#i will leave the timeline for others to do

[gothcsz]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s about vengeance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re supposed to be dead right now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I miss you. I’ll be back soon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tú primero.” (You first)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There isn’t anything left to say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m coming back tonight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You ready?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would you still be thankful then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That he’s leaving?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ten… nine…

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

Eight… seven…

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

Six… five…

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

Four… three…

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

Two… one…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Turn over. On your stomach.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything about him is so damn addictive. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His flight boards in a little over three hours.

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

Fuck.

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

He hesitates, watching as your breathing deepens again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you getting dressed?”

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

“I’m leaving.”

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

“To the airport.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long have you known?”

“Found out this afternoon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I killed him.”

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

“Mateo.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Had to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was a start—”

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

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

“Stop saying that!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Months later, you receive a letter.

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

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

You read it over and over until the words blur.

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

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

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

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

[afterglowsainz]

mess it up | jude bellingham

pairing: british!tennis player!reader x jude bellingham

summary: jude already messed up his relationship with you once, he’s not gonna do it again if he can get a second chance

fc: emma raducanu

request: here

a/n: i love tennis so much so this request was very exciting! also a bit general so i got carried away (the timeline is a bit weird and some of the tournaments and courts aren’t gonna match so let’s just ignore that)

—

liked by judebellingham, lissiemackintosh and others

wta say hello to your miami open winner 🇺🇸 congratulations to the incredible yourusername! your talent is unmatched 🎾

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yourusername ❤️❤️❤️

liked by judebellingham, lilymhe and others

yourusername the post-winning feeling 🤍

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username amazing win y/n!

username what a woman

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username ohhh she’s gonna be number 1 soon you just wait

lilymhe SO PROUD OF YOU 💘

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username jude liking this 😭

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judebellingham madrid always

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username casually dropping the most breathtaking pics on a wednesday afternoon

username the plaza de españa appreciation 🥺

username patiently waiting for him to make a move on y/n since she’s in madrid as well

username PLS leave my girl alone she’s playing a masters 1000 she doesn’t need the distraction

username but is not a distraction! is jude!

username exactly! her ex.

username jude in the madrid open when 👀

username ABSOLUTELY NOT

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yourusername so lovely madrid 🇪🇸 my first win here and i couldn’t be anymore grateful ❤️

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username y/n congratulations that was amazing🙏🏽

username girlie is in a roll with these opens

username and look who’s in the likes again 👀

username he’s really not wasting any time huh

username her outfits this tournament where *chef kiss* 🤌🏽

username such an icon

[judebellingham’s instagram stories] [yourusername’s instagram stories]

[caption 1: ❤️🇪🇸] [caption 2: 🤍🌬️]

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wta it’s match day! (for y/n and for england 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿)

tagged yourusername

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username which could mean nothing

username rooting for you y/n 🥳

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username jude liking this!

username after they were allegedly (obviously) together in madrid … thinking thoughts

username it’s a great day for the girlies (y/n playing and rumors of her getting back together with jude)

yourusername’s instagram stories

[caption 1: training🎾] [caption 2: let’s go england! 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿]

judebellingham’s instagram stories

[caption 1: this team💙] [caption 2: 🎾]

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yourusername proof that there’s a rainbow after the storm 🌈 us open you took the broken pieces of my heart and put them together one by one ❤️ MY FIRST GRAND SLAM🥹

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username SO DESERVED 🥺

username congratulations y/n you deserve it so much 👏🏽

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lilymhe you are INSANE i love you you deserve this so much ❤️‍🩹

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judebellingham so proud ❤️

yourusername ❤️‍🩹

[traumadumpwriter]

JJ Maybank X Reader - Relapse and a Half

Summary: The Pogues feel betrayed by the readers sudden relapse into hard drugs, but they're unable to be angry at her for too long as something terrible leaves her needing their support more than ever.

Trigger warning for: drugs (obviously), guns, sexual assault, violence

Part One

Part Three

Part Two:

After John B had driven you home that night, he raced back to the Chateau, knowing that JJ would be going crazy. He hoped that nothing had been broken, thinking back on the last time they'd discovered that you were taking pills.

The night had been engraved into the minds of all the Pogues, the way you just suddenly collapsed and wouldn't wake up. The moment of realisation when JJ had emptied out your bag in a panicked rush and six orange pill pots fell out. Pope's hyperventilating as he felt for your pulse and it came back weak. John B's panicked shouting as he watched JJ shove his fingers down your throat. Kie's uncontrollable crying as she called the ambulance.

Then there was the despair that they’d felt watching the ambulance drive away with you inside. The shout that JJ had let out as he smashed through the rotting wooden table on the front porch. The way his hands had bled, his knuckles cut open, and how he’d refused to let Kie clean them, adamant that they needed to get to the hospital immediately. The devastation that they all felt in the waiting room.

It was all they could think about.

Kie and Pope had awoke at the shouting, and whilst Kie was sat solemnly on the porch with her head in her hands, Pope was trying to calm JJ down.

"I can't believe she's back on that shit! I mean what the fuck?" He had shouted, throwing off his cap and aggressively pacing. "And I can't believe she lied to my face like that! To John B's face! I mean, can you guys fucking believe it?"

"She's obviously going through something. If we intervene now we can stop it before it gets bad." Pope said pleadingly, to which JJ scoffed "It's already bad! Trust me man, you didn't see her tonight."

The memory of your wavering posture and slurring tongue snapped at him mockingly, too similar to the times his dad had come home drunk and unable to see straight. It just didn’t make sense to him. You’d spent so many hours together, him holding back your hair as you were sick from withdrawal, you curled up on his lap whilst he reminded you of how strong you were. Why would you want to throw that all away? Had it meant nothing?

"I don't know why you're so shocked, JJ. It's been pretty obvious for weeks now that I think about it. I mean, she's been acting so strange. It all makes sense now." Kie tutted. "You know how addicts are, they lie."

"Does she just not give a shit about herself or something? Why would she put that shit in her body again?" He wondered out loud, and Kie struggled to bite her tongue.

She wasn't sure what had caused her best friend to relapse, but looking at the timeline of her suspicion, it seemed that the blonde might have something to do with it. He was fairly drunk and his shouts were becoming more and more obnoxious, not considering how anyone else might’ve felt about the situation. He only seemed to get worse once John B arrived back; irritated at his best friend trying to defend you.

“Maybe it’s just a little slip up. Okay? Maybe it’s not as bad as last time.” John B protested, but JJ wouldn’t hear any of it, the words going completely over his head as he continued to angrily rant - more to himself than anyone else.

"It's so fucking dumb. The way she lied to my face. It's like she doesn't respect me-"

"Because you've shown her so much respect, haven't you? God, JJ! Would you shut up!" Kie cut him off with some volume, unable to bear the sound of his voice any longer.

JJ looked at her, shocked and offended.

"What the hell are you taking about Kie? What have I done wrong?"

"You treat her like some side piece and you know you do! The way you rub other girls in her face is so disrespectful. It’s like you want her to feel shit!”

He didn't understand. What was Kie talking about? You had never cared about the other girls. You had been the one to make it clear that your sexual relationship was entirely casual. You were far too cool for JJ, way out of his league, and he'd just counted himself as lucky that you liked to have sex with him sometimes. He'd never considered that you cared for anything deeper than that.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" He repeated but she just ignored him, picking up her bike and riding home, needing time to think before she reached out to you.

It had been two days since then, and you hadn't left your house. You'd hardly ate and you'd turned your phone off, hiding in your room and sleeping most of the time away. It mortified you to imagine what the Pogues were thinking. They probably hated you now.

You weren't expecting to be woken up by the sound of somebody in your room.

*Your POV*

My sleep was dreamless. A vast, thick blackness that covered me wholly, warm and comforting. It was my favourite way to sleep, no painful reminders of the waking world to bother my subconscious, just soothing nothingness to take my brain away. It was the only break I got from the bad thoughts. Now my shame was too much for even the Xanax to crush - no matter how much I took.

All I could think about was the betrayal on JJ's face as he asked me for the truth, and the lies that I’d spat out at him. I wondered if he or any of the other Pogues had tried to reach out to me, but I was too scared that they hadn't to check. If I turned on my phone and had nothing from any of them, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.

The sound of something being dropped near my head woke me up and I groaned, thinking it was my mum trying to get me to eat again.

"I still don't feel good. I'm sorry." I moaned, stretching as I yawned.

"Yeah your mum said you were sick. Wonder how long it'll take for her to catch on that you're using again."

JJ's voice was harsh and unexpected. I shot up straight, looking to the blonde boy with wide eyes. He was crouched down beside my bed digging through my cabinet with careless abandon, my belongings strewn around the room in a way that told me he'd been in here for a little while.

"It's always really nice having to check your friend's pulse, you know, just to make sure they've not almost killed themselves again." He continued in a tone that was dripping with sarcasm. "Is it even enjoyable to you? Living like a corpse? Because I just don't get it."

I didn't know what to say to that, my mind still groggy and confused. All I could mutter out was a quiet "What are you doing here?"

JJ didn't answer me, continuing to dig through my drawer until he finally found what he was looking for.

"Same shit you had to get pumped out your stomach. Nice one Y/N." He eyed the orange pot in his hand with furrowed brows. "And you're almost out, only one left."

It took my brain another few seconds to adjust to what was happening, processing the fact that JJ was ransacking my bedroom and in the process of stealing my pills. He had good reason to be, but it didn’t mean I liked it.

"JJ- I'm sorry." I stammered, watching him slide the pot into his pocket. "I didn't mean to get so fucked up."

"I know you didn't. You didn't mean for us to find out. Good thing I'm not stupid though, huh? Probably would've gotten away with it if I wasn't there. Not for long though, Kie was getting close. And she's pissed."

The thought of my best friend angry sent a shiver down my spine and a pang of guilt into my chest, especially knowing that she was completely right in her anger. How could I fix this mess I’d made? Should I have called Kie? Or would she just shout at me? I couldn’t deal with that.

"I know. I'm sorry. I- I backslid. But I can get clean again-”

“Yeah I know you can. And you’re going to. Whether you like it or not.” JJ cut me off bluntly, finally looking at my face.

