#im burning alive and also too cold

[1nh3rt0mbbyth3s0und1ngs34]

whatt the fucknkeisoskdjd 😭😭😭

[writingsforwhatever]

Summers were never supposed to hurt this much (q.hughesxreader) Part 1

summary: irrevocably in love with quinn hughes

genre: it doesn't matter

a/n: I'm afraid friends to lovers trope will always get me so here i am writing again. HEY IM BACK. ALSO I used Belly as her nickname because THIS IS HEAVILY INSPIRED by 'The summer I turned pretty'

~

The boat rocked gently as she leaned over the edge, her fingers skimming the cold water of the lake. It was the same lake they had grown up on, summers spent barefoot and sunburned, racing across the docks, yelling over who got the best seat in the Hughes family’s old motorboat.

She sighed and tilted her head back, staring up at the stars, which burned so bright they made the rest of the world feel impossibly small. For a fleeting moment, she let herself remember what it was like to be that little girl, Luke’s inseparable shadow, always tagging along with his brothers but always watching Quinn. He’d been everything: her childhood hero, her first heartbreak, and her now unspoken unrequited love.

The boat was alive with laughter and the occasional splash of water as the group lounged lazily in the late afternoon sun. It was one of those perfect Michigan summer days, the ones they’d spent their whole lives chasing.

Despite hearing the familiar sounds of her childhood, the crackle of the firepit in the Hughes' backyard, the pop of beer cans opening, and the unmistakable sound of Trevor Zegras telling a story too dramatic to be true floating through the air, today felt off. It wasn’t just the humidity or the lack of wind.

This summer was different.

Quinn Hughes had brought a girl home.

Her name was Fiona. She was tall and sun-kissed, with perfect white teeth and a laugh that sounded like it belonged in a movie. She fit effortlessly into the group, the way Belly had always assumed she did. But Fiona didn’t have to try. She wasn’t the girl who’d been climbing trees with Luke since they were seven or getting into splash wars with Quinn when he wasn’t busy pretending she didn’t exist. She wasn’t Luke’s best friend, or, worse, like a little sister to Quinn.

No, Fiona was the girl Quinn couldn’t stop smiling at this summer.

And it was killing her.

She sat cross-legged near the bow, her oversized hoodie pulled snug over her swimsuit. She traced the edge of her drink can absentmindedly, tuning out most of the conversation swirling around her.

It wasn’t supposed to bother her, not like this. She’d spent years mastering the art of pretending she didn’t care. Even when her heart had broken at fifteen, watching Quinn kiss some girl at a party, she’d buried it under layers of distractions . She’d survived those summers by convincing herself that Quinn didn’t see her that way and never would.

“Hey Belly, you good?” Luke asked, nudging her leg with his foot. He was sprawled out on the deck beside her, sunglasses sliding down his nose, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

She blinked, forcing a smile. “Yeah, I’m good. Just tired, I guess.”

“You’re always tired,” Trevor chimed in from the driver’s seat, his signature cocky smirk firmly in place. “Or bored. Or both. Should we entertain you, princess?”

“Please don’t,” she deadpanned, chucking a pretzel at him. It hit him square in the chest, and Alex barked out a laugh.

“Easy there, Z,” Alex said, leaning back against the cooler. “She’ll throw you in the lake next.”

“She has thrown him in the lake before,” Luke added, grinning. “You deserved it, too.”

Trevor threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. But I’m just saying, She's been weird lately. What gives?”

“Nothing gives,” She muttered, rolling her eyes. Her gaze flickered, just for a moment, to Quinn and the girl sitting beside him.

“Alright, alright, back off,” Cole said, throwing an arm around her shoulders protectively. “Belly's just sick of us idiots. And honestly? Fair.”

She relaxed a little, leaning into Cole’s familiar warmth. “Thanks, Coley. At least someone’s on my side.”

This summer was supposed to be like all the others: easy, light, and uninterrupted, with her secretly pining for her best friend's oldest brother. But everything felt different now. Quinn was leaving soon, the draft was just around the corner, and with it came the fear that everything was about to change.

Her thoughts were once again interrupted as she heard Jack screaming.

“Trevor, I swear to God, if you cannonball one more time—” Jack's voice rang out across the boat as Trevor launched himself off the side, sending a massive splash in every direction.

Sitting on one of the boat's cushions with her knees pulled to her chest, she couldn’t help but laugh as Jack staggered back, water dripping from his hair and soaking through his t-shirt. He glared at Trevor, who surfaced from the water, grinning like he'd just won an Olympic medal.

“Lighten up, Jackie boy!” Trevor shouted, shaking water out of his hair.

“Jackie boy?” Jack muttered darkly, grabbing a nearby water gun and aiming it with precision. Before Trevor could react, he was drenched again.

“Can you two stop for five minutes?” Quinn’s exasperated voice cut in, holding a cooler full of drinks. He looked like he’d spent the entire day trying to keep the group from imploding, a role he’d always begrudgingly taken on as the eldest Hughes.

“That’s rich coming from the guy who takes five years to pick a movie,” Jack shot back, grabbing a towel and attempting to dry off.

“Or five years to ask a girl out,” Trevor added with a wink, earning a round of laughter from the group except for Belly, who stayed silent.

It wasn’t just the joke that got to her. It was the way Quinn barely reacted, offering only a small smile before dropping the cooler and walking over to where Fiona stood, her sundress fluttering in the breeze. It got her thinking if this was an inside joke she didn’t learn to catch.

Jack flopped onto the chair next to her, still muttering about Trevor. He glanced at her, his irritation giving way to concern. “You good, Bells? You’ve been quiet. And not like, Luke just said something stupid quiet. Like… actual quiet.”

“I’m fine,” She said automatically, picking at a loose thread on her hoodie.

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Bullshit. You don’t get to lie to me. You’re either mad at Luke or…” His voice trailed off as his gaze shifted to where Quinn and Fiona were now standing, laughing softly about something.

“Oh,” he said simply, his eyebrows lifting slightly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped, heat rising to her cheeks.

“Nothing,” Jack said innocently, leaning back in his chair. “Just… makes sense, is all.”

“What makes sense?” she demanded, hating how defensive she sounded.

Jack sighed, smiling, his usual playful demeanor giving way to something softer. “Nothing, Bells."

She looked at him skeptically, but before she could say anything, Luke appeared, dripping wet and holding a half-empty water gun. “Jack, you’re up. Trevor’s got a death wish and I need backup.”

Jack hesitated, glancing between her and Luke. Finally, he stood, patting her shoulder as he passed. “Don’t let it ruin your day, okay?”

Jack was right. This summer was supposed to be all about her and Luke before they went off to college.

~

The bonfire crackled and popped as the group settled into their usual spots, the glow dancing off their faces. It was one of those perfect summer nights where the air was crisp but not cold, the stars blanketing the sky, and the laughter around the fire felt like it could wash away any worries.

Belly sat between Luke and Alex, her legs tucked under a blanket she’d dragged out of the boathouse. The smell of marshmallows and charred wood filled the air as Trevor dramatically told some wild story about a supposed run-in with a celebrity.

“And then,” Trevor said, his hands gesturing wildly, “she looked me right in the eye and said, ‘You, sir, are not tall enough to sit in this section.’”

“You made that up,” Cole interrupted, grinning as he toasted a marshmallow.

“No, I didn’t,” Trevor shot back. “Right, Jack? Back me up here!”

Jack groaned, shaking his head. “You’re on your own with this one, Z. No way am I vouching for you.”

Laughter rippled through the group, but she was barely paying attention. She stole a glance toward Quinn, who was seated across the fire with Fiona. They were sharing a blanket, and Fiona leaned into him as he murmured something in her ear. Her chest tightened as she looked away, focusing intently on the stick in her hand.

“You okay?” Luke’s voice was quiet beside her.

She startled slightly, turning to face him. His expression was soft, his brows furrowed with concern.

“Yeah,” she said quickly, forcing a smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Luke gave her a look, the kind he reserved for when he was calling her out on her nonsense. “You’ve been weird all day.”

“I’m not weird,” she said, poking the fire with her stick.

“You are,” he insisted, his voice low enough that no one else could hear. “Come on, Bells. What’s up? You’re never this quiet during one of Z’s stories. Usually, you’re jeering him the loudest.”

She hesitated, the words stuck in her throat. She’d always been able to talk to Luke about anything, school, family, the future. But this? This wasn’t something she could admit to anyone, not even him, and especially him.

"I guess I'm just scared." She could feel the weight of his gaze.

Luke frowned, leaning closer. "Of what?"

“Everything changing,” she admitted, half heartedly lying. Her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. She glanced at him, her eyes reflecting a vulnerability she sometimes showed. “We’re all going to college soon. You and Trevor are going to be off doing your thing, Jack’s already basically a superstar, and Quinn…” She trailed off, her chest tightening at the thought. “I don’t know, Luke. It feels like everything’s going to be different this summer, and I’m not ready for it.”

Luke was quiet for a moment, letting her words settle between them. Then he tilted his head, offering a small smile. “Belly, nothing’s gonna change between us. With all of us. You know that, right? You and me? We’re solid. Always have been, always will be.”

She smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s not just us, though, Luke. It’s… everyone. I mean, the draft of Quinn this year, of you guys possibly moving to other states. Doesn’t it feel different already?”

Luke followed her gaze to the group around the fire, where Jack and Trevor were bickering over the last marshmallow, Cole was making some sarcastic remark towards Alex, and Quinn was sitting with Fiona, their heads close together as they talk.

“Okay,” Luke said, turning back to her. “I get it. Stuff’s changing. But it’s not all bad, you know? We’re still us. We’ll still have summers here, bonfires and boats and all the stupid stuff we do. It’s not like we’re all gonna forget about each other.”

“I know,” she said, sighing. “I just… I don’t want to lose this.”

“You won’t,” Luke said firmly, nudging her again. “I won’t let it happen. And if anyone tries to ruin our summers, I’ll throw them in the lake.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, the tension in her chest easing slightly. “You’re really committed to that lake throwing thing, huh?”

“Absolutely,” Luke said, grinning. “It’s my signature move.”

“Thanks, Luke,” she said softly, leaning her head against his shoulder for a moment.

“Anytime,” he said, his tone lighter now. “Just remember, I’ve got your back. No matter what.”

She pushed aside the pang of jealousy as Quinn’s laugh drifted across the fire and let herself be comforted by Luke’s presence. Because if nothing else, at least she still had Luke.

~

The morning sun filtered through the trees as she, Cole, and Alex climbed into the old Hughes’ SUV, eager to head to the little shop in town. The guys had somehow lost the coin toss the night before, and Belly had volunteered to join them.

“Hey, we’re getting grape,” Cole called out, holding up a two-liter bottle like it was a trophy.

“No one likes grape soda, you psychopath!” Alex shot back.

Belly rolled her eyes with a grin, tuning them out as she grabbed a few bags of chips and tossed them into the basket.

“Let me guess,” a voice said behind her, warm and amused. “You’re the referee for these two?”

She turned, startled, to see a guy standing a few feet away, leaning casually against the counter. He had sun-kissed blonde hair that looked like it had been bleached by endless days in the water and striking blue eyes that practically sparkled in the morning light.

Belly blinked, momentarily thrown off by how effortlessly good-looking he was. “Uh, yeah,” she managed, holding up the basket. “It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.”

