concerns for him.

It upsets him. Very.

"Why would..." He began to process the question again. Baffled, and, shockingly, hurt by it. He inhaled and prepared himself to ask. "Why would you think that I wouldn't care at all?"

Then, Sonic's ears pinned down, and he shuts his eyes tight. "Because you hate me." He choked.

"... ..."

Shadow was dumbfounded.

He blinked. Multiple times. Then, he was no longer facing him. He opened his mouth to say something. Anything.

But... Nothing.

He closed his mouth, and looked over to the sunset again, not knowing what to say anymore.

I screwed up big time, he thought.

Sonic and Shadow don't really see eye to eye most of time, but it's not like they hate each other. In fact, Sonic just thought he was neat, even if he could be a grump-butt.

Sonic too can be quite annoyed by him, but he knows him. He knows what Shadow has been through. Even if he hated him, he wanted him to be happy. To be okay.

Little did he know, Shadow felt the same way about him.

Of course, he wouldn't say anything about it, otherwise, he would never, ever hear the end of it. He can be a bother, but there was always that one thing Shadow always liked about him.

His optimism.

Even throughout his darkest moments, and the worst of messes, he somehow still has that goofy smile on his face that is bright as the sun itself.

He never gave up, no matter how slim his chances of survival were.

Almost every time, he laughed right at death, and walk off like it's no big deal.

He's probably the bravest hedgehog Shadow has ever met.

Yet, the one thing that brought him down the most right now is Shadow wishing he never spoke.

He never meant for any of this to happen. If only he would've just shut his mouth, then maybe Sonic wouldn't be like this.

Looking back at him now, seeing his pained expression on the blue hedgehog's face, it's clear that this was really the last thing he needed today.

Or any day.

Once more, he sighed and spoke up finally, "I want you to recall every moment in your life where I said such a thing."

Sonic was going to protest, but he kept himself silent, and thought about him. He zoned out, watching the sky from above. His eyes were getting softer the longer he thought about it. He still looked hurt, though.

He looked down at his shoes again. "Maybe you kept it all to yourself until recently...?"

A loud, irritated exhale escaped from Shadow's nose. "How much will it take for an idiot to understand that I care?"

Again, silence came between them. Sonic looked out to the sunset that was nearly gone by now.

"When we first met, I thought you were such a pain, and... You still are to this day." Shadow began. "But... Ever since the defeat of the Biolizard, and stopping the ARK from crashing down... You tried to save me."

Sonic payed close attention to every word he's saying, still not facing him.

"It was quite baffling in my opinion. Trying to rescue someone who tried to kill you more than twice. I find it amusing. Yet... At least I knew that someone out there care about me as well."

At that moment, Sonic was taken by slight surprise and turn to face him.

"I know there's Amy, who helped me remember Maria's promise, and Rouge and Omega always had my back," he continued. "But there's something about you that... impressed me. You helped me, after everything I've done. I'm surprised that you actually wanted to try and save me."

"...I'm surprised you thought that way." Sonic spoke. "Just because we fought, it doesn't mean that I wanna leave you for dead. I didn't want that. Besides, everyone deserves another chance. Even you."

"But..." Shadow's tone became somber. "...Why?"

The two hedgehogs stare at each other.

"Why do you care about me?"

"... ..."

Sonic's lips quiver briefly, and his brow furrowed, hoping to Light Gaia that what Shadow said was a joke. "You kidding me right now?" He said, voice nearly breaking as he tried to hold back tears.

"Dude," Sonic started, "Don't pretend that me, Tails, Rouge and the rest weren't there on the ARK, not listening to Gerald's diary, not learning about how had happened back there with you, and Maria, and everyone else up there."

He sounded so calm yet so mad. Whether he was mad at Shadow or about something else, he looked down on the ground, having no choice but to listen to what he has to say.

"And you know what? Even if I had no idea about what happened, I'd still try and save you from falling! Why? Because no body deserves to die! I mean that, Shadow! I mean no body! I wanted to save you so badly! I want you to live your life and be free! But...! ...but..."

Shadow looked back, now seeing the emerald eyes, shiny and wet.

"You wouldn't let me... You couldn't let me save you... Because you honestly thought you don't deserve to be saved..."

"I only did that because I couldn't let you fall with me."