He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept in days, and the crease between his eyebrows was deep set, like a permanent expression of stress. His blue eyes lacked their usual sparkle and his lips were chapped and bitten. I supposed I didn’t look much better.

I opened my mouth to apologise again but he continued to rant at me, his voice getting more aggressive by the word, and it was starting to get under my skin. If it had been anyone else I might’ve been able to take it but the fact that it was JJ - the boy who’d broke my heart without even realising it - just served to frustrate me.

“I just don’t get why you did it. And how you lied to my face like that. Not just to my face- to John B’s too! I mean shit Y/N. Almost a year clean flushed down the drain. How’d you feel about that?”

“Shit, JJ. Okay? I feel like shit.” I hissed, feeling my face heat up.

I knew I deserved the attitude, but I just wished he could’ve been a little softer. I wished he could’ve made me feel less ashamed. I wished he could’ve just held me and loved me.

“And Kie’s got the nerve to say I have something to do with it. I don’t, do I?” He continued as if he hadn’t even heard me, his hand movements becoming exaggerated. All I could do was wonder what exactly Kie had told him, worried that he knew the truth now and clearly didn’t like it. “I mean, the way you’ve been so weird to me is it’s own separate thing. You did this to yourself because of your own issues. Nothing to do with me, right?”

He finally went silent, staring at me as he waited for an answer, his nostrils flaring as he breathed heavily out of his nose. What could I say to him? Was I meant to lie to his face again? I couldn’t do that. I swallowed nervously, my mind racing with different answers, yet I settled on one question, afraid to hear his response but unable to keep it down any more.

“Why did you stop wanting to fuck me?”

JJ’s eyebrows raised incredulously and his anger only seemed to increase. He sucked in his lips with a disapproving sound and looked around the room, running his fingers through his hair stressfully, before turning sharply back to me.

“What the hell are you talking about?” He scoffed. “You’re the one who started acting weird! You stopped wanting to fuck me! Which is fine. I don’t care. But what does me fucking you have to do with this? I don’t get it.”

So Kie hadn’t told him the truth. But it didn’t matter anyway. He didn’t care - not about having me physically - so why would he want me at all? I was just his friend. His selfish, lying, drug addicted friend. And I was hardly even that anymore. Just selfish, lying and drug addicted.

His words had stung so badly despite being so minuscule that all I could think about was neutralising the sting. I didn’t want to be his friend. I couldn’t bare to be his friend. I needed to not care anymore, and I needed it instantly.

“Give me the pot, JJ. It’s just one more pill. It doesn’t matter.”

His eyes widened, like he was mind blown by my response, and he almost spat the next words.

“Are you fucking serious? You said you were getting clean just two minutes ago. What did I say to manage to fuck that up so quickly?”

I opened my mouth to say something - to tell him to shut up - but he continued on, his volume increasing.

“Because it is something to do with me, isn’t it? I tried to convince myself that it’s not, but it clearly is. That’s why you’ve been acting so shitty with me. That’s why Kie got pissed with me. So enlighten me, Y/N! What the fuck have I done wrong?”

My patience had all but run out at that point. My heart was heavy and my head ached. All I could think to do was tell the truth at that point - even though I knew I wouldn’t get the response I wanted from it.

It didn’t matter anymore. I had already ruined everything.

“I like you JJ! God, are you fucking blind? I fucking like you!” I hissed, the words shooting out of my mouth at a hundred miles an hour. “And every time you get with some gorgeous touron it fucking kills me! It makes me feel so worthless in ways you couldn’t even begin to understand! So yeah, I relapsed. I relapsed because I was sick of feeling worthless.. of feeling anything. Now can you give me my fucking pill back?”

If I thought he looked mind blown before, that was nothing compared to his expression now. It resembled one of horror, and my sickness only increased. Then it returned to his previously pissed off one, his lips thinned and his nostrils flared.

A dry, humourless laugh fell from his mouth.

“So it’s my fault? It’s my fault that you did this to yourself? Because you couldn’t just tell me about your stupid schoolgirl crush months ago?”

God, I wanted to disappear so badly.

“Give me my pill, JJ!” I shouted but he acted as if he hadn’t heard me.

“Way to shift the blame much-”

“Give me my pill and fucking leave, JJ!”

“Blaming this shit on me. You sound just like my dad-”

“Give me my fucking pill!”

He finally responded to my words, leaning in close with gritted teeth and lowly hissing “Or what?”

His faces was inches from mine. I’d never seen him look so angry - at a Pogue anyway - and I instinctively flinched away from him. I could feel my eyes getting damp and my bottom lip starting to quiver, and unlike usual I didn’t try to hide it. It didn’t matter anymore.

“Exactly! You can’t do shit!” He scoffed, a taunting smirk pulling at his lips.

“Get the fuck out of my house!”

“I’m leaving, don’t you worry. You fucking junkie. Just turn on your phone so the others know you’re alive.”

He stood up and pulled the pot from his pocket, waving it in my face before putting it back. He even snickered as I reached for it.

“I fucking hate you!” I shouted, picking up one of my pillows and throwing it at him.

“Yep. I hate me too. Join the club.” He spat.

And with that he slammed my bedroom door shut and I was alone again, tears falling down my face and sobs escaping my throat.

The months of wondering if he liked me back had been answered in the worst possible way. Far worse than any of the terrible ways I’d imagined. And it was all my fault.

I felt devastated, wholly and entirely. Not just devastated about JJ, but about the Pogues. There was no way I’d ever be invited back to the Chateau now. He would tell them about everything that had just happened - about how I’d demanded for my Xanax back - and they would hate me for it.

My mum was in my room moments later, wrapping her arms around me and trying to comfort me. She didn’t have any real idea of what had just happened, just that I’d had an argument with JJ, and she knew for a fact that I liked him. She was my mum after all, she could tell.

“It’ll be alright. Whatever you said, he’ll get over it. It’s not like he’s an angel. Lord knows I’ve heard that boy say some pretty mean stuff.”

And I had to just agree with her, unable to tell her the whole truth, unable to even smile as I thought of the times she’d overheard him talking shit and given him a stern look. There was only one answer to my problem now, and it was the exact thing that had created the problem in the first place. I had to go to Barry’s.

“I’m gonna go to Kie’s. Have a girls night.” I sniffled, wiping my face with the sleeve of my jumper. “I’m sorry mum. I just can’t be here right now.”

“That’s alright darling. Do you want me to drive you?” She said softly, sending another pang of guilt into my gut.

“No thanks. I’ll be alright.” I forced a weak smile and she nodded, her face relaxing slightly.

By time I’d showered, gotten dressed and put on some makeup it was getting dark outside which I was actually glad about. Reduced visibility meant that I was less likely to get recognised by anyone on my way, meaning they wouldn’t see the red blotches on my face from crying nor how ugly I looked.

The ride to Barry’s felt the longest it ever had; my head louder than it had been in a long time. I struggled to not start crying again, remembering JJ’s harsh words and how humiliated they made me feel.

When I got to Barry’s, I was relieved once again to see that the house was empty apart from him. A radio played country ballads quietly and the thick scent of weed smoke filled the room.

“What’s up with you party princess? You look like you just got told the worst news of your life.” Was what Barry opened the door with, and I couldn’t even argue with him. I looked like shit.

“Don’t act like you care. I just need to buy some more pills.” I forced a smile as I sat down on his couch, graciously accepting the half smoked joint from his hand.

“Well shit, that’s blunt. Maybe I do care. How would you know?” He scoffed.

“Because I’m not dumb, Barry. Why would you care? I’m sure you’ve got much more important things on your plate than whatever stupid drama I have going on.”

“You’re right I probably do. That don’t make me heartless though. Sucks to see such a pretty girl looking so sad.”

And there it was. All he had said was ‘pretty’ - such a minute compliment, yet I sucked it up like it was oxygen and instantly craved more. My body relaxed slightly and my gut felt a tiny bit less heavy. I let out a dry chuckle, unsure of whether my amusement was real or not.

“That’s sweet. Now can I buy some pills?”

Barry’s chuckle matched mine, also lacking any real humour though a grin painted his face.

“Sure you can. I ain’t got any xans in though. Only Klonopin. That okay?”

I didn’t know much about Klonopin other than that it was stronger than Xanax, and though I would’ve usually probably rejected the offer, it sounded perfect in that moment. I handed him the cash and he handed me the pot, which I instantly opened and took a pill from.

Barry raised an eyebrow, looking amused, and handed me a beer that he’d been nursing. I was quick to finish it.

“These pills cost more, you’re about twenty dollars short.”

“Shit. I can pay you back next week?”

“Don’t worry about it princess. There’s other ways you can pay me back.”

I knew what he meant immediately from the sultry tone he’d adopted, and though I thought to insist on paying him with cash, I didn’t even care enough to. Instead, I walked to his fridge and took out another beer before swallowing down another pill with it. Anything to make me forget about the Pogues.

These pills hit fast and strong and I sunk into the sofa like it were a big embrace from a huge, soft monster. The fibres felt softer than usual and my fingers traced over them with satisfaction, my mind going completely blank other than the thought of how nice the sofa felt.

“So, you wanna talk about what’s been bothering you or?”

“It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want me. Who cares.” I mumbled.

“Who’s that? One of your boy toys?”

“JJ.”

Barry scoffed.

“Could’ve fooled me. That kid follows you around like a puppy dog.”

I grimaced, blue eyes appearing in my mind, and quickly chugged the rest of my beer.

“Can I have some smoke?”

“Nice of you to ask for once.” He chuckled, handing me the ashtray with a half smoked joint in it.

“You like my attitude, Barry. Don’t pretend that you don’t.”

“Yeah. Not the only thing I like about you.”

I snorted at that, though I was secretly flattered, any sense of danger quickly dwindling. An hour later and I was struggling to stay awake, my head continuously falling forward until I pulled it back up again, much to Barry’s amusement.

“Let’s get you to bed, princess.” He said to me with a smile, holding out his hand to take. I took it gratefully and followed him to his bedroom, stumbling as I did.

As soon as I saw the bed I flopped onto it, landing on my belly and burying my face in the soft sheets. Like the sofa, every fibre felt soothing and kind, and I momentarily forgot where I was until the sound of Barry’s deep chuckle reached my ears.

“You like the bed?”