He grinned. “I feel your pain. I’ve got two younger brothers. Chaos every day.”

“Tell me about it,” She said, relaxing a little. “I’m Belly, by the way.”

“Finn,” he said, extending a hand. His palm was warm and calloused, and she found herself holding on just a second too long before letting go. “You up here for the summer?”

“Yeah,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Staying at a lake house with some… friends.”

Finn raised an eyebrow, his smile teasing but before he could respond, Cole and Alex appeared, both carrying armfuls of snacks.

“Bells, we’re set,” Alex announced, barely glancing at Finn as he dumped the snacks onto the counter.

Finn’s gaze shifted to the guys, then back to her, his smile never wavering. “So, are you a local?”

“Sort of,” Belly said. “I’ve been coming here every summer since I was a kid.”

Finn chuckled. “Weird, I don’t remember seeing you. It’s a small town, outsiders kind of stand out, you know?"

“Fair enough,” she said, smiling despite herself.

Belly stepped up, placing her basket on the counter as well. She watched as he began ringing up the items, his bright blue eyes flicked up to her every so often.

“So, my cousin Jeremy is actually throwing a party this Friday night,” Finn said, breaking the silence between them. His voice was casual, but there was an undertone of something else, something she couldn’t quite decipher. “Nothing too crazy. Just a little house party.”

She blinked at him, a bit taken aback. “A house party?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. “It’d be cool if you came. I mean, no pressure, of course.

This is it, she thought. You’ve got one shot to say yes to something like this—to actually make this summer memorable, instead of spending it sulking and pining over Quinn Hughes, like you always do. Don’t mess it up.

Belly swallowed, Finn is really handsome.

Suddenly feeling warmer than the summer heat outside. “Uh… yeah, okay. I’ll come.” She could feel the blush creeping up her neck, her cheeks burning as she smiled.

Finn’s grin widened at her answer. “Awesome. I’ll send you the details. It’s at this place by the lake.” He scribbled something down on a piece of paper and slid it across the counter. “Here’s the address. The party starts around 8, but no rush. Just come whenever.”

Belly took the paper, her fingers brushing against his, and she could’ve sworn she felt a spark. Her heart was pounding, and the thought of going to this party and seeing Finn there made her stomach do flip-flops.

She never thought it was unfair that Luke didn’t know about her feelings for his brother. It was just easier that way. It was better this way, better for him, better for everyone.

Belly often tried to convince herself it was just a phase. A fleeting crush that would fade with time, like the seasons. but it never did. After all, she and Quinn didn’t see much of each other once summer ended. Quinn was always gone or caught up with his other friends.

But Jack, Jack was a different story. She likes to think Jack was too smart for his own good, even though she liked to pretend he was as oblivious as the rest of them. The way he could see right through her, though, was unnerving. Sometimes, she wondered how much easier it would be if she just let herself fall for Jack instead, or maybe even Luke. Luke, with the years of friendship they shared, a foundation so deep-rooted that it felt like solid ground beneath her feet. It would be simple with Luke. Safe. No grasping at something that could never be.

But even so, her heart still ached for Quinn.

No matter how much sense it made to move on, it had always been him, and it always would be.

~

The wooden stairs creaked softly beneath her feet. She paused at the top of the stairs, her hand hovering over the railing. She smoothed her dress for what felt like the hundredth time, the faint scent of her perfume calming her nerves or at least she hoped it would.

It's just a party. It’s not a big deal, she told herself, but the thought of walking into the living room where the boys were sprawled out made her pulse quicken. She knows she will never hear the end of this.

With a deep breath, she walked in the open space of the living room. She spotted Trevor and Cole first, lounging on the couch, controllers in hand, facing her direction while Quinn, Jack, and Luke sat on the couch with their backs to her. The boys barely noticed her at first, too focused on the game.

But then Trevor looked up.

His face lit up with a grin, and he let out a dramatic whistle. “Damn, Bells! You cleaned up nice!” he hollered, dropping his controller and leaning back with an exaggerated smirk. “What’s the occasion? Hot date?”

Belly felt her cheeks flame as all eyes turned to her. “Shut up, Trevor,” she muttered, fiddling with the strap of her purse.

“Oh, don’t be shy,” Trevor teased, wagging his eyebrows. “Looks like someone's getting laid tonight.”

“Trevor! Oh my god.” Belly yelped, her face burning as the boys erupted into laughter.

She shot him a glare before quickly turning to Luke. “Anyway, Luke, I’m heading out.”

Luke turned to her fully, pausing the game. His face lighting up with the realization. “Oh, right! I forgot you have a date tonight. With that guy from the store, yeah?”

Jack’s head snapped up. “Store guy?”

“Yeah,” Cole chimed in, leaning forward with a knowing grin. “When we went to the shop earlier. What was his name again? Finn, right?”

At the mention of Finn’s name, Quinn spoke up, his gaze locking onto her. “Who the hell is Finn?” he asked, his tone sharper than she’d expected.

Something about the way he said it made her stomach twist. It wasn’t anger or concern. it was something else entirely. Almost like disbelief, as he didn’t believe someone would ask her out.

Before she could find her voice, Cole spoke up, his tone lighter, as if trying to diffuse the tension. “I can drive you if you want, Bells. No problem.”

“No thanks,” Belly said quickly, giving him a polite smile. “I’m okay. It’s very near here so it’s fine.”

That did it. Now everyone was looking at her. Trevor, Jack, Cole, and especially Quinn. His gaze was intense, searching her face for something she couldn’t quite place.

“You don’t even know this guy?” Quinn asked, his voice quieter but no less pointed.

The room fell into an even heavier silence. The awkwardness was palpable, and Belly’s chest tightened. She didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t say anything.

Finally, Jack cleared his throat, cutting through the tension. “Just… get home safe, alright? If you need anything, call Luke. Or me. Or anyone.”

Belly’s lips curved into a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Jack,” she said softly. Her gaze flickered back to Quinn for a fleeting moment, but his expression was unreadable.

“Be safe!” Trevor called after her as she headed toward the door. “And if he turns out to be a loser, you know I’m always available.”

“Yeah, not in this lifetime, Z,” she shot back, rolling her eyes but unable to suppress a smile.

As the door clicked shut behind her, she let out a shaky breath. She tried not to think about Quinn’s gazes thrown at her way or where the fuck could Fiona be and why isn't she with her boyfriend.

Because tonight wasn’t about him. It couldn’t be.

~

The music was loud enough to feel in her chest, a pulsing rhythm that made the entire house seem alive. She made her way through the crowd, her nerves buzzing. She spotted Finn almost immediately. He was impossible to miss. His golden blond hair catching the light like he’d stepped out of a sun-drenched daydream.

“You made it,” he said, his blue eyes locking onto hers.

“I did,” she replied, returning his smile.

Finn didn’t waste time. He introduced her to his friends and to his cousin, Jeremy. A tan Greek god who surfs in Hawaii, sometimes. They were a bit older but nice and before she knew it, she was laughing at their jokes and sipping a drink Finn handed her.

For the first time in forever, she felt 18. Wanted. Like she belonged. This, she thought, was what it felt like to be the girl someone chose. Not like the boys in high school who either ignored her or treated her like a joke. Finn wasn’t like them. He was attentive, charming, and kind.

But there was something else.

When Finn leaned in and whispered, “Want to head upstairs? It’s too loud down here,” She hesitated. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears and for a moment, Jack’s words echoed in her mind: Call us if you need anything. But she brushed the thought away. She wasn’t that kid anymore. She didn’t need anyone to take care of her.

Upstairs, the noise dulled to a muffled thump. Finn led her into a bedroom, closing the door behind them. He guided her to sit on the edge of the bed, his hands gentle but insistent.

“You’re so pretty, Belly,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

When he kissed her, it was everything she’d imagined it would be, soft, tender, intoxicating. But it quickly grew more intense. His hands slid up her thighs, his touch burning through her skin in a way that didn’t feel right. The warmth in her chest twisted into something cold.

She froze, her breath catching. Something about it didn’t sit right, and that unease deepened with every passing second.

“Finn,” she said softly, pulling back.

He didn’t stop, his lips trailing down her neck as his hands gripped her tighter.

“Stop,” she said, louder this time, her voice trembling.

Finn leaned back just enough to look at her, his expression twisting with frustration. “What? Seriously?” he asked, his tone dripping with disbelief. “I thought this is what you wanted. You came up here with me, didn’t you?”

Belly’s heart pounded. “I said stop.”

But Finn didn’t move away. Instead, he laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. You’re just another tease, aren’t you? You act like you’re into it, then pull this?”

Her stomach turned at the words, anger bubbling up alongside her fear. She scrambled off the bed, keeping her distance.

“I’m leaving,” she said firmly, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside her.

Finn’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “Whatever,” he spat, turning his back on her. “Waste of my fucking time.”

Belly didn’t wait for him to say anything else. She bolted from the room, her legs shaking as she made her way down the stairs and out of the house. The cool night air hit her like a slap, grounding her. She fumbled for her phone, her fingers trembling as she dialed a number.

Luke picked up on the third ring. “Belly? What’s wrong?”

Her voice broke as she spoke. “Can you come get me?”

The car was heavy with silence, the air thick and suffocating. Belly sat rigidly in her seat, staring out the window, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as though trying to keep her emotions from spilling out. She couldn’t bear to look at Luke. She couldn’t bear to look at anything.

Luke’s eyes darted to her every few seconds, his knuckles tight around the steering wheel. His voice broke through the stillness, low and trembling. "Belly," he said softly, but the worry in his tone hit like a hammer. "Please. Tell me what happened. Where is Finn? Did someone… Did someone do to something you? Because I swear to God, I’ll kill them."

Her throat closed, the words she needed stuck behind a wall of tears. She shook her head weakly, her voice barely audible. "Luke, please… Just drive. I just want to go home. Please."

He hesitated, his jaw tightening as his grip on the wheel faltered. "Belly, I—"

"Luke," she interrupted, her voice breaking, "just drive. I’m begging you."

He exhaled sharply, his frustration and helplessness palpable, but he obeyed, focusing his attention on the road. The silence in the car was unbearable, but Belly couldn’t bring herself to break it. She could feel the weight of Luke’s concern pressing against her, and it only made her feel worse.

As they pulled into the garage, Belly barely waited for the car to come to a full stop before bolting out, her tears blurring her vision. She stumbled through the door, her breath hitching, and froze when she entered the living room.

The living room was like how she left it earlier, full. Quinn was sitting close to Fiona on the couch, Trevor and Alex sprawled lazily nearby, Jack leaning back in the armchair with a slice of pizza in hand and Cole probably sleeping in the guest room. They were all watching a movie, the quiet hum of the TV the only sound until she entered.

One by one, their eyes turned to her.

"Belly?" Jack’s voice sliced through the tension like a blade. He sat up abruptly, his face a mask of confusion and alarm. "What the fuck happened? Why are you crying?"

Trevor’s reaction was instant. He stood, his voice softer but no less urgent. "Bells? What’s wrong?"

Her cheeks burned under their stares. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and foolish all at once. The tears came harder now, and her voice failed her completely. She couldn’t explain. Couldn’t face their questions.

Instead, she turned on her heel and ran upstairs, her heart pounding in her chest as she slammed the door behind her.

She collapsed onto her bed, the sobs breaking free as she buried her face into the pillow. The muffled sounds of the living room faded as the tears poured out, soaking the fabric beneath her.