"I DON'T CARE, MAN!" Sonic yelled. "I would've done all I can to save your life, but you wouldn't let me!"

"That's because your friends were waiting for you at the ARK, you moron!" Now it's Shadow's turn to yell at his face. "I didn't want you to kill yourself because of me!!" His voice croaked on the last word.

He was out of breath, and so was Sonic.

All they could do was stare.

They're both so guilty.

Sonic was the first to looked away again, but Shadow was the first to speak up once more. "You have friends. You have a family. If you saved me then, they would never see you again. Do you understand?"

Sonic blinked.

"Tails. Amy. Knuckles. Everyone up there. There were all waiting for you. To come home."

"...They were also waiting for you."

Despite the slow, growing anger, Shadow's eye were beginning to sting with tears. "That's not the point, faker. You are more important to them than I ever will be!"

He cupped his mouth.

Sonic's eyes grew.

He swung his head right back at Shadow.

He looked up at Sonic.

He looked terrified.

"Don't. You EVER. Say that again. Shadow." He snarled, not even caring about letting the tears fall down anymore. "If there is one thing about you that I can't stand is you believing that you deserve nothing!"

He quickly stood up on both of his feet, and shrieked, "THAT IS NOT TRUE, AND YOU FUCKING KNOW IT!!"

Shadow nearly fell back, startled badly from the sudden scream, let alone a sudden cuss, that slipped out of Sonic out of all people. He could see the anger and heartbreak in his tired eyes.

Shadow's filled to the brim with guilt at this point.

Realizing what was spoken, Sonic took a few deep, shakey breaths, before looking back at Shadow. "I-I'm sorry... I kinda... Had a rough day as well, and... I'm not dealing with this right now." He rubbed his arm.

"Wait. Sonic." Shadow says.

"No. Save it. I'm done arguing with you, Shadow. I can't deal with this." He turned away and was about to walk off. "Goodbye."

"WAIT A MINUTE!"

He held onto Sonic's hand. Tightly.

They both stopped what they were doing, faced towards each other and stared. For a long time.

Four pairs of eyes, two emerald, and the other amber, couldn't take them off of each other. Shadow didn't even let go of his hand. They just... Stared.

Shadow stared, hoping, begging, that Sonic could stay and talk to him for a little longer.

Sonic stared, understanding that Shadow doesn't want him to leave anytime soon.

They both don't want to leave one another.

They both want to stay.

"I..." Shadow stopped himself, just realizing he was still holding Sonic's hand. He let go. "I'm sorry..." It took him all that power to say those little words. "I'll admit that what I said was... Uncalled for. I just want you to be safe... To be... happy."

"...I know." Sonic croaked quietly.

The two fell silent once again, with Shadow crossing his arms and looking away to his right, and Sonic trying to calm himself as he was beginning to hiccup some quiet cries.

He wiped his eyes and sniffled. Shadow's ear twitch and faced him again. Oh, God, he's crying.

"Hey... I- Don't cry, okay? I said I was sorry..."

"...I know..."

Shadow apologizing just made Sonic even more of a sobbing mess. He shouldn't apologize. He should never apologize for that. It's not his fault that he wasn't saved from his fall.

It wasn't his fault that he nearly died.

Why would it be?

Shadow done nothing wrong. Sonic shouldn't even be the one mad at him, it should've been Shadow.

He's the one being annoying anyway.

"S-So..." He began, wiping all the tears away. Almost. "you're not mad at me?"

"After all that, not anymore." Shadow admitted. "Though... There is one thing."

"What's that?" He sniffled, feeling his nose drip.

"Why were you so upset about me wishing you wouldn't speak?" Shadow asked. "I'm honestly surprised you took that seriously."

Sonic just stood there. Blinked, and turned to his right. "Oh." Is all he could say. He suddenly laughed out loud, which confuses Shadow.

At least hearing him laugh made him feel better.

"O-Okay, okay..." Sonic snorted, trying so badly to stop himself from laughing. "I'm sor-HAHA! I'm so sorry, dude! Let me- *SNORT* Let me explain."

"Uhhh, o-okay."

"When I was- Alright... When I was younger, WAAAAYYY before I met Tails and the rest of the gang, I couldn't speak. At all." Sonic began.

"Why?" Shadow asked.