“Yeah. It’s nice.” I mumbled in response and he chuckled again.

“You can stay here for as long as you want.”

“Thanks.”

Then I felt his hands on my shorts, his fingers hooking around the waistband and pulling them down without any warning. He pulled them all the way down to my feet until they were no longer attached to my body and then moved a hand to my underwear, groping my thighs and butt as he did.

“No. Barry. I’ll pay in cash. I promise.” I groaned, trying to flip myself over but struggling to do so against his grip.

“But you’re so beautiful.” He whispered in my ear, his hands now moving to untie my halter top. “Your skin is so smooth. Even softer than I imagined. And your ass is just incredible. A real work of art.”

I hesitated for a moment before whispering “Really?”

He hooked his finger into my underwear and pulled them down and I flinched and tried to turn around again, but his other hand flat against my back stopped me from doing so.

“Anyone who doesn’t want you is an idiot, princess.” He answered, closer to my ear than I expected him to be.

He placed a kiss on my neck and I opened my mouth to say no again but only a gasp came out, reacting to the feeling of his fingers suddenly being inside of me.

“Stop-” I tried to say with confidence, but it came out as a mumble.

“Ssh. Sssh. It’s alright baby. Let me look after you.” He said softly and in a moment of realisation I felt all the fight leave my body, disappearing into the darkness of the pillow that was suffocating my view.

There was no point in trying to stop it. It was happening now - thanks to my own stupid decisions - and I had to accept it. At least Barry wanted me, even if his touch felt like an invasive probe, at least someone wanted me.

My consciousness slipped away into a dizzy, warm pool, occasionally re-emerging with a particularly hard thrust or a slap to my arse, but largely un-present. I didn’t know how long he was fucking me for, and at some points I wasn’t even sure if it was real, everything feeling like some bad, confusing dream. The only real thoughts I remembered having were about JJ, and I was glad when they were plucked away.

The next morning I knew that it was real though, my body aching from his touch, and despite my mind’s desperate pleas for me to leave, another pill into my mouth had me sinking into the bed again, grateful for the soothing words that came out of his mouth. I didn’t have the energy to go home and lie to my mum’s face. To tell her about the great night I’d had with Kie when I’d really been in a borderline comatose state with a forceful drug dealer.

Barry brought in breakfast on a tray - a bacon sandwich - and a joint, lighting it for me before placing it in my mouth. It reminded me of the mornings I’d spent with JJ when I’d first gotten sober. How he tried so hard to make me feel better even though I’d done it to myself. I’d done it to myself all over again.

“Morning party princess, you feeling better?” Barry asked with a sincere smile and I shrugged.

I didn’t know what I was feeling. It wasn’t good, but was it better than last night? I couldn’t remember.

“How are you?” I returned, unable to answer the question.

“Well I woke up next to your ass so I’m pretty peachy.”

I couldn’t even crack a false smile at that like I usually would’ve. My heart ached.

“Oh come on darling, life ain’t all that bad. You got anything you need to do today?”

I didn’t even know what day it was.

“No.”

“Well then you can just relax here if you want. Help me weigh up some product. Eat some good food. Smoke some free weed.”

That did sound like an alright plan.

“I’ll cook up some hash browns.”

His offer sounded genuine, laced with care and concern, and it lit a spark of affection within me. I hadn’t been looked after like this in a long time. Not since JJ helped me get sober. Part of me knew that it was wrong, that I hadn’t wanted any of this from Barry and he was forcing it onto me, but the other part of me felt so desperate for love that I couldn’t bare to be alone.

“Okay, okay.” I agreed and then added a “Thank you” before swallowing a pill and then tucking into my sandwich.

He turned on the television before crawling back into bed with me, wrapping his arm loosely around my shoulders and taking drags on his own joint. A basketball game was playing and he seemed extremely invested in it so I didn’t complain, sitting and watching the sports like it was the most interesting thing in the world. I knew that if I was sober I wouldn’t be able to bare the bore of it, but as I smoked and got more high the giggles eventually kicked in and I felt a smile cracking at my face, amused by the enthusiasm of the commentators.

“What you finding so funny?” Barry turned to me and asked with a grin.

“I don’t know. They’re just so into it. It’s a simple way to live I guess.” I answered and he clearly disagreed.

“Ain’t simple. It’s important.”

“Of course you think that.”

I thought he was going to argue, maybe even get offended, but his smile widened and he instead reached out to gently touch my face.

“I like it when you smile. Suits you.” He said sincerely.

He leaned in and kissed me on the lips. The feeling was invasive and uncomfortable and I put my hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him away. The doting expression on his face was quick to turn to confusion.

“Sorry.. I don’t really want to do that right now.” I said sheepishly.

“That’s alright princess, don’t look so scared, I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” He smiled and I felt myself relax again.

I was stupid enough to believe him, even though my rear was certainly bruised from what he’d done the previous night. Maybe it wasn’t stupidity, maybe it was desperate naivety. Or maybe I was just high.

It was a short while later that we were sat in his living room on the sofa, a coffee table full of weed and two sets of scales in front of us. We’d been casually chatting whilst weighing and bagging up the weed, passing a joint between each other and paying half attention to the television. I’d almost completely forgotten about the previous night - or at least had pushed it to the back of my mind - and was somewhat enjoying myself. Images of JJ and the Pogues would flash behind my eyes occasionally, but I would just drink a beer or take a drag or eat another pill and they would soon go away. So, by the evening I was quite fucked up again.

A few customers had come by but were quickly hurried away by Barry who could obviously tell I didn’t want to be around them. I found myself quite grateful for his patience even if his lingering stares and light touches did make me uncomfortable. At least somebody wanted me. At least I wasn’t entirely worthless.

Then he tried to kiss me again and I rejected him less kindly this time, a bit too inebriated to remember my manners. The uneasiness that it made me feel had me instantly reaching for my pot of pills, and I didn’t say no when he offered me a drink a few minutes later, expecting him to bring out another beer. Instead he brought out a bottle of vodka and I stupidly said yes to it, not thinking of how spirits mixed with benzodiazepines

I quickly became a mess, unable to see straight or filter any words that came to mind.

It wasn’t long until I’d found myself being lead to Barry’s bed again, thanking him for his comfort and then unexpectedly trying to push him off me until I realised that there was no use. He’d raped me last night and he was going to rape me again, though I didn’t know if I could even call it rape given the fact that I’d put myself in the situation twice now. I’d been asking for it the first time, so the second time I must’ve been begging for it.

He was rougher this time, flipping me over, pulling my hair and even choking me. But I accepted it, trying to convince myself to enjoy it even though he was hurting me.

Eventually, I passed out, my body unable to produce the adrenaline that would usually keep one awake in these situations. And maybe I was thankful for that, or maybe it made it worse. I wasn’t sure. But at least I wasn’t thinking of JJ. At least somebody wanted me.

Let me know if ur liking this! It’s my first obx imagine<3

[shmisky]

What do you think was Stan's fate in the Better World Timeline?

Ooh, very interesting question! Thanks for the ask and sorry in advance for the enormous answer you’re about to get, hahah ❤️

So, to begin answering that (I promise I will eventually!), I have to first point out that what always caught my attention in Ford’s Better World description in the journal is that not once he meets his parallel self. On that hangs my entire analysis.

Instead, he gives us a reason why they didn’t meet: parallel!Fiddleford explains that he had been leading a portal expedition to a certain dimension, but one of the security officers ran into his parallel self and as soon as they touched hands, the entire dimension started to warp and fizz with static. Fiddleford and his team barely escaped alive!

But that’s the thing: as soon as they touched hands, only! Not as soon as they saw each other, or as soon as they were in the same room together, or as soon as they talked to each other, like you sometimes see in fanfic! No, it very much required actual skin-to-skin contact. You would think that Professor Stanford Pines, celebrated star of the scientific community, founder of the International Institute of Oddology, and our Ford, 12 PhDs (or a few less PhDs at the time) would have enough sense and self-control to... just not try and touch each other? Or, for security reasons, stand at least a few meters away from each other? If they feared an accidental touch so much, they could have talked through a glass panel or some kind of physical divide. I do believe every Ford must be a deeply curious individual, and you’re telling me that parallel!Ford, known genius, wasn’t capable of creating a way to enable himself to interview his parallel selves safely? Wouldn’t you be very curious to meet your parallel self? I think it’s more likely than not that other versions of Ford would end up pushed through the portal, so our Ford might not even have been the first Ford to visit that dimension.

But instead Fiddleford goes so far as to detain our Ford and hold him captive without even attempting to explain things first! A bit overkill, no? You could say, “but Bunny, Fiddleford just didn’t want impulsive, reckless Ford to go and run to his parallel self upon seeing him for the first time!” But herein, my friend, lies the crux of the matter: even after Fiddleford explains things to our Ford, even after our Ford understands he couldn’t touch his parallel self... He still doesn’t meet or talk to parallel!Ford. Wasn’t he trusted enough/allowed to do so, even then?

My Doylist explanation (that considers what led the author to choose a certain path) to that is: the writers just didn’t want the two Fords to meet and wanted to leave it ambiguous. It’s really not that deep 😭

My favorite Watsonian explanation (in-universe headcanon) to that is: Fiddleford didn’t want them to meet 😏

Now, would Fiddleford ever lie to Ford? Yes. In fact, he already did, in our original timeline! Ford asked him to destroy the memory gun, Fiddleford apparently agreed. “He was crestfallen by my advice, but after some discussion he came to see the wisdom in it. He said that he didn’t want to risk forgetting his wife and son. I ordered him to destroy the gun, and he did.” (“Ordered”... Oh, Ford, never change...) Reality: Fiddleford hadn’t destroyed it at all, and in fact used it on Ford to erase his memories without Ford’s consent or knowledge.

So even though I don’t think this was, necessarily, either Alex’s or Rob Renzetti’s intentions, I like to think parallel!Fiddleford was bullshitting our Ford a bit. To which extent, I don’t know. The thing about the parallel selves touching and causing a dimension to end might very well be true (in fact, according to Alex’s Word of God, it is! he has said on Twitter that parallel selves really can’t meet in their home dimensions, but can meet in the in-between spaces!) BUT because of the reasons I explained above, it’s my headcanon that it wasn’t the main reason why Fiddleford didn’t want the two Fords meeting.