Her mind spiraled, the weight of the night pressing down on her like a crushing wave. Of course it wasn’t real. Of course Finn didn’t like her, not in the way she’d foolishly believed, even for a moment. Her chest tightened as the truth settled like a stone in her stomach. She’d been nothing more than a convenience to him, another girl he could charm into submission.

Her tears came faster, hotter. She thought about how she’d been so determined to forget about Quinn. She’d convinced herself she could move on, that she could prove to herself, to him, that she didn’t want him anymore. But all that resolve had led her to Finn, and Finn… he’d been a nightmare disguised as a dream.

She hated herself for falling for it, for believing even for a second that someone like Finn could actually like her. Not the way she wanted to be liked. Not for real.

Finn was supposed to be different. He was supposed to be a step forward, a reminder that the world was full of possibilities, that she could find someone who would make her feel worthy and wanted without Quinn lingering in the background of her mind.

Now, humiliation added a fresh sting to her pain. Quinn had been right. She doesn't even know the guy.

And once again, Quinn Hughes had won.

N/A: I wanna add here flashbacks from childhood and also Q is a little weird, no? LOL

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can we have more of domestic Jason but now with him needy of touch? 🥹

the reader got out of bed early to go drink water and he wakes up from a nightmare needing her and he thinks she left him and he starts crying in panic, but then she appears and calm him down with kisses, words of affirmation and lots of love.

Thank u! I love ur writing btw!!

I don’t know if this is what you have in mind, the ending might be a little half-assed but I was half asleep whilst making this 🦦also thank you for enjoying my writing! It really means a lot!

Your side of the bed had barely gone cold which indicated that it hadn’t been long ago that you had left but it was the reason why you’ve left that haunted Jason, who was fresh out of a nightmare and drenched in his own sweat and finding difficulty in calming his uneven breaths.

He had meant to reach out to you for comfort.

Only to be greeted by air just as palm of his hand then hit the lukewarm mattress below.

It was enough to break Jason’s resolve as his innate belief that everyone he ever cared for was destined to leave him- especially you- began to worsen with every passing second the longer Jason allowed himself to be poisoned by the possibilities that you were gone. Disappeared. Or worse yet; taken.

‘Y/n?’ He calls out softly.

‘Baby?’ He tries again, a little louder this time, not having realised that his eyes had started to tear up and blur his vision of his dark room, or that a lump in his throat had started to form, making it difficult for him to swallow down his overwhelming anxiety.

‘Don’t leave me here…please don’t leave me all lone.’ Jason pleads with the darkness of his room as though that would be enough to give you back to him. ‘Haven’t I done that enough?’ He then asks as he clenched the bedsheets between his powerful hands, trying to bound himself to something to combat his discomfort in being left alone with his mind for too long. ‘Being left alone when I was proven too difficult to save? Too far gone to be helped? Am I just that broken to be given just a sliver of happiness?’ He cries out at he pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes as he chocked back his own sobs.

Despite building himself a strong body that could endure punishment, the pain of that of an broken heart had been so excruciating it had Jason keeling over in bed, wanting nothing more then to tear it out of his chest as though it burned him; Or was it in fact just phantom pains from a heart that had been hollowed out by the hands of another.

The door to the room opened and golden light flooded in, eradicating the darkness that threatened to swallow him whole. ‘Jason?’ Your voice called out and Jason never felt more alive than he did in hearing you say his name in that angelic voice of yours, so much so that he didn’t notice that he had begun to cry harder but out of relief this time. ‘I thought- I thought you left. I couldn’t feel you. I tried reaching for you but you weren’t there.’ He began to say but was cut off when you brought him tightly into your arms.

‘Im sorry that I kept you waiting my beautiful boy.’ You cooed as your fingers reached up to comb through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp now and then to assure him of your presence. Jason didn’t hesitate to bring you into his lap as he buried his head deep into your shoulder, wiping his tears against your sleep shirt, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care when he was holding onto you as though you were bound to disappear once he lets go. ‘Where did you go?’ He asks. ‘I got a little thirsty and so I went to get a drink of water.’ You explained, kissing him anywhere that was made available to you.

‘You’ve been strong for a long, long time and I’ve never been more prouder of you for holding out as long as you have with everything you’ve been through, it never fails to amaze me how resilient you are Jaybirdie.’ You felt his breathing even out as he began to lean back into the bed, still holding onto you. ‘You’re truly an incredible man for being able to stand on your own two feet and still find it within yourself to fight.’ You softly told him as you continued to hold him in your arms as he squeezed your waist in response. ‘I’m so unbelievably lucky to have someone like you in my life and I will do everything in my power to make you believe that.’ You promised him.

‘Even if it’s impossible and might take forever.’ Jason says, starting to feel the lull of sleep as it began to weigh heavily on his eyelids.

You smile softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. ‘Even if it takes an eternity I would still find a way to prove just how beautiful you are.’ You replied, nuzzling into him as his bodily warmth began to ease you into a sense of security. ‘You are the most beautiful man I have ever met Jason Todd.’ You moved to look him in the eyes. ‘A butterfly may not be able to see the colour of their wings but that doesn’t retract the fact that they’re undeniably beautiful.’ You added as you pressed a couple of kissed to his forehead. ‘Now gets some sleep my beautiful boy, I’ll be here when you wake up.’

‘You promise?’ Jason asked, biting back a yawn.

‘I’d be stupid to break a promise I made to you.’ You responded, thinking all was said and done when Jason brought a hand up to your face, showing you his outstretched pinky. ‘Pinky promise me that you’ll be here with me when I wake up.’ He says and you smile softly at the inherent innocence of that of a pinkie promise but still went ahead and linked your pinky with his, pressing a kiss to his calloused and scarred hand with reverence before resting it on his chest. ‘I pinky promise that I’ll be here when you wake up. Was that good?’

‘We’ll see in the morning when I get to wake up to you chipmunk.’ Jason replied, holding you more against his chest and fell asleep but you weren’t complying as you soon followed him into dreamland, your pinkies still linked to one another as a reminder of your promise.

[banj0possum]

What does goth man look like 👁️👁️

whaT DO THE ZOMBIES LOOK LIKE???

this reminded me that i had a wip of the zombie horde in my procreate ghhghhhghgh but i want to give yall a little more than that so im also throwing in some headcannons and stuff from when they were alive &lt;3 <3 <3

💀 Ribs' hair is bleached blonde! It also has a faint smell of weed, hmm.

💀 Just as he is now, he was very hyper. He used to go to a lot of parties and raves. He was actually at a beach concert when he got infected.

💀 He reacts to rock music, if you play a song near him, he’ll turn to where the sound is coming from and go to it and hop around happily, it’s a good way to find him if you loose him in the mall.

💀 Screw looked like he was a scavenger like you before turning into a zombie, you found old cans of food and an almost empty flask of water in his bag amidst things he probably picked up, things he very much didn’t need anymore in his current state.

💀 He and Ribs found a pair of scissors in your drawers once and you came back to your bunker to Ribs cutting Screw’s hair. They both just stared at you with Screw’s hair all over the floor, that’s why his hair looks a bit choppy.

💀 He gets cold easily somehow so he clings onto you the most, the others are a little jealous..

💀 Soda has a lot of burn scars on his shoulder, you make it a point to not use fire around him as he chirped and cooed worryingly when you lit a match to warm some food.

💀 His hair is surprisingly soft, a bit dry but it isn’t as covered in blood and dirt like the others.

💀 his shirt is slightly in better shape than the rest of his clothes, he’s probably had to change it after a while.

💀 Bo looks like he’s lasted longer than the others considering his supposed military experience and a bandage present on his leg ever before finding him, he’s had in on for a while.

💀 The sides of his face are scratches and torn, revealing his teeth underneath, it makes it hard to chew sometimes but that’s why he focuses more on getting the others food more than himself.

💀 He’s a bit of an attention seeker so if you see him beekeeping the others in line or doing something good, please praise him, he’ll be so happy. The others tease him for it because he resembles a dog when he leans down for you to pat his head.

Anyway here’s your funny little zombos !! Hope you like how they turned out ! I promise to give y’all a proper drawing of goth next time too!

[ellievenus]

Oral HC’s.

Charas: Neuvillette, Wriothesley. (Seperate) x GN!Reader

Warnings: NSFW. MDNI.

A/N: hi im alive. so much has happened to me tbh but im also still sick rn and i just got out of my uni mid terms so, this was a warmup to get back into things. not proofread, hope u guys still like it tho. ill get to reqs when i can.

Neuvillette

He usually likes to be the one pleasuring you, the way you react to his body, the way you shake and cry is so fascinating to watch. He doesn’t mind when you want to suck him off though, not at all.

He loves just sinking into the soft, expensive sheets while he feels like his dick is melting inside your mouth. Your tongue dancing around it, the warm sensation of your mouth burning into his cold sensitive skin, the way you look up at him with your pretty eyes— it’s usually too much and he actually cums the fastest when you’re sucking him off.

Won’t pull on your hair or thrust without asking first, ever. The last thing he wants to do is make this painful for you, even if you like it, he’ll ask for permission with a “May I, love?” and how can you say no to that?

When you first went to his office while he was overworking himself once again and leaving you all alone for hours, you tell him that you know just the way to destress. He first thinks of cakes with a side of tea but you brush the idea off with a chuckle, get under his table and between his thighs. Playing with his zipper, pulling on it your teeth. “May I, love?” You ask, watching him blush a little and sink into his chair, “You may…” he breathes out. No matter how professional he loves to be in ‘working hours’ you’re just irresistible to him.

Wriothesley

Oh he loves it. He’s a guy that gets hard and dripping from sucking you off/eating you out and he loves it when you return the favour. Just tell him, doesn't really matter where as long as privacy can be arranged. Those legs will be parted for you as soon as you want.

As I just said, he just likes pleasuring you more orally. You’re stressed? Lay down and let him work his tongue on you. Oh and, he knows how to work it and he knows it. He’s an experienced man in both ways, so whatever you have, he’ll have your legs shaking and your fingers gripping his hair in no time.

He also loves to work his shaft to the sound of your moans and your taste, it’s just his favourite fucking thing ever. The way you moan and writhe just because of his tongue while pushing his head even further down into you? Heaven. Nothing comes close for him.

Don’t think his fingers only work on his own dick though, he’ll work both his tongue and fingers on you most of the time. Loves the way you squeeze around his fingers while cum drips from your already overstimulated sex. He’ll also make sure to kiss you afterwards, making you taste your own cum. He thinks it's hot, you should also see how good you taste so you’ll stop complaining about how he keeps going even after you’ve come already. Your taste is addicting, dangerous really. You got him wrapped around your finger.