"My vocal chords were messed up. Somehow." He continued. "I couldn't remember why, but I wasn't able to speak for a few years. And even after that time, I wouldn't want to speak because... I thought I was better off without a voice."

"...Oh." Great. Shadow feels even more guilty.

"H-Hey! Don't feel bad!" Sonic reassured. "I was young at the time, so I was also pretty dumb." He joked. "I spoke a couple of times, but that was about it. It wasn't until after I met Amy when I realize that it's okay to talk."

"I see..."

"And ever since, I just... love to talk! I just, have so much to say! About my friends, my adventures, everything! Sometimes, I forget that I talk too much." He chuckled nervously. "Once a blue moon, something would remind me about how much I talk... and how annoying I could be sometimes..."

A quiet huff, which sounded like laughter almost, exhaled from Shadow, and he smiled slightly. "I don't think it's annoying. I think your voice is alright."

Sonic's eyes lit up. "Really, now??"

"Don't make me take it back."

And just like that, Sonic cracked up once again. That same ol' laughter Shadow heard non-stop a while ago. And for the first time, as far as he's concerned, he smiled widely.

After all that mess, Sonic's laughter was music to his ears, and this was the one thing he unknowingly truly needed after a hard day.

-

Been thinking about these hedgehogs again. 😭 It's about damn time I wrote Sonadow! Holy crap I am so upset at myself! 🤣 I honestly wish I wrote this a lot better than I already did because I pulled an all-nighter and I kind of, sort of, rushed it?? Just wanna write Sonadow for once.

[ipkkndlovescenes]

Gadbad or Attraction

Gadbad...or attraction

Nothing will be the same...

*****

“Love must not entreat,' she added, 'or demand. Love must have the strength to become certain within itself. Then it ceases merely to be attracted and begins to attract.”― Hermann Hesse,

“He liked her; it was as simple as that.”― Nicholas Sparks,

"Gadbad ho gaye di, tum ne uska naam le liya..." It feels wrong di as you have said his name, and now I won't be able to sleep. Behind closed eyes, there was none other than her Rajkumar and Rakshas. Khushi had a new way of remembering him, to call his name. Payal was right; the number of times Khushi called or remembered him, it was apparent she was overdoing that more than ASR. 

But again, Payal had no idea about ASR and his feelings yet. Because he was going through the same. A simple glass of water was on his mind, which touched her lips. Was he imagining or urging to have her right in front of her, savouring her with his eyes as always?

“Mysteries of attraction could not always be explained through logic. Sometimes the fractures in two separate souls became the very hinges that held them together.”― Lisa Kleypas, 

The new day starts with each others' thoughts. Oh, a new gadbad. She forgot her Devi Maiya, for real, just like Buaji.😆 Another excuse to go to Lion's den is to say whatever she wants because she isn't done yet.😆

ASR started his day with his happy family, but they couldn't stop him at home on Sunday. Like...for real.😆

Arnav reaches his office on Sunday as this is his space, his escape, where he can gather. But today, he cannot escape from her thoughts, her face, and her words. He still keeps thinking of Khushi. She didn't want to talk to him, which was bugging him. There was an overwhelming urge to talk to her, see her, and clarify himself from the incident, which shook him like no one. He could've lost her forever. Even today, when he crosses her table, Devi Maiya's statue and Khushi's things halt him again, but her memory of closing the door behind her after the resignation makes him change his mind. He tells his peon to deliver Khushi's things to her, but the timbre of her voice reflects his helplessness.

“The mind has a powerful way of attracting things that are in harmony with it, good and bad.”― Idowu Koyenikan

 In his cabin, he keeps himself busy, but she has full control over his mind and heart. He leans back and closes his eyes, trying to keep his thoughts at bay, but his tensed facial muscles reflect the opposite.

She is on the other side, struggling with her own fears... she reaches and gets halted for a while. She is hesitant and conflicted, and this is such a true human brain and its survival mechanism that she justifies her decision to leave by remembering all the bad things he had done to her.

She gathers the courage and opens the door when he closes his eyes.  She is also lost in his thoughts and justifies her fears that he can't be there this Sunday."Dar mat Khushi" Don't be afraid, Khushi.