I just love, love the vibes of A Better World. I love how utterly smitten with that world our Ford is. He describes himself as “drawn” towards the Institute “like a moth to a flame,” and mentions his desire to “revel in [his] parallel self’s success.” He’s utterly smitten it with it despite never once meeting his parallel self. He imagines his parallel self as the happiest man on Earth despite never once meeting his parallel self. He leaves that dimension sighing wistfully despite never once meeting his parallel self. I love how parallel!Ford is just... shrouded in this very ambiguous mystery. It all sounds a little bit ominous to me. Is he happy? Is he satisfied? Does he like what he accomplished?

Our Ford, of course, imagines that he is. Our Ford doesn’t even wonder about parallel!Stan, because that’s who Stanford Pines is: self-centered as all hell, hahah. His brother doesn’t even cross his mind, since he’s too busy being dazzled by his apparent great success and the fulfillment of his dreams! I think he subconsciously assumed parallel!Stan must have been fine.

What do I think happened to parallel!Stan? Oh, well, he’s very much dead 🪦💐 And parallel!Ford, the man Ford believes to be so lucky, is actually miserable. Fiddleford was merely protecting our Ford from the truth.

If you want to get a bit darker, just look at this excerpt from the Not What He Seems script:

Meanwhile, in the Lost Legends comics, Ford is saying shit like this:

We stan an insensitive king who is utterly and blissfully oblivious to his brother’s dangerously low self-esteem and borderline suicidal thoughts ❤️

Before TBoB, I might have been reluctant to think something so dark could happen in GF, since it still is, after all, a cartoon for kids, and Stan’s a main character! But then TBoB went and revealed to us that Dipper and Mabel died horrible deaths in all the other timelines! 😭 And while I do take that with a grain of salt because it was revealed to us by Bill Cipher and Bill is not trustworthy but a professional liar, just the fact Alex acknowledged and played with the possibility of the two protagonists dying horribly is already pretty telling in and of itself...

I think that once parallel!Ford called Stan after a decade, unwittingly gave him hope, and then ripped it out from his hands... Yeah. We know how Ford is important to Stan. Reconciliation with Ford might very well have been what was pushing Stan forward. Stan can be very, very stubborn — working on a portal for 30 years — when Ford is involved. But having no Ford at all...

Parallel!Ford might have planned to call Stan back, but by then it was probably too late. So yeah. I like to imagine that parallel!Ford would be, ironically, so, so jealous of our Ford’s happy ending with Stan.

Actually, as I type this, the funniest idea occurred to me. The real reason Fiddleford didn’t allow the two Fords to meet is that parallel!Ford, upon listening our Ford praise his accomplishments and shit-talk Stan (“I can’t believe Stanley listen to you! He’s so stubborn, so selfish, he never listens!”) would disregard all reason, all training, and all self-control just for the precious chance to punch himself in the face. Dimension ending catastrophe? A minor detail.

[grasshopperdoingdogpaddle]

Do you have any hcs for good!Chase in that alternate timeline in which Clay becomes the leader? What are his dynamics with other monks because with Omi it's quite obvious (he's basically his dad)

When he was with Master Fung and the group as a whole, Chase was essentially a TA to Master Fung, but that's not what he was usually doing.

Master Monk Chase still sort of did his separate thing and did pilgrimages and solo missions like we see Guan doing, he simply chooses to work with the Xiaolin temple much more closely and base himself there instead of splintering to his own temple. He's still usually not part of the kids' Shen Gong Wu hunts.

Even after Master Fung is gone, Chase stills goes off on his own to do solo missions (like searching for Omi himself when Omi sneaks off back to the temple, something Chase does seem like he really filled the others in on).

So he doesn't really consider himself in charge of supervising them or acting other them-- that was Master Fung before, and now it's Clay. Chase sort of becomes Clay's occasional TA, but they still operate semi-autonomously.

Chase leaves most decisions about the monks to Clay. This new home, the farmland, Master Fung's statue-- those things are all Clay. Chase doesn't feel any need to question or challenge Clay's position, and is certainly not competing with him for it.

Master Fung and the other three monks who aren't Omi facilitate a lot of mutual growth in each other throughout the main series, and they do a lot of the same here. So you can tell Master Fung was still their main teacher.

Master Fung still helps Raimundo learn discipline and duty and to stop hiding behind a class clown status to avoid his fear of applying himself that Raimundo leaned on to avoid failure, and Raimundo still helps Master Fung learn to be more gentle and more empathetic with his lessons and more willing to bend and take their input into consideration and respect his students more. Master Fung still helps teach Kimiko how to calm down and find her center when she wants to and Kimiko helps teach Master Fung how to be emotionally intelligent and emotionally available for a kid who is crying or breaking down and needs a soft hand. Master Fung still helps Clay find a home away from the suffocating environment of the Bailey Family home and in praising Clay for his out-of-the-box thinking, and Clay stills helps Master Fung in being the support and foundation the team needs.

Chase's involvement indirectly smoothed out a lot of the internal affairs with the monks from the series. That, and Hannibal's presence from the start meaning that Wuya was slightly less hard pressed in needing a lackey outside of Jack.

Either way, in some way or another, I don't think Raimundo betrayed the monks in this timeline. Raimundo's conflict with and resentment towards Master Fung still happened, but it was a much smaller hiccup and they resolved it differently, since the permanent cracks in the group's dynamic that Raimundo left from his betrayal don't seem to be present in the alternate timeline.

Kimiko seems pretty friendly towards Chase, since she was the only one who stopped what she was doing to wave and greet him when Chase returned after what must have been a very sudden and unexplained departure. Though Chase's restrained greeting back is definitely something less personal and animated than he had with Omi a few minutes prior.

But Kimiko is also very willing to pass the Lao Mang Lone off to Chase where she vehemently stopped Raimundo from drinking it. So despite being the one of the monks who's probably friendliest with Chase, this also shows still shows that distance that still exists between Chase and the other three.

Outside of Chase's personal attachment to Omi and tendency to personally interfere in directly Omi-related matters, Chase ultimately keeps himself at that distance with the others and asks them to operate their team according to their generation's decisions. He's certainly happy for them when they do, but he also doesn't consider himself a necessary part of it.

Chase also helped iron out a lot of the drama of the leader selection, since that had to happen shortly after they lost Master Fung and the temple.

Namely, I think Chase just went ahead and declared that, although they shouldn't compete or backbite each other since the universe would be making the call in the end, Omi was not in the running-- he was the youngest and was still essentially Chase's protégé. Especially since when the topic of leadership came up, one of he monks probably pointed out Chase's very open favoritism towards Omi and asked if that would tip the scales, and Chase had to clarify that. (Because Omi freezing himself in this time had nothing to do with the leadership selection. Everyone already fully expects Omi to know that Clay is already the leader. Something else motivated Omi there.)

Chase's presence also irons out a lot of the internal conflicts in the team because he was there for Omi, and vice versa.

And Chase and Omi still facilitate mutual growth in each other-- Chase was very jaded after losing Guan and Dashi, and Omi is who helped Chase softened and come back out of his shell after 1500 years of being pretty closed off to the world. Even though Chase never really went full scorched earth the way Guan does in the main timeline, Omi is what anchors him and helps him be who he is today.

And Chase being Omi's favorite person from the start and the person he clings to frees Master Fung and Omi of their uncomfortable one-sided relationship where both Master Fung and Omi wants the other to be something and someone they just can never be and don't really want to be. In Omi's moments of acting out or feeling isolated, he has Chase to cling to. That's why Omi hasn't thrown caution to the wind and jumped into the Yin-Yang world to rescue Master Fung at any cost in this world.

[cocomuffy]

Okay, here's my opinion on the wicked love triangle. I'm planning out something Wicked-Themed and decided that I should show my opinions: Disclaimer: These are just my opinions. They do not have to mean anything to you.

SPOILERS FOR WICKED ACT 2 (everything the first movie doesn't cover)

Gliyero

Doomed. I do think that at some point they get together in a lot of circumstances/universes. They're similar in external nature and they're both in positions of social power.

However, there's a fundamental difference with Glinda and Fiyero that will always drive a wedge between them. Glinda wants to take life safer than Fiyero does. Fiyero will always have that force within him that will drive him toward his goals, even if it breaks that status quo. Glinda does not. It drove them apart in the musical and it's too big of a difference to not affect relationships in other continuities.

Fiyeraba

I think that there are some roads where they are in a relationship and one where they just develop a strong friendship. This is a weird take, and please listen to the whole thing, but I don't like Fiyeraba in the context of Wicked. Isolated? I love their banter and the journey they go on. Specifically around the events in Wicked? I mean, I'll take it, it isn't *bad*, but it's not my favorite. It's like one of those foods that you have to eat slowly in order to eat the whole thing. Depending on how much they go through together, I think that they could either just be friends or be lovers. Like the version we see in Wicked with the Lion Cub is a major excercise in trust, and I'm sure that not ever Fiyeraba pairing got to do something that big. Something like maybe a class project would put them into a lifelong friendship. Either way, I think that they end up in each other's lives as someone that would always have their back.

Gelphie

I think that Gelphie is real in other timelines. I think that if Glinda had more time to be around Elphaba and grow, that Gelphie would be a full thing out-and-proud. In the current story of Wicked, the thing that holds Gelphie back is Glinda's sense of caution and her reluctance to leave behind the pampering and the social status which she has. During Act 2 when her and Fiyero talk about her, she says that she can't just "stop living" because of Elphaba's disappearance. But this is what makes them so good for each other, is that they learn something from one another. Elphaba imprints a backbone from Glinda. Glinda imprints on Elphaba's confidence. So I think that, with more time, Gelphie can be fully canon to at least one continuity. I think that there are also plenty where they are just good friends though.

TLDR Gliyero is a no-no. Fiyeraba is a yes but could also be just really good friends. Gelphie is a yes but they could also just be really good friends.

[winchesterwild78]

The Art of Not Saying "I Love You" pt 3

Master List

Characters: Soldier Boy, Ben x Reader, other characters from The Boys

Warnings: Angst, drug use, heartbreak

A/N: Sorry It’s taken so long to get this chapter out. I hit a wall but then it came to me. I hope you like how this one unfolds. It’s angsty. 