[thelastofhyde]

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

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

synopsis. an anthology of events that precede and procede the termination of you and your father's best friend's sexual relationship. this is part 2 of 3! (part 1)

warnings. no use of y/n! all spanish text is followed by immediate translation ( please note that i am fluent in castilian spanish, therefore some words/phrases may differ from that of other hispanic countries ), age gap , student!reader, dbf!javi, post-s3!javi, policeofficer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, violence, nondescript depictions of sa ( not javi ), pedro-ception aka there's a small cameo of another pedro boy, vomiting, mentions of pregnancy, reader is described to have hair and celebrates christmas ( but no mention of the reader's religious beliefs )! smut ( creampie, breeding kink through the roof, domesticity kink?? javi just wants to love and be loved and start a family, dacryphilia, indecent use of a credit card, spanking, dirty talk, prostitution kink?? i feel like i'm making these up at this point, + a hell of a lot more ) this fic is based on bsc by maisie peters except this has a happy ending bc im a sucker for mr. peña :( not all warnings listed here appear in this part, these are warnings for the fic as a whole !

word count. 14.3k

hyde’s input. hey... hey... how y'all doin'?🧍remember when i said part 2 would be posted a few weeks after part 1? yeah, that was a fucking lie. and, remember when i said it would be 2 parts in total? that was also a lie! the universe is praying on my downfall ( i had a fun mental health episode and fell into a black hole for a few months <3 ) unfortunately, i am very much still alive and kicking, so this is me trying to get the ball rolling again when it comes to posting fics. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it + tumblr will not allow me to post it as a whole due to it's paragaph-count limit, i've decided to post it in three parts. the fic will be posted in full on ao3 once all three parts are available on tumblr!

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

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

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

The year moves too fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It happens when you’re finally being served.

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

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

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

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

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

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

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

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

You compartmentalise.

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

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

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

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

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

A late night.

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

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

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

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

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

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

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

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

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

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

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

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

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

You just know its absence is wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

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

His grip loosens, though slightly.

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

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, you open the tap.

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

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

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

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

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

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

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

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

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

You don’t remember.

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

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

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

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach.

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

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

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

It feels like you’re suffocating.

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

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

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

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

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

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

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

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

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

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

None of it arrives.

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

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

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

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

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

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

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

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

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

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

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

“But I-”

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

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

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

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

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

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

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

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

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

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

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

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

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

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

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

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

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

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

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

“Good,” you reply.

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

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

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

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

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

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

He keeps his word.

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

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

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

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

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

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

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

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

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

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

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

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

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

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

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

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

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, then audibly reply.

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

The drive is quiet.

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

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

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

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

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

He’s right.

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

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

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

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

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

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

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

The clinic is bright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A confused sound leaves Javier.

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

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

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

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

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

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

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

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

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

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

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

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

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

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

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

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

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

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

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

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not pregnant.

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

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

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

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

Over your empty womb.

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

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

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

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

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

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

See, you know why he’s calling.

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

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

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

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

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

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

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

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

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

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

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

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

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

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

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

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

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

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

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

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

He’s on the younger side.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

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

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

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

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

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

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

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

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

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

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

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

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

You both gather some decorum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then two steps, which you also match.

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

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

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

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

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

That single action changes the game, entirely.

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

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

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

The grip tightens.

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

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

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

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

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

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

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

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

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

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

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

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

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

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

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

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

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

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

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

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

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

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

A picture of Javi, and you.

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

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

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

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

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

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

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

He does good to bring you back into the room.

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

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

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

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

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

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

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

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

The card is plucked out your hand.

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

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

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

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

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

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

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

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

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

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

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

A few seconds pass. 

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

You feel the air tickle your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smack!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

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

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

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

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

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

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

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

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

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

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

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel lightheaded.

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

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

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

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

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

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

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

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

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

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

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

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

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

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs. 

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

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

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

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

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

He’d catch you, if you fell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You both crash and burn, together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

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

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

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

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

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

Lights, baubles, action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

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

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

“Some what?”

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

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

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

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

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

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

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

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

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

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

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

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

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

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

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

Until tonight.

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

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

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

He’d offered to take you home.

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

He squeezed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

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

“Huh?”

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

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

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

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

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

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

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

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

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

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

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

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

It’s not just Christmas.

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

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

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

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

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

It’s the part you look forward to most.

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

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

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

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

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

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

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

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

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

Hinted at it, slightly.

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

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

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

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

The whole room stops.

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

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

Fades to grey.

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

He knows.

Of course he knows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

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

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

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

You say you’re tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Javi plays it cool.

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

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

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

Well, better than anyone but you.

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

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

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

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

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

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

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You dad is in no better state, rushing forward to squeeze you both closer, one hand clasped over the back of Javi’s head.

When the once-agent exhales a nerve-striken breath, the warmth of it, of him, hits your neck.

“Dad, c’mon, stop-” you’ve never imagined yourself stuck like this, your mother and father both urging you to kiss a man you spent months tossing and turning in bedsheets with behind their back.

The creatively deviant part of your brain tells you this is how it could be, maybe, in some other life.

Some other life, where Javi’s not a cop, you’re new in town, and you both bump into each other at the grocery store.

Both of you reaching out for the same apple, or box of cereal, or bottle of milk.

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

He’d charm you, easily as he always has.

Get your number and then, the next day, a date.

One date leading to two, three, four, more dates.

Till you bring him home to meet your parents at last, squeezing his hand tighter when he tries to pry it away as the door opens to your father’s stern face.

It would take a while, you reckon, for your dad to see past the difference in years.

Your mother wouldn’t care, wouldn’t spare a second thought to it, not when she notices how much he makes you laugh and how he can’t keep his eyes off of you in any room you occupy.

This could be your first Christmas together, your parents begging for one sweet photo of you under the mistletoe, before you both head off to spend the rest of the holiday season with Javi’s father.

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

“C’mon, it’s bad luck not to!” Back in the present, in reality, your dad’s found his way over to your mother’s side. “Peña, just kiss the girl on the cheek for Christ sake, I ain’t gonna bite your head off for it this one time!”

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

Gentle, a hint of warmth, a tickle from the wisps of his well-groomed moustache.

“Get a bit closer, you’re not fully in frame!”

The flash goes off on your mother’s camera, and the two give a little cheer, and Javi wraps an arm around your back, squeezing you a little closer.

When all is said and done, your mother’s forcing you both to stare at the camera screen, a perfect picture of the most doomed couple to ever grace this Earth.

Such dramatics in your thoughts reminds you of the copious glasses of prosecco you’d downed throughout the night, and of your intentions to get yourself home before you done something stupid.

Like stand under the mistletoe with your former casual lover, the very same man your father calls for golf matches and March Madness debriefs.

Javi offers you a ride home, an idea your father approves of.

“I’m heading that way anyway, gotta pick up a few things before I drive out to the ranch.”

A part of you thinks he’s lying, wanting any excuse for a moment alone with you, but then that’s the kind of delusions you shouldn’t be feeding into.

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

You part ways at the door, your father watching you from inside.

Javi calls your name, before you can take more than a few steps.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Then his arms are pulling you in, and he’s got you right against his steady chest, and he’s resting his head atop your own, arms squeezing tightly at your sides.

“Get home safe.”

He walks away before you can tell him to do the same, the door slamming to his car the last thing you hear as you pull out your phone and call a cab.

It takes twenty minutes for it to appear, in which the rain starts and your clothes get soaked, but all that and the fifteen dollar fare are a cheaper price to pay than the torture of letting Javier Peña drive you home.

Crawl up the stairs, unlock the apartment door, drop your clothes onto the floor.

You find sanctuary under the shower, soap suds and boiling water, a dynamic duo that scrub off any remnants of his skin against yours.

Even as you step out, fully cleaned and towel wrapped around yourself, you catch a hint of his cologne, the very same one you’d made sure your dad picked out for him.

And as you pick your coat off the ground, a distant voice that sounds much like your mother scolding you for leaving such a mess, you notice it.

First, just a little extra weight.

Then, scratchy paper as your hand dives into the left pocket.

The wrapping is haphazard, with an uneven bow tied atop it, but that’s not what matters.

You tear away at it, let the paper fall to the floor at your feet.

Then you’re met with a small box, which you tear open too. 

And find it sitting neatly among balls of yarn, the prettiest, most delicate looking glass bauble.

It’s ribbon a deep green, and it’s centre an image of mountain slopes, backed by a green forest and a valley full of wooden lodges.

It shakes in your grasp, and you spy the snowglobe-esque white foam that dances around within it.

In it’s centre, in bold, italic and green, Vermont.

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

You fish it out in one breath, hold it up to read what it says.

Corazón, For your tree. I hope there’s still space.

[myabsurddreamjournal]

Fate

(part 1)

Soldier Boy x Fem! reader

Summary: Reader is a scientist who is forced to work at lab that they keep soldier boy frozen, she talks and cries to him when she is alone, thinking he can't hear her but he hears everything.

warnings: None, im a ace so my character and story is going to be asexual💜

she slowly approached to cryo where they kept him frozen. it has been a while since she had a opportunity to do this. Since she was taken here they always kept an eye on her, watching every move, punishing any sign of disobedience. It didnt take long for her to learn to be silent, be obedient. scar on her arm reminded her to keep her mouth shut every time she wanted to question something they do. She still remembered the pain. It was her second week here, and she made a mistake of asking why they kept him frozen for almost 40 years. She got the scar for her mistake. The sound of her bone breaking... She could still hear it.

Teardrops started to fall from her eyes as she opened the door of cryo, whenever she was alone she was crying now. It almost became a ritual, sitting on floor with her head hanging low while confessing and apologising to him. Who looked like a statue of a almighty god.

"Hello Ben" she opened her mouth. It made her feel weird hearing her voice saying something other than "yes", or "sir"

"its september 19 today, your birthday isn't it?" she was crying harder now. "i read your file other day. It says you had a rough childhood, me too you know, and now we are both prisoners here. What a fate huh?" she looked at his face as she said that. He looked pale, too pale for human. Well he was in this damn lab for almost 40 years...but deep down she liked the thought of him being something other than a human. Humans always hurted her after all.

After watching the torture tapes she learned he experienced pain and anger just like her. (she threw up all night after seeing the tapes for the first time) he had a life once, he was a child, he had a family. favorite food, favorite drink, he even smoked weed which made her a bit shocked when she read it on the files. But in time she found out he was a lot different from what they made him seen. She saw the few unaired interviews where he acted strong and confident as usual until he was asked about his family or childhood. His eyes getting teary for few seconds, Then his hard expression getting back. His mouth twitching every time journalists made a rude remark.

She knew he was a human. But him being alive after all things human did to him told her he was also something other than human.

and it made her feel good.

"i never wanted to be here, i never wanted this, she said. "i wish i could save you. If i had a powers like you, i would burn here to the ground. And kill all of them. But im so weak. Im so sorry Ben. Im so sorry." She waited there for few minutes. Her head between her hands. Until tiny beeping sound from her watch made her flinch. Telling her it was almost midnight. She needed to get up. Too many work tomorrow. Another day as a prisoner here

She cupped his cheek before closing the door of cyro. It was so cold, but still soft. She couldn't help and kept her hand there while looking at his face. His closed eyelids, then freckles on his nose. Still remembering the first time she noticed his freckles, it was one of the days where her legs hurted for being on her feet for so long. She was taking his blood for monthly test. And she saw them. He had freckles on his nose! They were never shown in his movies or pictures, always hidden behind makeup or his green-gold mask. But they were here. She found them adorable. Never showed it of course. keeping hidden behind her cold emotionless expression.