 

The office has been their battleground of everything. Their feelings, the war of heart and mind, brought back so many memories! He opens his eyes as he feels her presence, stronger than ever. An urgent urge makes him slowly rise from his chair. The wind blows his hair, like kissing him with her essence.

On the other hand, he has this gut feeling that she is here. He gets up from his chair and lets this feeling simmer down into reality. It's like the wind delivered him the message before even she was close to his eyes.

It was overwhelming and something he could not ignore, just like her as she felt it too, but it was Sunday...Ah, he can't be here. "Office main koi nahin, aaj to ravivaar hai.."

"Khushi!"

. His lips whisper her name, and he walks to the glass doors and looks down. Here she was...Disbelief takes over.

 Is she really there, or does he imagine her?

 He watches her every step as she walks to her desk and then sits, completely lost in her world...

Khushi is confabulated with her internal conflict, fighting with that unnamed feeling that is taking shape and control of her or consuming her. The memories of the rainy night come back. At the same time, he looks at her from above and sees her in the red saree during the calendar shoot. Ah, the day his heart learned to beat. Both of them are churned by a feeling so strong with a flame that is consuming them slowly, and both of them cannot control or tame it…It is something deeper that neither of them could accept, deny, or even explain.

She closes her eyes to tame her feelings and her thoughts but in vain. She looked up like her eyes wanted to see the ruler of her imagination, and here he was. Both directly face each other. He was looking at her without blinking. Their eyes speak volumes of their heartbeats as always; their minds were trying to acknowledge it.

Two people were getting overpowered by these overwhelming feelings and emotions which were affecting them, gulping them, drowning them in this ocean of love. But at the same time, it was scary, too, especially for Khushi.  How can anyone be normal to have normal behaviour in such conditions? The friction was inevitable to regain their senses. They all have just anger and conflict to offer because that’s how they can express the intensity of their feelings for days.

He was always attracted not by some quantifiable, external beauty of her but by something deep down, something absolute. Just as some people have a secret love for rain, for the moon, or for flowers, he liked that certain undefinable something directed his way by her. She was the moon he stared at every night, the rain he was getting drenched in every minute of his life, the essence of flowers touching his soul and body with every clap of wind. For want of a better word, call it magnetism. Like it or not, it’s a kind of power that snares two opposite people and reels them in.

“But I knew the second she opened her eyes and looked at me. She was either going to be the death of me . . . or she was going to be the one who finally brought me back to life.”― Colleen Hoover,

It seemed his world got its colors back when she looked back at him without taking her eyes off of him...He calls out to her and asks her to come to his cabin because he wants to talk to her. She ignores him and walks to the storeroom to get her Devi Maiya. 

“Oh no, I know that look. What are you thinking? That this is the ridiculous declaration of attraction I've ever heard”― Jennifer L. Armentrout,

Oh, once again, she is leaving him hanging there in this vortex. She knows exactly how to push him, and he lets her but not today. She had no idea if she had enough; he was done fighting with this guilt track too...Did she really think he would let her walk away like that easily today? 

Well, she threw a challenge-filled look, and he accepted it. 

He is furious, and the way he jumps and turns on one of his feet, you can calculate the calibre of his anger. He walks out of his cabin and follows her to the store room. All he cares that how he can get her to stay and listen to him. His long strides around his own office are worth watching.

Khushi enters the store room and delivers her anger..."Hume kya pata tha ki yeh Laad Governor ravivar ko bhi logon ko satane ke liye ghar se nikalte hai" [ How the heck, I knew that Laad Governor gets out of his home on Sunday to mess with people.] She is clearly referring to herself.😆

“I accept the hard reality that I maybe might possibly be just the slightest tiniest littlest bit kinda sorta interested in him.”― Sarah Ockler

Finally, Devi Maiya brought them together.  Devi Maiya is a pillar of faith in her life… the one thing that is most important to her in her entire world… On Mazar she fought with ASR for Devi Maiya..as nothing can happen without Devi Maiya's wish. It seems Devi Maiya is really writing their story, bringing them back to each other whenever they try to go away from each other. 

Go to Part 2

[netherfeildren]

Joel

A Fear of God story : Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC

Summary: The thought sounds on the anvil of your mind every night at four am on the dot, the song of grasshoppers and slumbering, fatherless children singing around you; I am lost, and if I read a little bit confusing, it is only because I am confused amidst the battleground of my grief, and it is difficult to find my way back now that he is not here to guide me.