I do not own the rights to the characters in this story. This does not follow The Boys timeline, and is a work of fiction.

All work is my own, please don’t take it or use it without permission. Reblogs and Likes are always welcome.

Written and edited fast, please overlook any errors. 

Minors DNI 18+

The next few days I spent most of the time wrapped up in Ben’s arms. Things were different between us. He always made sure I was completely satisfied before we moved on to him. A stark contrast to other men I’d been with. I never took Ben to be so giving, especially in the bedroom. 

He still drank and smoked weed, but his coke habit had all but stopped. He told me he didn’t need it anymore. I like to think it was because of me. 

When we finally emerged I had to return to work. Ben was already up when I crawled out of bed and showered. 

I walked into the kitchen to find him sitting at the table rolling a joint. 

“That’s a hell of a breakfast, Ben. Don’t you think you should eat something?” 

He looked up at me and scoffed. 

“Doll, you worry about your breakfast not mine.” I furrowed my brow at him. His whole demeanor seemed to have shifted back to the ass he was before we spent the past three days tangled up with each other. 

I filled my coffee cup and stepped closer to him. I touched his arm, “Ben, is everything okay?” His eyes flicked to mine and the coldness sent a shiver down my spine. 

I swallowed hard. “Just peachy, doll.” “Doll? Really? Ben, come on.” 

He didn’t respond. He just took a long drag from the joint he placed between his lips. 

I grabbed my things and looked at him, “Will I see you later?” His eyes flicked to mine and he smirked, “Maybe. I think I might have company tonight.” 

I gasped and a lump formed in my throat. “Ben, really? Have the past few days meant nothing to you?” 

He stood, stretched and walked over to me taking my chin in his hand, “Of course it meant something. I finally got to give you a proper fucking.” 

Tears pricked my eyes as I pulled away. My heart clenched in my chest. What the hell happened? Why is he acting like this? Did he really just use me? 

“Aw doll, don’t leave.” He chuckled. I turned and looked at him as the sting of the tears became too much. “Ben, you can be such an asshole.” 

I turned around and walked out the door as the tears started to fall. 

The day at work sucked. The copier broke, I spilled coffee on myself, the big boss was in the building and of course my supervisor had screwed up a deadline so ultimately it was my fault. 

By the time 5pm rolled around I was exhausted, mentally and physically. I grabbed my stuff and headed towards the apartment. 

When I got in the door I heard giggling coming from down the hall. I looked at Butcher and he shot me an “I’m sorry” look. 

I sat my stuff down and shrugged off my coat. “Who’s he with now?” I asked Butcher in an icy tone. 

“Don’t know. They were in there when I got home almost 2 hours ago.” 

A lump formed in my throat and my stomach knotted. The sting of tears pricked my eyes. 

Oh fuck this hurt so bad. I was foolish to think Ben wanted me. He lied to me just to get me to sleep with him. 

“Oi, love. You okay?” I shook my head no. 

I walked past Ben’s room and heard them. His grunts and her moans. I felt sick. 

The tears began to cloud my eyes and the pain in my chest only grew. I closed and locked my door. Grabbing my bag I threw things in it. I couldn’t take this. Listening to him fucking another woman after we had just spent days wrapped in each others arms, whispering confessions and talking about the future. 

What the hell happened? I knew I shouldn’t have fallen into bed with him. Soldier Boy doesn’t do long term relationships and I was a fool to think he could fall in love with me. 

I was a fool to have fallen in love with him. I wrote Butcher a note telling him thank you for everything and I loved him. I also wrote Ben a note.

I waited to leave until I heard Ben and the woman stop, and I heard Butcher leave.

Before I left I placed the letters on the counter along with my key. My heart was shattered and it had nothing to do with Tom and everything to do with Ben. 

I heard him talking and when I heard him say he’d be back I walked towards the door. 

He walked out as I turned to close the door. Our eyes briefly met before I left. 

*Ben’s POV*

After spending days wrapped in Y/N’s arms I felt something I hadn’t in a really long time. I was falling in love with her and it scared the hell out of me. The last woman I gave my heart to betrayed me and left me to be tortured. 

I can’t risk being hurt again. I need to get out before it goes too far. 

I met the blonde at the bar. She was day drinking. Her boyfriend had just broken up with her so she was vulnerable and not looking for commitment. She was perfect for me. I invited her back to the apartment. I had a few hours before Y/N came home.

We went back to my place and I started kissing her. Flashes of Y/N’s face played in my mind. I did my best to block out the memory of her, but every touch, every moan I saw her.

Fuck! Get out of your head, Ben. Give this woman a proper fucking! 

I heard her come in, she sounded so tired. The soft click of her door broke me from my thoughts. I could hear her sniffling and I knew it was because of me. 

About an hour later I heard her open her door and walk down the hallway. I threw some pants on and opened the door, walking down the hallway.

As I got into the living room I saw her leaving. 

Our eyes met and hers were full of so much pain. It broke me. This was my fault.

I looked on the counter and noticed her key and two letters. One to Butcher and the other addressed to me. I took my letter.

Ben,

The past few days have been the most amazing of my life. I honestly thought I was breaking through some of those walls you carefully constructed around your heart. I guess I was wrong. I’ll cherish all the time we spent together. The touches, how your lips felt on mine and on my body. How just being in your arms I felt so safe and the things we whispered to each other. I’ll never forget how you stood up for me and I’ll always be grateful to you for that. I hope you find what you’re looking for, Ben, and I hope you finally find the love you deserve. Believe me you are worthy of love and you will make an amazing husband and father one day. 

I love you, Ben. I know now I didn’t know what love was until I met you. 

Love,

Y/N

Ben sighed. He knew you were gone. He pushed you away after pulling you to him. 

Ben ran his fingers through his hair and let out a deep breath. He had no idea what to do, so he called Butcher.

“Oi! What do you want?” “Butcher I fucked up. She’s gone and this time for good. She left us both a letter and her key. Come home, we need to find her.” 

Butcher gripped his phone tightly, “What do you mean she’s gone? What the hell did you do?”

“I fell in love with her Butcher. I fell in love and got scared. I’m a fucking coward.” 

“You fucking cunt! I told you not to hurt her.” 

Butcher growled into the phone, hanging up and tried to call me. 

I saw his name pop up on the screen and ignored it. 

Sitting in the Uber getting as far away as I could. My heart felt like it had been ripped out, pieced together, then ripped out and put through a shredder. 

You’re a fucking fool falling in love with him. You let your heart think for you and this is what you get. Two guys using you up and leaving you out to dry. Tom was right, I am damaged and unloveable. 

Tears slipped down my face and I quickly wiped them away. The driver was sweet. She didn’t say anything, but she handed me some tissues. 

“Thank you” I said softly. “You’re welcome, sweetie. I hope everything works out for you.” 

I nodded softly. Then my phone rang again, this time it was Ben. I sent him to voicemail. 

My phone kept ringing and messages kept going off. Voicemail and messages kept pouring in from Ben and Butcher. 

I couldn’t talk to either of them. I didn’t want to hear Butcher say “I told you to stay away from him” and I didn’t want to hear Ben make up some excuse that would send me running back to his arms. 

Butcher arrived back at the apartment and grabbed the letter I left. His jaw clenched as he read it. Ben stood silently to the side watching him. His eyes flicked up to Ben. 

“You fucking cunt! How dare you make her fall in love with you and then break her fucking heart. She deserves so much better than you.” 

Ben’s jaw clenched tightly. So tight his teeth hurt. He knew Butcher was right. Now because of his cowardice, I was gone. 

It has been almost two months since I left the apartment. I still got phone calls and messages from Butcher and Ben, but not as many as I did. 

The last voicemail I got from Ben almost broke me. His voice desperately pleading with me to come home. I could hear the crack in his voice. He ended the call telling me how he knows he fucked up, but he wanted me to give him another chance. 

Oh how I desperately wanted to be back in his arms, but I couldn’t. 

I’d kept in touch with Annie but made her keep my location a secret. She was coming over today to visit and have a girls day. 

I was excited to see her. It had been a few weeks. She said she had some news for me and wanted to tell me in person. 

I greeted her at the door. “Hey Annie. How are you?” I pulled her in for a hug. “I’m good. How are you?” 

“I’m okay. Just a little under the weather, but I’m fine. So, what’s the news?” 

She smiled softly, “Well, Huey and I are getting married. He asked me a few days ago and I said yes.” 

“Oh Annie, I’m so happy for you both. Congratulations!” 

She hugged me and thanked me. A comfortable silence filled the room. 

I swallowed, “So how’s everyone else doing?” 

She knew who “everyone” else really was but she was sweet and updated me on everyone. “Butcher really misses you. He’s been trying to figure out where you went. He’s worried sick.” 

I nodded, “I’ll call him. Let him know I’m okay. And um, how’s Ben?” 

I nervously bit my lip. She took my hand, “he’s really not good. He’s angrier than before and he’s back to snorting anything he can crush. I’m not exactly sure what happened between you two, but he’s a mess. As far as I know he hasn’t had a woman over since you left.” 

I gasped, “what? Are you serious?” 

She shook her head yes. “Sweetie, what happened?” 

“I was a fucking fool, that’s what. I slept with him and let myself believe he could actually love me. I fell in love with him and after spending days wrapped up in each other he tossed me aside. Gave me the cold shoulder and slept with another woman. He broke my heart after saying I was his and I was worthy of love. Who the hell does that to someone?!” 

A loud sob left my mouth and she held me tightly. “It’s okay sweetie. You are worthy of love. I promise.” 

The shrill sound of my phone ringing cut the silence that filled the room. We both jumped, startled by the sound. 

I looked at the screen and saw it was my doctor’s office. 

“Hello? Yes this is she. Yes. I understand. Yes, thank you I will.” 

I hung up and gasped. I looked at Annie and couldn’t speak. 

“Honey, are you okay? You look like you’re going to be sick.” 

My mouth hung open. Shock filled my body and my mind was racing. Trying to process what the doctor said. 

My heart was pounding in my chest, feeling heavier and heavier as the words crashed around me. 

I felt dizzy and numb. She swore the tests were just routine for my physical. “Nothing to worry about. You’re young and healthy. Everything is going to be okay.” 