But she often find herself thinking about him when she tried to sleep at night in "room" they gave her. what else he was hiding under all that persona? What made him happy or sad before all this happened? was it true that he never cried? She tossed and turned at night. Sometimes thinking about him and sometimes thinking about her life. The similitaries between them. Humans hurted him just like they hurted her. They stole their life. She usually fell asleep with this thoughts. And in her dreams it was always end of the World. Everything burning in flames and she watching it from distance with smile on her face.

with a deep exhale she withdrawed her hand from his cheek. "see you tomorrow Ben." she whispered. And she was gone. Not knowing that he heard every word.

that night, she dreamed of something else for the first time since she was captured. Pair of green eyes. They were looking at her. Their shade reminded her a small lake she saw everday when she was a little girl. It was on the right side of the road that she used while walking to school. She always loved the way water moved in small waves. After 2 years, for the first time, she woke up with a warm feeling that morning. it felt like gentle morning sunrise.

[sweetieviktor]

"salvation", feat. viktor.

summary: you come to his temple and ask the herald to heal you.

word count: 540.

content warning: season 2, arc 2 spoilers!!! please, don't read if you haven't seen the series yet! some descriptions might sound even a bit sexual but this is a sfw work! i just got a bit carried away while writing sensations lol. also, viktor may be a little ooc since im still getting used to him on the new season.

author notes: i rushed this one hehe but its finally complete! i really wanted to write something based on season 2 and the insane amount of people saying things as such "i would join his church wtvr" or "i may believe in god now" made me think why not write this kind of thing happening? so here it is :))))

you heard the rumors spreading through the lanes, there was someone, a “savior”, helping the ones in need – the shimmer addicts, the sick and the dying. and you thought that maybe the herald, as they called him, could save you.

so you walked down the busy streets, passing by empty shops and crowded brothels, finally descending in the dark alleys until light reached your eyes again, revealing a bright environment, made with metal, all with different colors and textures, molded into organic shapes, like it was meant to be like this all along. contorted yet so beautiful. outside the arch separating the commune and the commoners, there were people just like you, asking for help and hoping for his salvation.

a man walked towards you, the white clothing draped around him accentuating the swirly metallic patterns engraved on his body. “if you have something that could possibly harm someone, i must ask you to leave those here. this is a place of peace”, you discarded everything you could think of, emptying all pockets you had and he looked at you with empathy on his eyes, while you left behind everything that you used during your worst times, letting go of a part of your story, letting go of your past self. “now, you shall come. he is expecting you.”

the man walked in front of you, guiding your path between tents full of people, healthy people, all dressed in white. some adults were working while the kids were playing and you were in pure awe, it all seemed so... perfect. a miracle that happened on the underground.

“the herald is waiting, you must go”, he gestured towards a round temple-like structure, tilting his head and leaving you alone shortly after, moving to the arch again.

you followed his words, walking till you reached where the herald was, in fact, waiting for you. flowing hair and royal blue fabric covering his glowing purple skin, all adorned with golden accents. he looked ethereal, almost inhuman, a god-like figure, a saint. the kind of saint that could fix the broken. fix you.

you came closer and he extended his hand in your direction without saying a word – it was not needed, actually –, you could sense his intentions, it was kind of a vibration, radiating off his fingers. he wanted to save you. so, when he touched your forehead, the whole world seemed to fade with a burst of light and all you could do was to feel. feel his cold fingers pressing further in your skin, feel the jolts it sended through your body, the way it ignited something deep inside of you, how you couldn't breathe, the way your veins burned and your heart rate increased, but it didn't hurt at all, instead, you felt alive. the metal fusing with your body, the magic circling both of you, how you could feel him inside of you, changing, morphing and purifying your flesh. it felt like you ascended to heaven and came back different, new, evolved. gloriously evolved.

he pulled back his arm, allowing your body to fall to its knees, and he knelt too, leaning on his staff, looking at you with his emotionless iridescent eyes, “now, you need not suffer anymore.”

[bbyquokka]

Kissing all of Lixs freckles :)) telling him how much you love him, maybe he's so grateful he takes care of you!! Just sweetie Lixie

freckles

FLUFF BELOW CUT – MINORS, AGELESS & DEFAULT BLOGS; DNI

cw: gn reader, established relationship, sickness (fever), pet names (darling), semi proof-read! words: 0.7k ~ (731)

a/n: tysm for the soft thought! i hope you enjoy! don’t forget to leave feedback, reblog and tell me what you think here. i hope you all enjoy! ‹3

dont repost. dont translate. feedback and reblogs are highly advised and appreciated!

he lets out a tired groan. his body is full of aches and pains. he can feel how stiff his joints are with each movement. his forehead is burning up yet he is shivering and his throat feels scratchy.

fuck he thinks to himself. i can't get sick, not now!

he hears the door opening and is quick (or as quick as he can be regarding his condition) to get up and lock himself in the bathroom.

he doesn't want you to see him like this, all hot and stuffy. he also doesn't want to get you ill too. it's not ideal when the both of you are sick, even if it does sound cute in an odd way.

“lix! im home!” you call out as you carry the bags of groceries to the kitchen to unpack. you furrow your brows together when he doesn't answer. “lix??”

you place the bags on the counter and floor before wandering around the house. you walk into the living area and see that the cushions and blankets have been freshly ruffled up with a fresh glass of cold water.

“felix?!” you grow concerned but it's quick to disappear once you see the light peaking out from the underside of the bathroom door alongside the sound of running water.

“felix?” you knock softly on the wooden door. “are you in there?”

“uh, yeah! just uh, give me a second.” felix scrambles around in the bathroom, splashing cold water onto his face and rinsing his mouth with cold water to make him look somewhat alive. he looks in the mirror and sighs.

“on second thought, i don't want to come out.”

“why? is everything ok?!” you go to open the door but it's locked.

“i'm uh–”

“are you doing something lewd in there felix?” you giggle.

“what?! no! no! no!” felix flushes red and feels hot, whether from embarrassment or from his fever. “i'm sick with fever and i don't want to give it to you..”

“awe lix!” you coo, heart melting at how considerate he is, even in his time of need. “that's adorable of you but you're going to have to come out anyways. let me look after you, yeah? just like you do with me.”

you hear the sink tap being shut off and the door unlocking before being pulled open slowly. you gasp a little at how unwell felix looks.

"oh baby.. come here.” you open your arms out. felix pouts and throws himself into your arms. you hold him gently, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he whines softly.

“lets get you back on the sofa, m'kay?” he simply nods. he has no energy to protest. he lets you drag him to the sofa, let's you give him water and medication.

you made him some soup, gracefully feeding it to him. felix looks up at you with doe eyes.

“you're the best, yn.” he mumbles. you laugh softly and pat his head gently. “have i ever told you how much i love you?”

“all the time, darling.” you respond as you place the bowl on the coffee table.

"no like, i really fucking love you. like, my heart feels like it's going to burst and i feel hot with love. i feel tingly and butterflies in my stomach because of you. i want to marry you one day, yn.”

you blush and giggle softly at his sudden confession.

“are you delirious because of your fever?”

“mhm, maybe. but what i said is true and comes straight from the heart. it wasn't delirious me speaking.”

“then, i want to marry you too, lixie.” you say shyly. felix grins big and watches you lean in. he puts his hands up between you both to create distance to which you frown at

“i told you, i don't want to get you sick.”

“then, how about this?” you gently lower his hands and kiss his cheeks – more specifically, his freckles.

“one. two. three. four.” you count as you kiss each and every one of his freckles. felix laughing softly and holding you softly.

“when are you going to stop counting?” he jokes.

“until i've kissed each and every one of your freckles.” you grin before resuming your kissing and counting.

“i have a lot of freckles baby.”

“then i guess you'll be getting a lot of kisses, if not more!”

[cowboydisaster]

reader dying in Simon's arms... med evac being too late... Simon in denial?

i like to cause pain 🫡

nonny... you are a little torturer, but I'm here for it. I actually wrote this a bit ago, but tweaked it b/c it was very similar to this prompt. Anyhow, enjoy you little angst-lover!

Fine Line

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader word count: 1.7k a/n: reader goes by callsign: Red. Also, this is like-- super angsty. I'm SORRY. I'll make it up to you later I promise. xx warnings: death, reader death, blood, gore? i think thats the word im looking for, denial, trauma, hurt/no comfort. masterlist

It doesn’t look good.

You hold your palm over your torso, pulling it away to look down at the ruby colored liquid that is coating your hands. It’s sort of beautiful, you think, oddly. Like rose petal after rose petal spilling out from your wounds, coating your being in its own life sustaining substance. It hurts, an unrelenting burn radiating throughout your body, causing you to tremor uncontrollably. You’ve seen death plenty. You’ve been the hand of it, and now you’re the victim. Funny how things come full circle like that. 

Bodies lie around the room you occupy, already having suffered the same fate that you’re about to. You’d succeeded in clearing the room. Ah, but the closet. You’d missed it. A simple mistake, and it would cost you your life. You managed to take out the enemy, but not before he pressed his damning shotgun against your stomach, not before he’d pulled the trigger. 

Your breathing is shallow, the puffs of air are visible in the cool air, and they shrink smaller as an overwhelming cold begins to creep around your lungs. Ice wraps around your frame like an old friend, like a lover. 

“Red, how copy?” 

You glance down at your radio, a bittersweet smile gracing your lips at the familiar voice. Simon. Oh, how you love him. 

“Fuck, sergeant. How copy? I heard shots.” Simon says again, this time harsher. You’ll miss his voice, his touch, his eyes. You hope that in some way, after you’re gone, he’ll be with you.

His voice soothes you, your heart skipping a beat even as it slowly gives up, unable to carry the burden of keeping you alive for much longer. Blood trickles down your body like vines, wrapping around your arms and holding you heavy to the ground. You hope they’ll plant roses on your grave. 

 Slippery fingers press down on the comms button, trembling and soaked with crimson. 

“I’m here, Ghost… I’m here.” You say into your comms. Your voice is barely a whisper, nothing more than a wisp. You used to be so bubbly, the loudest in the room. Your voice is foreign in your ears as the soft, comforting hands of death steal your air away from you, unwilling to compromise. Not this time. 

“I'm coming, Red. Fuck, I’m on my way, love. I’ll be right there. Just hang on.” Simon pleads. You can hear his heavy breathing through the comms, swallowed by the panic in his voice. He sounds scared, terrified. It contrasts how you feel. Death has never been peaceful. Not when you watched teammates die on the field, not even when you killed. But this, being on the fine line of life and death? It’s peaceful. Death is quiet, it’s numb. Living. That’s the hard part. Fighting. Surviving. 

Your eyes flicker to the door as Simon kicks it clean in. Your love enters the room quickly. You hate seeing him so worried, you’d take it away if you could. You’d carry the burden to ease the weight on his shoulders. 

“Red!” Simon yells, running towards you and sliding to his knees on the ground beside you. His eyes scan over your wound, refusing to acknowledge the warm, red liquid that pools around you. He’s had a lot of blood on his hands, but never yours. Never. 

Big hands push against your torso, attempting to stop the inevitable seeping of blood from your broken and battered body. It’s no use. Your time is up. The blood that Simon so desperately tries to stop from flowing has already been used to sign your life away. 

“Price. I need a medevac, now!” Simon screams into his radio, the desperation is thick in his voice. His hands on your body hurt you, pushing against wounds that you know will never be sealed again. You groan uncomfortably as he attempts to force the life back into you. 

“You’ll be just fine, baby. Just fine. Hang on for me, yeah? I’ll get you out of here.” Simon rambles. 