A/N: this was only written for myself, but i’ve decided to share with you, as well. if you’re a fear of god reader please know that this isn’t part of my official story line, and again — only an exercise for myself, but as this is written about birdie i’ve decided to include it as a part of the birdie’s house anthology. i apologize for any confusion or emotional turmoil this might cause, but rest assured that i’m desperately hoping to have something else up for birdie and joel for his birthday and that i plan to continue to write for them after that as well.

Content Warnings: Character death; Grief/Mourning; Description of death/injury; Unreliable narrators

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2.1K

Read on AO3

JOEL

The billboard said “The End Is Near”

I turned around, there was nothing there

Yeah, I guess the end is here

Phoebe Bridgers, I Know the End

The week before it happened, you watched a pack of wolves take down a moose. Old and stalwart and with a sort of strength only an animal that stands apart from all others in the hierarchy of nature can hold. Something unrelenting about a creature like that, that was made all the more shocking for the way the wolves had surrounded the old thing, tricked and felled the beast that for so long had stood solitary and unmoving. 

There were so many things you knew about Joel after all these years. He was a father, a husband, a brother, a friend. Once he’d been a monster. Everything about him had been red. He’d tried not to cause harm. He’d failed more than he’d succeeded. 

He had loved you. You think, more than any creature had loved another in all of man’s history. Or… at least sometimes it had felt like that. He had made you feel like that. 

He is killed in the seventh year of your life together. Only seven little years which seem like nothing in the face of everything. Nothing in the face of the destruction of the whole world, and then the rebirth of it right here in this farm house in Wyoming, but which you know, no matter what they might seem like in the aftermath, were really everything, the only time that has ever mattered. 

You remember that sometimes when you’d look around the kitchen table, the girls sitting around laughing and screeching and raucous with so much joy it seemed imaginary and untouchable, it felt like the whole world was sat existing around that oak table he’d made for you. The whole world right here at our kitchen table, Joel. 

You remember the last time you heard his voice, right before he went out into the frigid snow to look for Ellie: Don’t you love me, Birdie bird?

Oh, shut up. And then whispered right into the reddened sea shell of his ear, Here is what I see in your eyes right now: myself, reflected back at me – more love than has ever existed before in all history. And then his laugh – you’re laughing and when you laugh I want to carve the face of the world in your image. Lena zooming by your legs as you kiss for the last time, a blue ribbon in her hair. 

Half a century from now, no one will remember us, but I will never forget you. 

Remember the first time we met? Bated breath and racing heart, and the sound of the rest of your life ringing in your ears. 

Remember the stitches in your palm? The first time I took you inside of me and all the times thereafter? When you pulled our first daughter from my body – and then the two others? Her first birthday? The countless birthdays after that? Remember the endless happiness so intense it was almost painful sometimes? Remember how much I love you?

But of course, he cannot. He’s not here anymore, and nothing hurts worse than the memory of joy when you’re living through grief. The thought sounds on the anvil of your mind every night at four am on the dot, the song of grasshoppers and slumbering, fatherless children singing around you; I am lost, and if I read a little bit confusing, it is only because I am confused amidst the battleground of my grief, and it is difficult to find my way back now that he is not here to guide me. 

They’d hurt him so badly. Fractured him in a way that not even your hands could mend, your years of study and practice futile in the face of such destruction. He’d fought hard, he’d tried to get away. This is the least comforting thing you could ever imagine. 

What does it do to a person to be confronted with the inequity of their purpose? To have worked tirelessly for so many years only to fail when the moment was most dire. 

Fracture of a different but equally devastating nature. And that moment of final realization, that there was nothing to be done – his bones had carried him for so long, you rest now, we’ll be okay, whispered into his mangled ear, half a chunk missing, savaged. You did good, Joel. You did good, my love. 

The sound of Ellie’s voice telling herself over and over and over again that he was okay; he’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay. 

And she’d said to you: I wasted so much time being angry at him, for what? For loving me too much? For keeping me alive? For making a decision that now, with the clarity of age and a child of my own, I would have made exactly the same way? I wish I could walk in his shoes through that hospital all those years ago. I’d take his exact same steps – not a single pace different. And now he’s dead. And all that anger was for nothing. And our reconciliation feels so fraught, so meaningless in the face of all that time now. No matter that we’d had years after to be together, to be a family. All I can focus on now is the time lost, the sight of his crushed skull, the night I pushed him away before you, his face full of pain and regret. And the sound of his screams at the end. 