She fucking lied! 

“Y/N, honey, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?” 

I blinked. The sting of tears filled my eyes as the weight of her words filled my very soul. I couldn’t believe this. I had always lived my life carefully. Now what was I going to do? 

Annie grabbed my arms and forced me to look at her, “Y/N! What the hell is going on?!” Her voice was loud and startled me back to reality. 

“I went in for my yearly physical and she ran some standard tests. She was calling me with the results. Annie, she said I’m pregnant.” 

Annie’s eyes went wide, “What?!”

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[spencersbabymama]

Numbers l Chapter Three

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Disabled OC

Content Warning: Disability, negative self talk, blushing Spencer, talk of bizarre piercing fetish

Word Count: 1.6k

Summary: Brooke is thrust into work and it's not exactly what she expects.

Taglist: @just-call-me-by-yn @esote-rika

A/n: Thank you all for reading so far! Working on this fic has really made me fall in love with writing again 🩷🩷🩷 Also again, credit to @just-call-me-by-yn for always making my banners! I love you!

Story:

Luckily, Hotch had apparently worked closely with Penelope to explain the adaptive tech I use to run a pc efficiently.  So now I was helping her rummage through my backpack.  I have to admit watching her pull out various tangled plugs was an entertaining sight.  At first I wanted to apologize for not having my equipment more organized, but Penelope was so proud of herself every time she untangled a new wire. It was like a game to her.  

While that fiasco was going on, out of the corner of my eye I noticed Spencer dragging his finger down each page of the case file then turning each page about every 15 seconds.  His eyes tracked each word at lightning speed.  Honestly it looked like when a kid pretends to read to get it over with.  I know I should probably just leave him be, but my curiosity outweighed manners.  My eyebrows furrow in his direction “Are you really reading that fast?”

His head snapped up to look at me “Hm?” He looked confused at first but after a second he let out a small laugh under his breath like he was a little embarrassed and nodded softly “Yeah…”

My mouth opened to ask obvious follow up questions, like most notably, how on earth is that even humanly possible? But I was quickly cut off.

Spencer cleared his throat before continuing “Actually our conscious minds can process 16 bits of information per second, while our unconscious mind can process 11 million.  So to answer your question, yes I really can read this fast.”

There goes my stunned face again and I blinked at the guy for a moment.  I wasn’t sure if I should be disturbed, or wildly impressed by this guy’s smarts, I was mostly in awe. He was like a human computer.  I like computers, so we’ll probably get along.  

My face softened and I giggled softly “Cool.”

That same pink tint creeped across Spencer’s cheeks as he smiled, then went back to reading the case file.

Did this guy ever get complimented?  This was the second time he blushed in my direction and I wasn’t sure what I was doing to cause it.  Honestly it was kind of… cute in a boyish kind of way.

“Ah ha!” Penelope cheered, making me turn around to see her proudly displaying all my equipment set up.  

I smiled and guided my wheelchair up to the desk, making sure everything I would need is plugged in.  Although there was probably no need to doubt Penelope, her portion of the desk had three separate monitors she had to run, a few plugs were most likely nothing to her.

Penelope hung my backpack on the back of my wheelchair before taking her seat next to me “Should we take this for a spin?” She grinned.

I smiled back, unable to hide my eagerness to get started.  Penelope handed me the small mouse that fits in my hand along with the touchpad keyboard and I signed into my system for the first time.

🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

Snapshots of different message exchanges appear on my screen.  It took a little bit of time, but after about an hour, Penelope, Spencer, and I managed to find one common person all the missing women have had contact with.  Their username was Hotrod94, if that doesn’t scream man who thinks he’s a gift from God I don’t know what does.  The back and forth text exchanges stopped completely within 3 days so the timeline fit.  Now us 3 were looking through each conversation for any info we could find that could tell us anything about where these women could be, or who took them.

Each message seemed normal, too normal.  It was almost haunting how the person on the other side of the screen could sound so charming.  No matter how smart or vigilant these women were, they didn’t have a chance.

“These poor girls had no idea what they were walking into…” Penelope sighed under her breath.  I could hear the empathy and hopelessness she was feeling for these women on the screen.

I couldn’t help but feel it myself.  It was one thing to talk about it, but looking into the eyes of each woman now, only made the urgency to find them stronger.  During training they tell you don’t get emotionally involved, don’t let yourself go there.  It will cloud your judgment.  Sure, most of that is true, but now that I was here, empathy is what was pushing me.

Spencer stuck his head between us to get a better look at the screens.  His eyes squinted like he was trying to focus on something.  You didn’t have to look at him hard to see the hamsters running on a wheel in his head.  With that brain of his, those hamsters were probably running a marathon at lightning speed.  The poor creatures probably don’t know what rest even is.

His face was only a few inches from mine but for some unexplainable reason, he felt closer.  It was like my personal bubble doubled in size to fit him inside.  My gaze kept flickering in his direction before I realize what I’m doing and my attention goes back to the screen in front of me.  That cycle went on about 3 times before Spencer finally spoke.

He used his pen he had been fidgeting with and pointed to one of the sentences sent by the unsub. “He never uses I in a sentence, it’s almost like he's trying to distance himself from each woman.”

Penelope scoffed, “Well if I had a soul and I was manipulating these women anyway, I’d do the same.”

I try not to laugh, but a small snicker slipped through anyways.  It was going to be fun sitting next to this sass every day.

I look back at the screen like before, but this time something sticks out.  My eyes narrow as I tap a few keys to zoom in on each woman's ear.  It can’t be, it’s probably a reach.  “Is it just me, or do all these women have double piercings on their ears?  That’s probably a coincidence, right?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.  I didn’t want my voice to show I wasn’t confident in my findings.

Spencer looks over at my screen before shaking his head “No… that actually makes sense…”  His voice trails off like he was still thinking.  Then he stood up straight to continue “Actually that could be huge for the profile.  There’s a fetish called Piquerism.  Essentially it’s when someone feels aroused by piercing another.  Most commonly by stabbing or slashing, but it can occur when the person has a simple ear piercing.”

“Ew.” Penelope shudders.

I was still reeling from the way Spencer spit out that information like it was common knowledge.  He almost seemed proud of himself for having that in his back pocket.

He clearly didn’t pick up on the creeped out looks on Penelope and I’s face because he continued like nothing happened “Penelope, can you let the team know?”

She shuddered one more time before nodding.  

I was too much in my head to pay attention to her calling the team.  This was my new reality.  Dealing with potential creeps like this was now my usual.  I knew it was going to be hard sitting in front of these screens every day and looking at the horrors that dance across them, but now that I was here, I was afraid nightmares were going to find me in my sleep every night.  How did these people do it?  Maybe I don’t have the stomach for this.  

I glanced over at the numerous toys on Penelope’s side of the desk and the dark cloud that was forming over my head started to break up to let light in.   The bright colors drowning out the darkness.  

“That was- um… A good catch Beven.” Spencer stuttered quietly enough that the call didn’t pick up his voice.

I look up to see him smiling softly.  Even though those words seemed shaky, they gave me a surge of confidence.  Hearing I did something good from someone as smart as him made me want to give myself a pat on the back.  My lips curl into a smile.

I already considered Penelope a friend, but it seemed like I can add Dr. Spencer Reid to that list.  Leading up to today I was so nervous how the team would perceive me, wheelchair and all.  I was lucky for most of my life I was surrounded by people who didn’t see me as different.  My parents, my family, and my friends never made me feel like I was less than.  The professional scene always seemed a little daunting though.  I knew what it looked like to any bystander, she can barely lift her arms, how is she supposed to be anything else than the greeter at Walmart?  I get it, honestly I would probably say the same thing if I was them.  Regardless, I knew I had more in me, and I was grateful everyone here saw what I could do, not what I can’t.

“Bevan, can you come with a list of tattoo parlors that also provide piercings in the general area of the abductions?” Hotch’s voice catches my attention through the call system “We’re gonna split up and find out who frequents the most.”

I quickly nodded, giving a “Yes sir.” Before he assigns Penelope a cross checking assignment. 

My fingers tap away, narrowing down a list of parlors that aren’t close to the abduction sights.  After a minute, I relay the list to Hotch, followed by him thanking me.  

Penelope hangs up before giving me a high 5 “Good work Newbie.  Someday you might be as fast as yours truly.” She jokes while resting her chin on her hands.

I snicker and shake my head “I appreciate that, but I watch you type and I don’t think I could ever get there.”

“Hm…” Penelope smirks before turning back to her computer screens “You're smart too, Newbie.  I am the best.”

Now Spencer and I laugh.

[polymysteryinciscanon]

Things that I think happened in Camp Half-Blood in response to Epic the Musical

(In no particular order)

(We do be fudging the timeline my friends)

After the release of Warrior of the Mind AT LEAST 6 Apollo kids tried to seduce Athena kids using Odysseus's 'you are Athena' verse. At least one succeeded

The Aphrodite kids have all memorized Suffering and Scylla and sing them constantly. Only they think this is funny.

Poor Percy has lost his voice more than once desperately trying to defend Calypso

Hermes kids have not known peace. They've all had to lean into the memes for their own sanity

The entirety of Athena cabin cried together after the release of the Wisdom Saga.

Annabeth slept in Percy's cabin the same day and no one called her out on it.

(Similar results after My Goodbye)

It becomes something of a tradition for kids (especially Ares kids) to dare each other to sing Thunder Bringer on the porch of Zues' Cabin

Dionysus is not bitter over not being in God Games. No he is not he's sure that stupid mortal would have completely misrepresented him anyway.

The entirety of the Aphrodite cabin did not leave for three days after the release of Ithaca Saga and still can't look at a bow without tearing up (me too bestie)

Thar's just a few ideas! Feel free to add more in the tags and yes this is me recommending Epic to anyone who hasn't listened to it yet.

[hootshooch]

Hey, I loved your post on Ulder Ravenguard as he's depicted in Murder in Baldur's Gate. I've been wanting to play MiBG for the lore but haven't had the opportunity yet. Can I bug you for some lore? Apologies in advance for my weird hyperfixation atm.

I'm basically trying to picture the implications of Bhaal's return on the city's government, and how that ties into where we are in BG3.