“Simon, stop.” You whisper, hand weakly covering his. He shakes his head, unbelieving that this is happening. It can’t be. He’s lost everything. He can’t lose you too. Anything, anyone but you. He’s not strong enough. His skeleton gloves are painted red, like the rose petals, the blood, seeping from your mouth and your body. He pushes harder, noises of anguish escaping from his throat. A tear slips down your cheek, the liquid mixing in with the blood. 

“Simon, stop.” You plead. He shakes his head. 

“I won’t let you die out here.” He says, frantic, hands putting pressure on your wounds. 

“It’s too late and you know it. Please. It hurts, Simon.” You whisper, head lolling back against the wall, “Just hold me… please.”

Simon hesitates. Everything in his being is screaming at him to fix you, to make a futile attempt to heal your wounds. But how can he deny you? He doesn’t move, but your hand squeezes his and he gives in to the weak gesture. His back slumps against the wall beside you, and he scoops you into his warm arms.

You were wrong. Death isn’t peace, his arms are. You smile weakly, curling into his chest as the life seeps out from your very pores. 

“I can’t lose you, Red. Not you. Medevac’s almost here. You’ve got to hang on for just a bit, yeah?” Simon says, eyes darting around the room before they land on you again. There’s so much blood, too much blood. It covers you and him. He knows that no matter how hard he scrubs, it won’t ever come out. It’s etched into his very being, stained forever.

He’ll have to burn his clothes.

For his sake, you nod, though you know it’s a lie. 

“They’ll get here in time. They will.” Simon nods to himself, attempting to convince himself that you’ll be okay. 

He rocks you lightly, tears slipping down his cheeks and wetting his balaclava. His brown eyes are stained red from tears. The pain in your torso begins to dissipate, a searing burn turning to a dull ache. An overwhelming numbness begins to spread from the tips of your fingertips, spreading through you like clover. It covers you, a peaceful escape from the constant pain. You realize that time is slipping through your fingers, and no matter how much you try, it will continue to fall. 

“I love you, Simon.” You whisper, voice barely a puff of air. You need him to hear it, just one last time. You don’t ever want him to forget. Simon shakes his head. 

“You’re gonna be okay. Don’t– don’t say that. You’ll be just fine, love. You can tell me how much you love me when you’re safe at the base.” He stumbles over his words, begging to wake up from this nightmare and be in bed next to you. 

“Say it back or you’ll regret it.” You whisper, knowing he’ll beat himself up for the rest of his life if he doesn’t repeat those familiar words to you just one last time.

“I’ll tell you when we get home. You’re not going to die out here.” His resolve is strong. Denial. A cold, bloody hand comes up to rest on his cheek, leaving a bloody handprint as you cup his masked face. 

“I want to–” You gasp for breath, a wheeze that Simon won’t ever unhear for the rest of his life– “I want to hear it one last time.” You smile weakly, eyes locked onto his large brown irises. They are brimming with tears that you’ve never seen fall from his eyes. 

“I love you.” He whispers, shakily. “Love you so much, my Red.”

“Thank you, Simon.” You whisper, “For everything.” 

Your eyes are tired, and they slip shut to unburden themselves from staying open. Simon rocks you as his warm tears drip down onto your hair. A kiss is pressed to your hair, your forehead, your cheek. A sound of anguish, of raw pain shreds through the room. You can’t bring yourself to react.

It’s like falling asleep, lulled into a blissful slumber by the man you love. It’s peaceful. Simon’s warmth fades away from you, replaced by a cold that wraps around your heart and your lungs. The icy compression squeezes the last ounce of life from your being, and the rose petals stop falling. 

–

Captain Price rushes into the room, Gaz and Soap on his six. His feet stop once he lays eyes on the scene in front of him. Ghost rocks you gently, eyes frantic, full of a pain and fear that Price has never seen in the stone-cold man’s eyes. 

“Where’s the heli? You’ve got to help her!” Simon yells angrily at the three men. Soap backs up slightly, a few tears brimming in his eyes. 

“Price!” Simon screams, his voice raw. He doesn't understand why no one is reacting, why no one is helping. He stands up from the floor, cradling you in his arms tightly. Your head is lulled back unnaturally, your hair cascading towards the floor.

"Simon…" Price whispers, taking a few steps towards you both. 

"You've got to help her! Fucking hell, Price! Please!" Simon roars. His arms are trembling. His eyes are stained red with tears. 

"Simon… she isn't breathing." Price whispers, his own tears coming to the surface as he looks over your lifeless body. You're unmoving, forever still and cold in Simon's arms. 

“She’s alive–” Simon shakes his head, refusing to face the truth, “She’s alive, we just have to get her into the heli!”

“Simon…” Price whispers again, “She’s already gone.”

“You have to help her, Price. Fucking hell, please– Soap, Gaz, anybody please. Fuck!”

Death had already passed through, carried you away as red dripped down from the very being of your soul. 

You're grateful to not be able to hear Simon's screams.

[v-ternus]

Movie

I like to think of the ways Dew and Aether kept up with each other while Dew was away with everyone else on tour.

This one's for @iamthecomet, those SwissDewther thoughts never left, they just turned into this. Im so sorry... I dont know where the angst came from.

Under the cut cuz it got long again.

Also, I swear Dew and Aether love Swiss to hell and back, he's just a proxy for this night (he'll get his turn some other time)

Sister was going to kill him. It was bad enough that he was replaced, fired with no real rhyme or reason, but the desk work he was being saddled with? It was maddening, and some days it feels like he'd rather be sent back to the pit.

Today was one of those days.

Sister had berated him for something, misfiling a form or messing up her damn coffee, since he apparently doubled as her secretary too. Whatever it was, it was dumb. Plain stupid. But apparently bad enough to have her turn beet red as she screamed her head off. Worst of all, he had a whole days worth of work to get through still. By the time he got back to his room, he was fed up and ready for the day to be over.

He got in the shower, intent on washing the day off of him with the hottest water the tap could spit out. He turns the handle as far as it'll go and hisses as he steps in.

Aether used to hate the burn, it made him feel like he was being boiled alive, but he figured out two weeks into the tour that if he held himself under the steady stream just right, it felt like Dew's touch. Regardless of their promises to not let the distance change anything, regardless of their late night calls and constant texts, it wasn't enough-- he was still going to fall asleep in their bed alone and Dew's scent was still going to fade from the sheets. If he had to burn himself to feel his mate, then so be it.

He stays until the water runs cold and gets himself into bed soon after. He shuts his eyes tight, getting ready to do the same things he''s done for the past two weeks-- remember the last night he had Dew next to him. He swears that if he thinks hard enough, he'll feel Dew's back pressed against his chest again.

He's just about to fall asleep when his phone vibrates on the bedside table, a text from Swiss. It's short and it makes his chest ache all over again.

We miss you

It's followed by a bright red heart. Before he can respond, those three dots pop up, so he waits for whatever else Swiss is typing out for him. Only this time, it's not a text, it's a video. He thinks that it's just a few clips of whatever city they're in for the night, shots of the venue and all the touristy stuff they did before they had to get ready. He's content to just watch it later, tomorrow when the weight of the day has lifted off of him, but something in him tells him to open it.

He's really glad he listened. The video starts and has him throbbing almost instantly.

"Say hi Dewy," Swiss' voice is gruff, heavy from strain. He's standing in front of the camera, holding Dew up with a tight grip under his knees, spreading his legs so Aether has a perfect view of how Swiss fits in his cunt so nicely.

"I said say hi." His hips snap up hard, burying himself further into Dew who yelps and picks his head up from where he had it resting on Swiss' shoulder.

"H-- hi Aeth" He whimpers as Swiss moves like everything is normal, like he doesn't have his phone set up in front of him and Dew, filming each measured thrust of his hips. With the phone so close, Aether gets to hear each wet and slick slide of Dew's cunt in perfect detail.

Aether lets a hand slip into his boxers, rubbing his palm over his cock, pressing it down against the curve of his belly. He feels himself throb with each and every filthy noise that falls from Dew's lips. His finger mindlessly presses on the volume button, cranking it up till Dew's voice fills the room just like it used to.

"Fuck Dew," He cant help but moan his mates name when he finally wraps his hand around his shaft. He holds himself tight, trying to convince himself he's wrapped up in Dew.

"Tell him how it feels love" Besides his grunts, Swiss has been silent so far. Selfishly, Aether is glad. He wants to hear Dew's pretty gasps, and if Swiss has to be the one to draw them out for now, then so be it.

"He's in deep Aeth," Aether matches his strokes with Swiss' thrusts, bottoming out when he does, squeezing the ruddy head when Swiss pulls out far enough to just leave the tip in. He lets his eyes drift from the slick dripping down Swiss dick to look at Dew's chubby little cock. With his legs spread, Aether sees it perfectly, poking out from his lips, pink and puffy. Probably from Swiss' devilish mouth.

"Wish..." Dew cant get a breath in, not with the relentless pace Swiss has set. "Wish it was you Aeth, wanna feel your cock in me, stretch my pussy around you."

Aether can only groan, hips bucking up, fucking into his tight grip. His slowly growing knot bumps against his fist with every thrust.

"Touch your cock Dew, let him see how much you missed him" A quick hand dips between his legs, gliding over his cunt to lube it up in his mess before spreading it over the fat nub. He whines, high and feminine, and if there were any witnesses, they'd say Aether sounds the same. He's a moaning mess, writhing with his shirt tucked over his tits, letting his nipples harden with the chilly air of the room.

"You'd fill me so fucking good Aeth, press in so deep that I see you through my tummy" All those late nights come back to the front of Aether's mind, the nights with Dew bent in half, leaving him no option but to take each heavy thrust, or other nights with Dew on top, arching his back so they can both see how far Aether is buried in him.

"Get me stuck on that fat knot of yours” Aether answers back, a slurred string of yeah's, nodding his head like Dew can see him. He doesn't know how loud he is and he doesn't care.

"I'd fuck my cum in, fill you with kits," He polishes the ruddy head of his cock, bringing himself dangerously close to the edge.

"He's so tight around me Aether, feels so fucking good" Swiss' knot is obvious now, almost full, and pressing against Dew's hole, threatening to pop in with each thrust.

Dew wants it, so bad, to be broken open on something so wide, made to feel like it's almost too big. He wants Aether to split him open, but it's Swiss he’s got. It’s Swiss buried deep in him. He tries not to think of that. 

"--m close Aeth, let me cum. Please let me cum," Aether loves the way he begs, always so good for him, even half a world away.

"Yeah baby, come on, make a mess for me," He watches Dew go rigid, breath stilling as his pleasure crests over. Swiss keeps his pace, letting the air fill with the sound of skin against skin until that familiar rush of liquid rings through his phone. Aether watches Swiss work him through it, watches him squirt around his dick. He watches Dew's euphoria quickly turn into overstimulation, it’s good, it’s what he’d do too. Dew’s dick twitches in time with his heartbeat. 

Between that and Dew begging Swiss to slow down, its all Aether needs before he's painting himself with pearly white stripes of cum. He works himself through it, stroking slowly before dropping the phone so he can get both hands around his knot. He milks himself until his cock has nothing left to give but a weak dribble.

He sings his praises, tells Dew he's been a good boy, that he takes him so well every time, that he loves him-- he lets the empty air be his Dewdrop for the night.

He lays there with his eyes shut and his hands around his deflating knot, holding on to the last moments of the high, until his phone buzzes again. Another text from Swiss, this time a photo.

It's Dew, curled up under the covers, tucked in tight with a hint of a smile on his face. It's followed by a text again.