Ellie tells you: I remember the sound of his screams better than anything else. The sound of him screaming out for me, for you Birdie – Birdie, Birdie, my Birdie. Begging for help, but actually, I’m not sure, she says. I’m not sure if that really happened or if my nightmares imagined it. 

[I still think of you on your birthday. I’m sorry for everything, she thinks, when she lays in the grass with her sisters and looks for shapes in the clouds without him now. I only see you in the spaces between them. And she asks God why He didn’t work harder to save him. And He spits in her face and asks why she didn’t do the same.]

So, there are still our children. There is still Ellie. This family you’ve gifted me. The whole world abandoned here at our kitchen table. How can death exist when that exists? How can your death exist when they’re still here?

Don’t stop to think. Don’t interrupt the scream. 

And you tell yourself, no this wasn’t supposed to happen, but the universe laughs and grips you by the throat; the gladiator scream goes on. Salt the earth, there’s nothing to return to. 

And yet… that isn’t true either. Four little faces look up at you. Three sets of his eyes. 

You were furious at the sun the day after he died. How could it just continue to rise as if nothing had happened?

And after all that, it is like this: You scream for seven days and seven nights.

You don’t get out of bed for thirty days. 

You cry every single night for a year. 

This is different. A strange and terrified sort of place. What does it mean to lose the basis of your entire existence?

And Ellie? Ellie, Ellie, Ellie, Ellie, Ellie. What is Ellie going to do without him? How is she going to be okay? The sound of her cries: Don’t let me be alone. Please, God, don’t let me be alone. I never wanted to end up alone. You need to make sure she’s okay, you need to take care of her the way that he would, the way that he’d want you to.

Ellie loses her mind for a little bit. After your thirty days in bed, she calls her turn, tells you and Dina that she’s leaving, that she’s going. That she’ll bring you back a vengeance you could never want and lay it at your feet, and you cup her chin gentle in your palm, and ask, What does it matter now, honey? Connie’s voice ringing in your memory. He’s gone now, what difference would it make?

She tells you that he would have done it for her, and you cannot refute such a claim. He would. He’d do much worse. He’d turn himself back into that monster we both know he had inside of him.

“So I need to do this.”

And you tell her: “I’m begging you not to. Me, who belonged to him, who knew him in a way no one else in the whole world did. I’m asking you not to. I’m still here. The girls are still here. We need you. We need you as a reminder of him.”

“You’ll remember him anyways,” she tells you, which is true.

“But you’ll make the memory all the better,” And so she does not go, for a time.

Ellie stays, and you have a funeral surrounded by the people of Jackson who respected a man who was good. A man who took himself for a monster for so long, even though he never said it out loud, but you knew, you saw. All that time apart, all that fear, fear, fear, the very fear of God struck into his heart, afraid of what he was, of what the world and a little girl with green eyes more than thirty years ago had made him into, but then, look at what we’d turned around and made together. 

And you whisper to the apparition of him in your dreams: Joel if you were a monster, surely it was some sort of divine monstrosity. 

So many people leave remembrances at the gate of the farm, the whole of Jackson. His brother, holding you up gripped beneath the elbows so as to not frighten your children, and Ellie is crying but trying to pretend she’s not, which somehow makes it worse than if she were to throw herself at the base of his coffin and howl. 

You give her his jacket after that, and she smells like him all the time until the day she doesn't. Until the day it’s been so long since the last time that he was alive that his scent fades and leaves forever. She wears that jacket everywhere, to work, to hunt, to bed. Leaving her wife, leaving her family, leaving her sisters, leaving you because eventually she does – leave, and she wears his jacket. An inevitability like so many other things in life, you’re unable to keep her forever, and for a time she does go. 

And you will never forget him, you will never move on, you will never stop telling your daughters about him. He lives on in them. And you wonder why it is that no one ever talks about the physically intimate aspect of grief? Of missing your person and wanting them and needing them, and your body physically craving relief from that singular person and never being able to achieve it fully ever again to completion like he could give it to you because he’s just not here. 