I don't know if you have any information on Torlin Silvershield, but he was at one point the Grand Duke according to his wiki page, and one of the characters who could become Bhaal's chosen. The problem is, Abdel Adrian and Ulder Ravenguard are also listed as Grand Duke on their wiki pages, and I have no clue how that timeline worked (or if the wiki canon follows an internal consistency vs applying that title to all potential grand dukes).

I'm guessing Torlin replaced Gorion's Ward after Returning Day, leaving Ulder Ravenguard to replace him after he was abducted in 'Dead in Thay'? Or does BG3 erase Silvershield entirely?

Yeah of course!! You're not bugging me at all, I LOVE talking about this stuff :-)

The campaign begins with Grand Duke Abdel Adrian (Gorion's Ward) being attacked publicly in The Wide by Viekang (the only other living "first gen" Bhaalspawn). One of them dies in the duel, causing the other to turn into The Slayer before being killed by the player character(s) (or poison, if you somehow manage to save Abdel). Whoever dies FIRST is wholly dependant on what the DM rolls during their fight and whether or not the player(s) intervene. But no matter what happens, Gorion's Ward and Viekang both WILL die.

This ushers in the resurrection of Bhaal. Throughout the rest of the campaign, Bhaal (now able to influence the material plane) steadily compels the three main antagonists (Ulder Ravenguard, Duke Torlin Silvershield, and Rilsa Rael) into doing increasingly corrupt and violent things until one of them his declared his Chosen during the Feast of the Moon at the end of the campaign. These things range from petty theft, blackmail, stealing hands off of statues, deporting immigrant workers from the city, forcing poorer citizens to dress in accordance to their social class under threat of arrest, arson, violent prison breaks, kidnapping and killing teenagers for ransom, planting explosives in government buildings, brutalizing peaceful protesters, and ordering the mass execution of hundreds of people.

The "canon" Chosen of Bhaal ends up being Torlin Silvershield (before he's quickly defeated and becomes a wight in the Dead in Thay campaign); but in MiBG itself, all three of them are equally possible candidates.

Whichever candidate becomes his Chosen is dependant on how many points they get on "Bhaal's Favor Track" - essentially, if the player(s) don't successfully intervene with their less-than-noble affairs throughout the course of the game, they'll get one point in Bhaal's favor. Whoever has the most points at the end becomes Bhaal's Chosen. Alternatively, a player character can also become Bhaal's Chosen if none of the other candidates are available or there's otherwise some special circumstance in the campaign that warrants that happening (which is what happens to my Dark Urge in my personal version of the story).

Prior to the death of Gorion's Ward, Torlin Silvershield was a Duke on the Council of Four, while Ulder Ravengard was the Marshal of the Flaming Fist. After Gorion's Ward dies, the seat for the Grand Duke is left vacant and much of the conflict in MiBG surrounds multiple characters scrambling to get elected for the position (including Torlin and Ulder) while The Guild stirs conflict in the Lower City in response to the increasingly oppressive laws being passed by the Parliament of Peers.

Descent into Avernus canonized Ulder getting elected as Grand Duke. Torlin might take it upon himself to ACT as Grand Duke in the absence of an official one, but he never actually gets elected at any point (the wiki is just wrong about that one). I don't think the game ever mentions Torlin by name anywhere, but it DOES mention Rilsa Rael in a letter from Keene:

This means that Rilsa IS still alive and a current Kingpin in The Guild, so she (probably) didn't move down too far on Bhaal's hypothetical Favor Track.

I think the implication is either that Torlin is taken to Thay immediately after he's defeated and Bhaal had always intended for him to be disposable or he was never truly Bhaal's Chosen to begin with (the Dark Urge becoming his Chosen in his place) and that was a rumor spread by people who witnessed the attack of "Bhaal's Chosen" during the fete or something.

Because Murder in Baldur's Gate wasn't written with BG3 in mind, some of the information just outright isn't accurate anymore (like Ulder being described as childless and never married, for example). So imo anything that isn't mentioned in the game is up to your interpretation.

EDIT: I already explained this in a reblog, but for anyone who sees this without the addition, Torlin is NOT the "canon" Chosen of Bhaal (at least not across the board). The Forgotten Realms wiki just took a paragraph from Dead in Thay out of context. If you're gonna use the fandom wiki to find information, check whatever source books it cites first.

[skeletwinsauaskbox]

Since I have the pictures ready now, I guess I could explain the Skeletwins version of Horrortale. Or, as I call it, Not-Quite-Horrortale.

So the story starts off as the same as Horrortale. Undyne becomes the Empress, the CORE breaks down, Alphys convinces Undyne to take Sans' eye (to my knowledge - I haven't read the comic), and of course, Undyne takes Sans' eye and leaves him with a gaping hole in his head and uses it to power the CORE.

However, here, there's a divergence. And that divergence is during Sans' confrontation with Alphys.

As far as I know, in the original story (which I have mixed feelings about, honestly), Sans destroys the CORE, takes back his eye and "lobotomises" Alphys (not a fan of that term). But here, Lento/Sans doesn't do that. He does lose his temper with her, but the most he does is destroy one of her machines or just a little bit of the CORE. It's not enough for it to be unrepairable, but it's enough to set the monsters back a bit. But he doesn't hurt Alphys, not physically. He basically lashes out at her, declares their friendship over and leaves, therefore giving Alphys a much bigger role in this version. Also, the famine does eventually get resolved because Sans doesn't destroy the CORE.

So the timeline diverged there. Now the story has two plots. One of them focuses on Alphys and Undyne, their relationship and their struggle trying to fix a broken kingdom, all while struggling with their internal conflicts and heavy guilt for everything they have done and will have to do. The other will focus on the twins, of course.

I don't have it all figured out, but I have this outline of getting Papyrus more involved in the story. After the incident, Sans and Papyrus continue to try and help Snowdin as best as they can, but Sans' head injury and resulting instability causes a lot of issues, which eventually culminates with him isolating himself to protect others from him in one of his more lucid moments. Papyrus, meanwhile, figures out what Undyne did to him and repeatedly confronts her, angry but at the same time desperate to convince her to stop doing whatever she's doing and hold on to their friendship. Of course, Papyrus doesn't want to give up on Undyne, because he's, well, Papyrus. But after a series of confrontations, Undyne snaps and outright attacks Papyrus, which inadvertently reveals that he also had the same energy Sans had in his eye. After that, Papyrus just... leaves and returns to Snowdin to focus on Sans and his town.

Meanwhile, Sans goes back and forth between talking to Toriel and isolating himself at home with Papyrus, only rarely appearing at Grillby's. One day, Toriel notices the toll his isolation and mental health problems are having on Sans and, relating heavily to this, invites him into the Ruins for a visit. One visit turns into two, then three, then ten... And eventually, Papyrus starts visiting her too. They bring her books from the library and talk about their lives, and Toriel teaches them about snails and talks about her past, and eventually, the three of them become a small family. It's not perfect, of course. They have their ups and downs, and Sans never truly becomes his old self again, but with time, they make it work, and they find happiness from it.

The twins also gain new outfits from Toriel, including a hat to cover Sans' wound! They even requested to have the Delta Rune on their clothes, so they kinda have their cute little family logo.

By the time Aliza falls down, Toriel and the twins are doing well for themselves, being each other's support systems. Over time, Sans becomes stable enough to help Snowdin again. Toriel invites the boys to live with her full-time but they refuse, not willing to just abandon Snowdin. Sans never fully forgives Alphys, but he makes peace with what happened, and Papyrus still doesn't want to give up on Undyne because he's Papyrus and Papyrus is awesome.

(Also, side note: I kinda see this running gag of Sans using his head hole for practical jokes after making peace with it. Like using himself as a teapot, or using it for storage, or even growing a flower inside his head. Leave it to him to see the funny side of things.)

When Aliza falls down, of course Toriel takes her in! But like all children, Aliza wants to go home. Toriel doesn't trust the rest of the underground (for very, VERY good reasons. Human sentiment quickly decreased and devolved into outright hatred during Undyne's reign, so the monsters would be a lot more aggressive and desperate to escape) so she calls upon the two monsters she can still trust, the twins, to personally take her to the barrier. Thus begins Not-So-Horrortale, where the twins basically join Aliza and help her out with silliness and horror all in one.

Ideas everywhere. Hehe. So, what do you think? Could you give me suggestions for Undyne and Alphys' part of the story? Could this possibly become its own thing entirely? Who knows? Have a wonderful life!

[theexhaustedqueer]

I’m relistening to 5.4, and the thing that really gets me about VR-LA’s alternate timeline where he saves MR-SN is that that timeline is a bad ending tragedy for literally every other member of the crew except maybe Finbar. If the Per Aspera never drifts aimlessly through the Astral Sea, it’s never picked up and sold to Oto, Dani never gets her hands on a spelljammer. Maybe she and her brothers eventually get out from under Oto’s thumb, but without easily accessible planar travel it’s hard to imagine them leaving Brass. And for Dani, who grew up on the streets of Brass and for whom Oto taking her in meant so much to her because of how much of an improvement it was to her life, it seems unlikely that she’d make a home for herself in Brass outside the Heap. In this version of events Dani, Roy and Egan never leave the Heap. Dani never gets to see Mechanus or the second layer of Acheron. She never gets her ship.

Finbar’s life is probably the least changed. The Searing Tongue would probably assign him to a different spelljammer and he’d do his thing as normal. He probably even still gets involved in the Zuggtemoy conspiracy, since that was based around the Searing Tongue. Assuming the ship he ends up on is of similar skill to the Per Aspera’s crew, he and his other crew take care of Azotico and he maybe even makes up with Elyse. That all assumes events play out in a pretty similar way, but given that he’s got a completely different crew, things could go in any number of directions.

Vhas, without the crew of the Per Aspera, never escapes Tu'narath. There’s not much else to say for this one, it’s just generally bad for his prospects.

And, of course, Kyana. Without the crew of the Per Aspera to pick her up on the Astral Sea, she eventually swims her way to a portal. Whatever plane she ends up on, she’s hopelessly naive, and maybe she gets lucky and meets someone willing to help her, but the odds aren’t in her favour. Eventually she’s dragged back to the monastery. She— and Ione— are turned into mindflayers as the mindflayers’ plan to escape then destroy the planescape proceeds unchecked.