We love you. 

He loves you.

[z0mb13zzbl00d]

'Found' (Leon Kennedy x Reader) Part 1(?)

Content: a bit angsty, gender neutral reader, cop reader, you're slightly older than leon, no use of y/n, re2!leon

Summary: Leon finds you, the only other RPD officer left alive in the station.

Disclaimer: IM A FRESHMAN IN HIGH SCHOOL AND THIS IS MY FIRST FIC SO PLEASE BE NICE 😭😭 also if anyone likes this I'll make a part 2 maybe

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡~~~~~♡~~~~~♡~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your hands have been shaking non-stop for God knows how long now. Your flashlight is out of batteries, and your handgun has 2 shots left. The feeling of the weapon in your tight grip is all that's grounding you at the moment. Your back hurts like hell, you must have been crammed in this locker for hours. It's the first place you had thought to hide, you mentally curse yourself. 'At least I'm not being eaten alive' you think. What a horrible way to go....God, it sounded agonizing. You feel your stomach turn with burning guilt. I can not believe I'm upset about my back hurting right now considering the horrific pain the others must have gone through, you think. Im so selfish. You're thrown out of your thoughts in an instant when you hear footsteps. You hold your gun tight, your heart beating fast in your ears.

The footsteps get louder and closer, till they're right in front of the locker. Your hands are shaking so hard your dead flashlight slips from your hand and you feel your blood go cold. It hits the metal floor of the locker with a deafening crash. You feel your knees go weak and your heart sink. This is it. I'm going to die. What was the point? You'd made no impact in the world, but maybe arresting a few drunk people on patrol. Nothing of importance. Not one person will be left to miss you, no boyfriend, no family, no friends...they are probably already dead. And you'd never even had a boyfriend in the first place. I can't die yet, there's so much i haven't done, you think to yourself. The locker opens and you scream and ready your gun, eyes clamping shut with all the force you can muster.

"Augh, jesus-! D-dont shoot!"

You register the words just before you squeeze the trigger! You open your eyes, and standing in front of you is a young, attractive man, looks like he's in his early 20's. You'd never seen him before, but he's in an RPD uniform. You sigh and shakily bring your gun back down to your belt. You clear your throat,

"Sorry, sorry...um, who-" You pause to swallow and take a breath. "who are you? Is it safe out- out there?"

He shakes his head no. He opens his mouth to speak.

"No, sorry...it's not safe."

"Thought so...and you are?"

"Leon, Leon Kennedy. I'm new here." He says with a small smile.

You smile back weakly. "Nice to meet you, Leon...so, uhm, do you know a way out of here?"

He nods! "Yeah, I might. But I'll need some help...I got this notebook, it has some notes from another officer about 3 medallions opening up a door to the parking garage. It seems a little far fetched but I geuss it's worth a try, right?"

You chuckle dryly. "Anything to get out of this hell hole."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡ timeskip ♡~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You're searching high and low for the final medallion, but you can't focus on the search. Leon notices.

"Is everything okay? You...aren't bit, are you? Or hurt?"

You turn around.

"Huh? No im okay, its...everything is okay."

He gives an unsure nod then gets back to searching around the room. Your mind is plauged with the memories of your friend's final screams, and desperate pleas for help. There's nothing you could have done, you tell yourself. Nothing you could have done...no, stop thinking about it! Pushing the memories back into your head is all you can do right now. You cant afford a mental breakdown, not now. Not here.

Leon knows what you're thinking, because he's feeling that way too. Maybe not to the same extreme as you, but the memory of that officers death...his legs, or rather the lack of legs...his organs...made Leon feel weak and queasy. If he'd only been quicker, or if he hadn't hesitated. Maybe things would be different for him. He should be getting out with us, but he's not. He'll be here forever, this station is his tomb. Leon hopes that it wont be his too.

You see the look of guilt in his eyes, and you place a hand on his shoulder. You rub his shoulder and give him an empathetic look, a look that speaks louder than words can, as if to say 'i know. it's not your fault.' You let go and continue to search. Leon is touched by the gesture but can't control the warmth spreading in his heart and on his soft cheeks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡ end of part 1 ♡~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[lavaablast]

My headcanons pt1 (because i self project on everything)

(my opinion remember this is all silly fun) (also i change my mind contantly so expect me to edit this post constantly)

Kai Smith:

the band aid on his eyebrow is there because he has an eyebrow piercing, and he wants to protect it from getting ripped in battle (also doesnt want a scolding from Wu hehe)

self harms but instead of c///ing he burns because well, obvious reasons (less likely to be found out too)

orthorexic, is obsessed with being in peak physical form

hear me out on this one, i know he eats junkfood (so do orthorexics okay every 3d is diferent) anyway he never does it alone. he eats junkood only with other people, and he's always thinking he'll "make up for it" later. so yes he eats junkfood and yes he is orthorexic (felt like i had to defend my point there dsfsd)

body dysmorphia. knows he looks good but doesnt know what he looks like

"if i gave up on being pretty, i wouldn't know how to be alive" or wtv mitski said

has an extensive skincare routine but if anyone asks him he'll just say he "washes his face with cold water"

anger issues, but like he can explode on the ninja too and then he immediately regrets it but its too late which leaves him with... ->

guilt. ALL THE TIME. its in the back of his head wherever he goes

sun aries, moon sagittarius. i wont back down on this (im a sun aries and moon sag)

claims he "doesnt care" but actually cares so much it hurts (especially about Nya/Lloyd he'd do anything for them you hear me ANYTHING)

has strong morals and ideals but will give them up in a second when needed for survival of himself or the ninja (people often see this as a bad thing but he just wants everyone to live no matter the cost)

ironically, can't handle spicy food and is ALWAYS made fun of it by the others

is reckless and takes stupid risks because he does not care for his body whatsoever (the others think he doesnt know whats at stake, he does, but doesnt care when it's just his own saftey he's risking)

lowkey a perfectionist, but has a different idea of perfect than others so they wouldnt know (aka he needs things/himself/stuff he makes to be perfect, but not perfect objectively, perfect to what he thinks is right)

loves his parents because they tried their best, but still resents them. he hates that he does, but he does

cried all of his tears out ONCE after Nyas "death" and didnt cry at all after that, instead taking so much on his plate that he didnt get a single chance to think about it again (it'd be too painul, this was easier) which lead to....->

his grief being put on hold; and only when Nya already was back did it come out and he had no idea why he was feeling this way so he didnt tell anyone (what would he have said, im in agony for no reason at all?) and it was HELL to do it alone

tied to the above; he couldn't ask for help if his life depended on it (literally)

loves too hard

hates too hard

BPD coded (i dont wanna diagnose him but,,, im justsayinnn *whistles while walking away suspiciously*)

trust issues, but lowk all the ninja have them because like,,, just look at what they have to deal w bro

commitment issues because freedom is the most important thing in the world (after Nya/Lloyd) so settling down or commiting to one thing too long feels like threatining his freedom

actually smart (both emotinally and intelligently) but doesnt use his brains capabilities that much

great memory but also shit memory (remembers a whole row of numbers for no reason but forgets he has to pick up lloyd from the arcade..)

hot. thats all i rest my case

loves himself but hates himself

everything and nothing at the same time, everything about him contradicts himself, but also doesnt, but also does

hes a really simple person, really. but also the most complex one youll ever meet.

hates labels, especially being labeled by others (for the reasons above)

likes men but hates labels so,, no labels (not even the label "unlabeled")

infact he has a deep hatred for the label 'unlabeled' because if something is unlabeled, then why are you LABELING IT

red. everything is red redredred RED he loves red

has sibling bracelets with nya and lloyd (kai has green & dark blue, lloyd red & dark blue, nya red and green)

everything has to be red except the things that are black and orange. i rest my case once again

drinks just a bit too much for it to be considered concerning (started at 14)

will yell and scream at anyone who tries to help him (why do they think he needs help? why are they babying him? why cant the see he is capable?)

wouldnt let nya touch a bottle until she was 18 (be thankful nya its for the best)

paints his nails black or red.

has a strand of hair dyed red all the time

perfect teeth even tho he often forgets to brush them (how? fuck do i know)

would be a hyena i he was an animal

hates smartphones so he has a.. push-button phone?? whatever they're called. and he also only has the nokia brand. wont change it for a thing

"hates technology" but couldnt live without video games

loves to try new things but will have a breakdown if he HAS to try new things

stubborn asf, wont ever do anything he doesnt want to, which...->

makes people think he's selfish, but actually he's quite the opposite

selfless in an unconventional way, i'll make a drawing explaining it

please understand what i mean with that chart because it explains it so well in my brain

thats it for now cfdsfdr

[formulapookie]

💛💛

Under the cut to read on Tumblr, here to read on Ao3 ch1; ch2; ch3; ch4

Les fleurs du mal ch.5 rosquez, 2.1k words

It’s nine in the morning of a beautiful Sunday, he finally got all the truth Uccio for God knows what reason had chosen to change, corrupt, modify for him to see a distorted version of reality.

The telemetry, that shit was just made up, by a jealous? angry? Uccio, who chose to ruin the one good relationship in forever like that, like it had just been a flash, instead of the sun in his life.

He wanted to call Marc, hell no drive until Cervera and say he was sorry, that he had been an asshole, a terrible person, but to please forgive him because he had been shielded from the reality and couldn’t see.

That now tho he sees the love Marc always reserved for him, he sees how much Marc is willing to sacrifice for them, for the love they share.

There’s a voice note in his notifications, along with two missed calls, from Marc.

And a text from Lorenzo.

“Vale?”

“Mh?”

They’re laying in bed, at Vale’s house, softly surrounded by pearly colored sheets, the sound of the town filling the outside world.

“Do you ever think about like, the future?”

“In general or us?”

“Both”

“Well of course amore, I think of my racing career and more titles and of the time when I’ll inevitably have to retire.

And I think about us, free from the media attention, in a beautiful house near the see.

No neighbours, just us, and you are sunbathing naked next our pool and then I-“

Marc blushes, hiding his face more in the crook of Vale’s neck

“What amore? It wouldn’t be the first time I see you naked eh. I think I saw you pretty clearly last night”

“Vale! This was supposed to be romantic!”

“Is it not romantic? Making love to you in a house we share?”

“I - yeah it is”

“See? And you? You think about the future?”

“Yeah. I see us in a house in the middle of the countryside tho, with animals.

Dogs, a lot of dogs, and your strange red cat too”

“Rossano is not strange!”

“He looks at me funny whenever I’m here.

But anyway, a cute house in the countryside, just the two of us, it’s peaceful”

“But? I feel like there’s a but”

“But I also think about the sport and the danger and - Vale are you scared of death? I am terrified by it. It’s just - one day you just cease to be and I cannot think the universe is so cruel to do this”

“Amore, of course i’m scared of it, and it. In our sport it can happen. It took me years to get over the fact Marco was gone. But life ends in death no matter what we do, we have to live it at our fullest still”

“Im scared thought, I don’t like the idea of it. It’s cold you think? When you”

“I don’t know. It could be. Or it could be warm like drifting asleep with a blanket on and just - sleep”

For Marc it’s cold when he dies.

Freezing even, and so so lonely.

When Roser finds him, curled beside his bed, clutching in his arms the helmet signed by that man, it’s like being shot in the heart.

She tries to wake him, tries to call him, but he’s cold.