He was, in every way, all that anyone could ever be. 

I cried every single day for a year. The day I stopped, I put him inside of a drawer within myself and was never able to move myself to tears again. 

Seven years since then, and you go to his grave for what you tell yourself will be the last time, recognize the lie for what it is, a single slab of carved stone, and you think, he doesn’t belong here, even still after all these years, and yet this is the only place he will ever be again. 

He should have been made into a redwood, the tallest thing in the entire world. Let him be a tree. You’d climb and climb and climb, like that night with Beth, so long ago you can barely remember the sound of her voice most days. You’d climb, and he’d protect you one more time like he had so many times before. 

Joel, years ago, when we were first married, I had a strange dream: I’d had to walk down a staircase that led far beneath the earth. As I traversed it, I had to move through all of our happiest memories, the births of our daughters, the birthdays and celebrations and the long nights together, dinners, breakfasts and laughter, lazy afternoons at the lake, in bed together, still endlessly fascinated with each other despite all the times we’d found ourselves in that exact position. But when I reached the end, I’d be able to come upon our worst moment, see what it was in preparation, perhaps, for what would come to pass. 

I feel as though I have finally reached the bottom of that staircase, and part of me would like nothing more than to have never begun the journey down, but had I not, then I would have not lived through all the rest of it. And in the end, that was worth everything else.

That last night again, in my memory: Don’t you love me, Birdie bird? 

Close your eyes, he whispers, it’ll be worth it, the last taste of his mouth. 

My eyes are still closed.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog

[heynikkiyousofine]

Happy Inu-Spiration 2024!

I was teamed up with @brain-rot-hour this year for @inu-spiration and we are bringing you some fun InuKag and SessSan shenanigans. Enjoy!

The Feudal Era: Adventures in BabySitting

The morning summer sun warmed his skin, alerting Inuyasha that today would be another hot one and he was more than ready to begin their journey to the beach. Unsure of why his wife wanted to go in the middle of the hottest time of the year was beyond him, but he was never one to tell her no. Even more after she returned from the future. However, they were traveling a long distance today and he really didn’t want to have to carry her and their bags in the blistering heat.

“Kagome, you’ve gone over the brats’ schedule with her five times already. I think she’s got it. Isn’t that right, Sango?” He arched his brow at the demon slayer, their gazes meeting and the only answer he received in response was her shrug. Sango knew all too well about keeping kids overnight, and so did they, he might add. He couldn’t keep track of how many times they watched her kids while she went on a trip with his brother.

“Fine, fine.” His wife gave him one of her award winning smiles and all his irritation disappeared, her brown eyes sparkling as the rising sun hit them just right. He would never admit it, but he couldn’t imagine ever falling in love with another color for the rest of his life. “Where is Sesshomaru?”

“Oh, he’s giving his farewell to Rin and Kohaku before they leave to head north on another demon hunt.”

“She’s really enjoying learning all about it and I’m a little shocked to see His Royal Fluffiness be so calm about it.” Kagome winked, leaning in close, so if the daiyoukai were to suddenly appear, he wouldn’t hear her.

“Oh, at first he was anything but calm about it. You know how when he’s especially irritated, his mokomoko gets all fuzzy, like a cat’s tail? It wouldn’t settle for days the first time Rin left the village. I had to force him to stay in the village so he wouldn’t go after them.” Sango loudly whispered back, their grins wide on their faces.

“Is Sango whispering stories again?” Said man appeared next to Inuyasha, his face stoic despite the teasing mood in the air.

“Yeah, she’s telling Sango about the first time Rin went demon slaying.” 

“Hn.”

Rolling his eyes, Inuyasha ignored the weird bond between one of his closest friends and his brother, still not used to the affectionate way Sesshomaru acted towards her. Rin was one thing and even Kagome was another. They were simply family. Sango was a new battleground he had yet to figure out about Sesshomaru. Stepping towards the chittering women, he snatched their overstuffed bag and swung it over his shoulder, slipping his wife’s hand into his.

“Alright love, time to go. See ya both in three days. If we pass Miroku on our travels, I’ll remind him about being back in time for the twins' birthdays at the end of the summer.”

“Thanks Inuyasha, have fun now you two!” Sango waved them off without another word and headed towards her hut, the sound of six children getting up for the day filling the air.