And then it comes to the NPCs. Enoch dies in Avernus. Ione and the rest of the monks get brain wormed. Cressida stays a mercenary. Roy and Egan never leave the Heap. Davion never meets the rest of B-team. Depending on the Finbar situation, Karrundentrassi might die to fucking fungus. Elyse might make up with Finbar but she just as easily might not. Hans has an even worse time making it to Mount Celestia and HE-11/Vice probably dies in Acheron. Emi eventually builds herself a working body and becomes an amoral murderbot wandering the Planescape, maybe after killing Casimir. And uh… things don’t look great for Maxim either. Yes, he still knows VR-LA in this timeline, but we know that A) in the current timeline, a big part VR-LA’s draw to Maxim is that he’s the only link VR-LA has to finding his old crew. If he still has his old crew, that draw never forms and they might never form a closer relationship. And B) we know that pre-amnesia VR-LA was more closed off than post-amnesia VR-LA, which to me indicates that pre-amnesia VR-LA probably wouldn’t put the same time and care into breaking down Maxim’s walls. It seems likely to me that in this alternate timeline, Maxim and VR-LA never become friends. And even if they do, Dani doesn’t discover Create Spelljammer for Vr-La to cast, so Maxim never gets his home turned into a spelljammer and never leaves his Sanctum.

I just wonder if when VR-LA thinks about that alternate timeline, he thinks about how saving the life of someone he cared about so much would inadvertently ruin the lives of all the people he cares about now, and I wonder if that keeps him up at night.

[utdrmv-confession-box]

Transcript: I feel people misunderstand toriels reason for fighting us. I always understood it as she wants us to kill her and take her soul (so we can leave the barrier) and it would pull double duty as proving we can defeat asgore and survive.. it's very much a suicide attempt in the way asgores fight is. I wish more people would talk about it being a suicide attempt. (With the reason that it doesn't work being that frisk/us at this point aren't aware we can absorb a boss monsters soul.)

Toriels the first monster everybody meets and it sucks to me how her arc in pacifist is ignored or misrepresented (see people calling her bad for her not calling us or responding when her phone gets stolen by the dog, and people saying she should have gone with frisk! When! That's! What! She! Does! True pacifist becomes true pacifist because she needed time to catch up to us! By going to the true lab we give her time to catch up! She only doesn't in other routes because timeline wise we don't spend as much time underground in other routes as we do true pacifist and she needs that time to reason with herself and decide to chase after frisk!) After we leave she was probably going to kill herself before deciding not to! I love toriel and she has her flaws but ooohhh my god I am tired of fandom GIVING HER THE WRONG ONES.

[helenekuragina]

while trying to make any of the characters in great comet more nuanced is kind of a lost cause due to how out of context it is, the sanitization of pierre truly does kill me because pierre is many things but he is never supposed to just be an explicitly Good Man. and in the case of great comet it truly does feel less like an oversight and more like a conscious decision to make pierre seem less complicated and therefore easier to position as a good, kind, main character when that's just... not who he is. i understand why that's the way that a Musical would decide to position him, but it doesn't make it any less frustrating as a war and peace fan

the specific way that the duel is added kind of baffles me because i do think it benefits from the added context in theory but rather than just providing context it instead warps it and i end up questioning what purpose it really serves? throwing in a random event from literally 5 years earlier in the novel's timeline without adding any of the fallout is such a questionable decision and truly just leads to such a warped perception of hélène and pierre's relationship

by having pierre be certain of hélène's infidelity before the duel with dolokhov, it completely writes over the purpose of the duel in the first place. in the novel, this is the moment where pierre begins hating hélène, where he decides he has to leave and therefore sets off on the beginning of his spiritual journey. it's also notable that the affair is never actually explicitly said to be happening, either. pierre hears a Rumor and he reacts violently to both dolokhov and to her, threatening to kill her and throwing a marble slab at her before leaving petersburg. meanwhile, the musical takes place 5 years later where he has (reluctantly) reunited with her and he's currently [insert the lyrics of 'pierre' here], etc etc. he's resigned to his loveless marriage already, so the duel cannot have anywhere near the emotional impact nor purpose that it did in the novel. so what is its purpose in the great comet???

the easiest answer is that in contextualizes why hélène is so well-suited to be the one to "seduce" natasha and ease her worries about not being loyal to andrei, but even then that was never the way that hélène seduced natasha. she seduced her with her beauty and influence because those were things that natasha admired and wanted. so it's not exactly necessary there. the other explanation is to position her as a more clear antagonist for pierre, but this also just pushes him further into that "bumbling and kind guy who things kinda just happen to" role that isn't entirely inaccurate but isn't really accurate either

you can't have his violence towards her after the duel because the duel in the context of the musical doesn't have the same emotional impact from the novel that led to that outburst but without it and without the context of it being his reaction to a rumor (meanwhile it's blatant and shown directly in the musical, giving him "reason" to hate her), it just positions pierre as a victim rather than a violent participant, which he was. when he speaks to her during the 'find anatole' scene in the novel, she is Afraid of him and she's afraid of him Because he has actually physically threatened her before. taking that kind of weight away from their characters is frankly boring and annoying, especially in terms of the conclusions it leads great comet fans to draw

[maruyaaya]

some of my random neomachus headcanons bc i think abt them a lot while writing and sometimes just scrawl random notes like these in my notes app

neo is two years older than telemachus (it’s so hard to put greek mythology on a timeline but the way it makes the most sense to me is that achilles and deidamia have neo when achilles is 15 and then 2 years later, the trojan war starts and 17 year old achilles and 18/19 year old patroclus go to war. telemachus is born at round the start of the trojan war since he is 20 when odysseus returns and his journey took 20 years. so in the war’s tenth year, neo is 12 and telemachus is 10. so in my neomachus fic, neo is 22 and telemachus is 20)

neo is taller. neo has his father’s build so he’s tall and lean like achilles. i think telemachus takes after odysseus' height and he's rather short (still a little bit taller than odysseus though)

both neo and telemachus look like their fathers but with their mothers colourings. neo has deidamia’s red hair but achilles’ hazel eyes. telemachus has penelope’s blue eyes but odysseus’ brown hair.

sparring is their love language. neo wins nearly every single time, but it's a way for them to show affection

telemachus is a words of affirmation love language while neo is an acts of service love language

telemachus is really into physical touch. he’ll just randomly put his arm around neo’s shoulders or something like that and neo will fucking blue screen

modern au neo only listens to like mcr and føb. telemachus is a paramore stan. if they were on stantwt, they would hate each other—they'd get into so many stan wars and they'd be pqrting each other with death threats. telemachus would probably write a cancel thread on neo. then they'd fall in love and e-date

neo is surprisingly clingy and jealous. he def has attachment issues so whenever he sees telemachus getting along with someone (which is often bc telemachus is very charismatic and likeable), he starts to get all huffy and pouty. i think they'd probably fight over this bc telemachus hates it when neo is jealous, but neo can't help it

they bond over daddy issues. both of them had absent fathers and they love to talk shit abt their dads (they do love their dads, but sometimes it's aggravating)

neo is the epitome of guard dog privilege. he has resting bitch face and he constantly looks like he has murder on the mind. nobody dares to approach him and telemachus when neo is scowling

neo is very musically inclined while telemachus is tone deaf and it is the funniest thing ever to me. i imagine nobody has ever told telemachus that he's tone deaf so he honestly has no idea. neo will never ever tell him

on the other hand, i imagine telemachus being artistically inclined while neo cannot even draw a stick figure. idk i just really love the idea of them both being talented in different art forms. i think telemachus would be pretty good at writing as well, but he has godawful printing while neo has small, neat printing

telemachus is very charismatic while neo is very socially awkward and struggles with social cues. telemachus likes to fuck with him and tease him because neo is very oblivious. neo will never pick up on telemachus’ flirting. he has to hear I Am In Love With You in order to understand that telemachus is seriously flirting with him

TELEMACHUS IS SO TOTALLY A BOOK LOVER he reads like 100 books a year and he loves to read every genre though he particularly loves fantasy as well as litfic. if this is a modern au, i feel like neo is not a reader but instead is a film snob. they’re the goodreads x letterboxd dynamic

speaking of, telemachus would totally be a horror enjoyer to me. he just finds it so fun. i think neo also enjoys horror but not as much as telemachus

SO MANY OF THESE HAVE BEEN MODERN AU IM SORRY idk i just really love thinking abt modern au headcanons those are so fun ok ill leave this at that for now

[macsimagines]

Hiii!! I saw your requests were open and i THINK after searching through your page that you haven’t done a bunch of the OG!Timeline Mikey? Yknow slick back hair (😍) and such?

I was wondering if you could do him and wife reader hcs maybe?

ok so this is actually a version of Mikey ive always wanted to explore so thank you for asking!!

MINORS DNI

WARNINGS: ABUSIVE BEHAVIOR, ISOLATION, MENTION OF BRANDING

MANJIRO (MIKEY) SANO

This version of Mikey is kind of covered in mystery, we never get a clear depiction of his mental state. BUT, if I'm going to be honest I think THIS Mikey might be the most stable.

His sister never died and neither did Baji, and despite Draken being in jail, he still had some relative support system to keep him grounded and stable.

Despite all that though, he's still a Yandere. You've got an army of thugs to escort you virtually everywhere, on the occasion you were allowed out.

Mikey may be inclined to take his pretty wife out, but your position is by his side at all times. No questions. And anyone dumb enough to look at you? Well they won't be using their eyes after that....

And don't get too comfortable thinking he's at least kinder than other versions, because he's not. He may even be more callous and cold. Without really experiencing those heavy loses he may have lost out on some humbling experiences.

His words are very harsh and he doesn't mice them just to spare your feelings.

"Go out? Hell no. I don't need you walking around like the town skank, Y/N." or "I'm not goin' to waste time with you when I got better shit to do." and of course "You oughta be grateful for how much I put up with you."

This version of Mikey doesn't really think of you as a person like the other Mikeys. You're a possession. A pretty thing he keeps around. But leaving? No.

You're his Wife. He owns you, and if you try to walk out on him he's going to make sure his name is branded into every free inch of skin until you understand.

"This is your own fault, Y/N. Quit screaming."