Despite the day being warmer than he initially expected, they made it to the beach in record time, the sun falling beneath the horizon as his toes sank into the sand. Their campsite was hidden behind some trees, so if any other travelers were to pass by, they wouldn’t be able to spot them unless they actively searched for them. Holding onto Kagome’s hand a little tighter than normal, so she didn’t slip as they walked towards the ocean, Inuyasha couldn’t stop the smile from forming.

“Happy that we made it?” Kagome hummed, her cheeks flushed from being out in the sun all day.

“Yeah, it was a quick trip, but I always forget just how insane this view is. Why don’t we come more often?”

“Because we have three kids, all under the age of 6 and getting time away from them is hard enough.” She laughed, the sound drifting across his ears and easing any unspoken worries. He wondered how after six years, she was still able to calm him with such a simple action. “Besides, while I think the kids would have fun here, I would very much like to keep this a place for just the two of us.”

He nodded, the two of them stopping to watch the remainder of the sunset in silence, the waters flowing past their ankles. Arms wrapped around his life, Inuyasha couldn’t help but send a silent prayer up to the heavens, giving his thanks for bringing Kagome back into his life once more. 

Once the moon lit up the night sky, he simply scooped up wife in his arms, sealed his mouth to hers and made his way back to their makeshift bed to show her just how much he appreciated her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three days had passed and soon the couple were ready to return to the chaos that was their life, the summer day turning into a cool, rainy one the closer they journeyed home. Inuyasha could only imagine having six kids cooped up in a house all day on one like this was probably not the greatest, especially if the way the scent of rain permeated the air, alerting him that it wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.

Careful to not step in mud, he rounded the bend in the path with his wife at his side, Sango’s home coming into his view. From where they stood, all seemed normal and he couldn’t hear anything happening in the house, but he was sure that it was pure hectic chaos inside. He briefly wondered if Sesshomaru stayed to help or go hide in a tree somewhere, trying to stay dry. The image of a soaking wet daiyoukai made him snicker quietly.

As they neared the home, he could hear the echoes of children’s laughter, still unable to make out any definite sounds with the heavy pouring rain. Pulling aside the mat, he and Kagome froze, mouths’ gaping at the chaotic scene before them.

To his left, his oldest Moroha, currently had Hisui pinned down on the mat, her cackle causing him to wince just a bit. She had managed to get a small garden snake into the hut and was practically shoving it down the poor kid’s throat, calling him a “fraidy cat”. To his right, the older twins had backed Shippo into a corner, the kit hiding his tail protectively because Inuyasha knew all too well how much the girls love to pull it.

A soft hissed caught his attention and glancing over Kagome's still shocked face, he noticed the large pot boiling over into the fire pit, effectively burning whatever Sango had decided to make for lunch. To be truthfully honest, he couldn’t really tell what it was. In the far corner, near the back door he had helped Miroku install so it was easier to get to the stream behind their hut, his youngest lay in a pile of blankets, happily snoozing away. The only thing that seemed really out of place, well more like into full on tantrum mode, was his middle child  wailing in Sango’s arms as she glared at them.

It took him a full minute to realize she was actually giving the dirty look to the full blooded youkai sitting in the corner of rafters overhead, Sesshomaru’s face in a full on pout. Unable to hold back his laughter, he roared, doubling over, catching the sweetest of giggles his wife made beside him.

“What the he-”, Inuyasha paused, wary of little brats repeating his words, before wiping away the tears from his eyes, “Why are you up there, Sesshomaru?”

“Your pup has sticky fingers.”

“She’s three! Of course her fingers are probably sticky.” Kagome laughed once more before turning to console their child, Sango joining them and placing her hands on her hips.

“Lord Fluffy up there decided he didn’t like sticky fingers when Izayoi wanted to play with his hair. Before I could soothe her, Haruto picked the perfect time to spit up the milk you left for him and it just so happened to distract Sesshomaru enough that Izayoi sank her fingers into his mokomoko. I’ve never seen him so offended, except for a few times battling Naraku.” She sighed, shaking her head, and called out, “How long are you planning on staying up there?”

“Either until all of the children’s hands are clean or the rain stops.”

“Good luck with that.” Inuyasha snorted, turning to rescue the poor snake and Hisui from his daughter.