Unmoving.

Still like the moment she finds herself in.

Marc is holding onto that one piece of his heart like he’s still alive, the strong grip seemingly coming from a strong person.

But when she looks at him all she can see is her little boy, her son.

Pale and tired and sad.

He looks like he’s having a bad dream, the unsettling kind of dreams where you don’t precisely know where you are and can’t get out.

There’s petals on the ground.

Yellow. 

So much yellow and she just wants to burn it all away.

She cries more, calling for Marc again, trying to get him back.

But Marc can’t hear her, the only sounds in the room are Roser’s sobs and the repetitive buzz of Marc’s phone.

When Marc wakes up in the middle

of the night he’s cold, shivering.

The fever is taking over, he’s hallucinating again.

He reaches out for Vale, why is he not in bed? 

Oh right, he’s still not back yet.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because they have time.

The scratch in the back of his throat seems to be less excruciating too, like it’s being kept at bay.

Well this just means Vale is close right? 

He’s coming, finally he’s coming home to tell him he still loves him, and - and the roots will go away the same way they arrived.

“Oh I need to set the room up, Vale has to see my collection has improved, yes, he needs to see it”

Marc unpacks the two boxes Roser had stuffed full, carefully taking out the items in them.

The cap and the picture first, he places them on the shelf next to his bed, close, so close the cap covers half the picture, the half where Marc is.

Then it’s the bikes turn.

Slowly, methodically, precisely, Marc takes them out the box one by one, placing them in the same exact order he had bought them.

He sees Alex in his room, he’s not happy.

“Marc come on stop you look ridiculous”

“Ah Alex stop it, you’ve just never been in love, when you’ll be you’ll get it”

He’s standing on his bed, mattress dipping under his rapidly decreasing weight.

“You see, Vale is coming and the room has to be nice for him, I want it to be more beautiful than ever, he deserves the best”

Marc is smiling, like a kid on his birthday, waiting to blow the candles.

“Oh he’ll want the 2004 Yamaha to be the most visible for sure, he loves that bike God how he loves it”

He keeps talking to a non existing Alex, while he feels colder and colder.

“I better put on a hoodie, don’t want to catch a cold before Vale arrives for sure”

He goes pick up the one hoodie Vale left there, in his home.

It still smells like him.

He sits on the bed, legs crossed with his phone beside him, facing the door.

He stays there for minutes, maybe an hour even.

There’s no sudden buzzing of the phone, no sound of a car parking outside, no knocking on the door signaling Vale is there.

Well not yet, maybe he just doesn’t like to travel with the dark.

Yeah it - it must be that.

Because it’s either that or.

Or Vale isn’t coming.

Not now, not in a million years he’s gonna spend tidying up his room to welcome Vale back in it.

When the fever lets go of him and he sees clearly again it hurts.

Physically, mentally, emotionally it all hurts like it’s been crushed by tons and tons of rocks thrown on top of him.

Hot big tears fall from his eyes, follow the now slim outline of his cheekbones, and collect under Marc’s chin.

“He is coming. He is coming. I know he’s coming”

He tries to convince himself of this, even with the hallucination gone, he gets up and sets up the room.

It has to look exactly like it did when Vale came here last time, little bikes in their precise fragile order.

The last thing he takes out the boxes is the helmet.

Signed, a little note left for him by Vale, unmistakable messy handwriting on the clean visor.

He takes his phone, it’s stupid, childish but he can’t do otherwise.

He calls him.

Twenty, twenty five seconds of his phone ringing. No answer.

He tries again. And once again there’s no answer on the other side.

He opens their chat, it’s still on hold since the last text Vale sent.

“Good luck for the race babychamp”

He presses the button to send the voice note, the first few seconds just of silence.

“Vale. It’s me. I - please Vale it hurts so much, I can’t breathe I need you to come here quick I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry for what I did, all of it, I’m sorry I didn’t want you to lose, I didn’t want to do anything against you. I never - I never went to him, I would never cheat on you, I only ever had you please believe me Vale. Vale I love you. I’m home and, and it hurts so much. Please I need to see you. Please. I need to feel your hugs again. I’m cold Vale so cold”

The voice note sends, but there’s no blue ticks to signal it’s been read.

Marc climbs off the bed, his phone beside him, holding the helmet between his arms like it’s the most prized possession of his, he fears it may scratch, or get ruined if he accidentally bumps into the shelf he usually laid it on.

All his words now barely a whisper, he’s trying to stay anchored to reality by clutching at that damn helmet, it’s almost sunrise, almost sunrise and there’s no sign of Vale.

He abandoned him.

Vale abandoned him.

He truly hates him, he truly wants Marc to not represent a menace at all.

That’s fine. Vale will be fine without him too, he was fine before meeting him, there’s no need for Marc to exist in Vale’s life.

Maybe he’s gonna be a weight less, he will just go away, like he came in.

A breeze.

Marc can feel himself getting colder, and the petals in his throat now make it impossible to breathe.

He vomits them rather than coughing, a sea of yellow hollowness making its way out of his body, the everlasting presence of Valentino beside him even right now.

“you promised it was going to be warm like falling asleep with a blanket, but it’s cold, it’s so cold”

He’s still waiting there, looking at the door like a dog waiting for his owner does.

Argo had waited for Ulysses for years before he came back, and had died right in his arms.

But Marc knows his Ulysses won’t arrive, not even to hold him as he leaves behind the ugly and hurt of the mortal world.

He’s an abandoned dog. Even if he was loyal. He’s been abandoned.

He cries on the helmet, the last tears he can still produce, before his life abandons him too, the last breath used to hope, to call Vale’s name.

When Roser finally looks at the ID of the caller on her son’s phone she is angry.

She wants to smash that phone against a wall, make it shut up once and for all.

“Vale💛💙” identifies the person calling, the rage she feels is unexplainable through words.

She doesn’t answer. He doesn’t deserve to know from her what happened to her sweet boy, he will forever live with the guilt of having killed him. 

She only manages to call Alex and their father two hours later. 

She tells them to come there, that Marc has gone to sleep the night but hasn’t woken up now.

When Alex barges in he’s red in the face, crying and cursing.

He runs to the room they used to share, and sees how Marc has set it up once again, memories of Vale on all the shelves.

He also sees the many yellow petals littering the ground of the bedroom, a dark feeling taking residence in his chest.

“Marc? Marc it’s me, it’s Alex, I know you can hear me, you’re just sleeping, but you have to wake up, mom is getting worried. You need to wake up Marc please, I don’t know what to do without you”

“Alex he’s not-“

“HE’S ALIVE HE’S JUST - he’s just making a joke mom he - he can’t be dead mom he can’t be”

“Alex come here”

“No. No he - it’s not right. It’s not right he shouldn’t be, it shouldn’t end like this, he promised me we would’ve been together on the podium one day, he promised”

Roser has to drag Alex away from Marc, he doesn’t want to let go, he wants to save him.

“Alex. Look at me. You have to think of what Marc wanted ok?”

“Marc wanted to live! He wanted to race and win and - he wanted so many things! He’s scared of death, terrified of being alone! AND HE WAS ALONE!”

“But he wanted you to live too, he wanted you to be there on track, to be here with us. Please don’t - don’t make me lose you too Alex”

“No no i’m not going anywhere mom I promise. I’m not going away, sorry sorry sorry mom I’m staying here”

“Can you? I can’t call anyone to tell”

“Yeah yeah i I’ll uh ill call people”

“Be kind with yourself, as kind as your brother was with you ok?”

“Ok”

They think about removing everything from the room.

Putting it back in boxes.

But Marc’s last wish was probably for the room to be like this, and they couldn’t go against his wish.

[hpalways]

in another lifetime

charas: timebomb drabble (ekko x powder) synopsis: as ekko thinks back to his journey from the other universe, he wonders and regrets what could've been in this timeline. warning: spoilers a/n: arcane hurt me so now i have to write angst for it LOL, they are my unbecoming frfr i miss them sm. also heard theories that jinx is still alive (im coping BYE) tho so maybe ill have to write another thing where he finds her

That singular night was still vivid in his mind to relive through, over and over again. From the strobing lights to the taints of her blue hues glimmering mischievously, he could just about see it if he closed his eyes. She was so close to him, so beautiful in a white, pure dress that he could not look at anything else. Her cute little dance moves that slowed down time for him and the sway of her short blue hair. Just a reach of his arm... would he be able to feel her warmth?

Of course not. It was now a memory to be tucked away. In this cold, sad world that he fought to survive in, he could not save the one he desperately wished to.

Ekko raised his arm toward the stars in the sky, laying there. So far yet so close. The stars represented her, burning bright until the very end.

When he first heard news that Jinx was gone, his gut dropped down to levels of hell, a torment of agony and lament drowning him in waves. How could it possibly be? She was the one that always came back from the dead to haunt him, a thorn to his side he could not get rid of. But now, she was gone, the moment he tried to reach out to her again.

He wondered.

He wondered so bad.

Boy Savior she called him. It made him so angry back then. So angry he turned his back on her, accepting the fact that he would never see the same girl he once was so close to.

But now he wondered if he gave up on her too soon.

Deep down all along, Powder was in there. The pain that she endured to live the way she had, she did everything to survive. But his cowardice could not face that. He could not see the suffering or the light that had disappeared from her gaze. The glimpse of her scared face beneath his grasp during their fight looked so much like... Powder. And yet, he still could not save her. Instead, he watched Silco carry her away, for her to continue the path of destruction.

When he found her there in her hideout, prepared to end it all, he could finally see the scope of it all. No longer was he shrouded in an endless cycle of rage and resentment, and for once, he could see it with a clear vision.

He should have tried harder -- to be at her side, save her of the demons that chased her.

She had painted him of her colors, her touch tickling his skin as he watched the furrow of her concentrated brow. Jinx was different from Powder in the other timeline, more rough and shrivel, her scowl imprinted on her lips. He realized he didn't mind it though.

Then they went off to war, only for one of them to return.

He... missed her.

Now all that was left of were his spiraling thoughts, of what ifs and regrets.

He pressed his fist against his forehead, feeling the heat of tears swarm from the corner of his eyes. Where he had been with Powder in the other universe on the same rooftop overlooking Piltover, he was now alone, the quiet unbearable.

Powder's words rang in his mind, a push for him to keep going.

"Sometimes taking a leap forward means leaving a few things behind."

[gh0st-author]

This love is alive, back from the dead

pairing: William James Moriarty x reader/oc

tags: hurt/comfort, angst but with a happy ending, usual soft William things

warnings: mentions of death (i mean Liam did try to delete himself from existence), mentions of grief and dealing with loss

A/N: im rereading the manga again and i had a LOT of feelings about the 3 year time skip and imaging all of the turmoil Liam's return would bring, so i whipped this up. i also had a lot of feelings for Louis, and i just know him and Liam's s/o would be besties. also im trying some new things, writing in third person and stuff, so this can be read either as a self insert or an oc ff.

She could still hear the screams. Could still see both of them falling, as in slow motion, and disappearing beneath the waves and fire. She could smell the smoke and soot. Could still feel the same burning heartache and hollowness in her chest even after three years. Could still feel Louis' firm hand grabbing her shoulder and pulling her away, his own form trembling, his breathing erratic. The image was burned into her mind like a brand, tape playing in a loop over and over again like a nightmare from which she couldn't wake up. She was trapped. Some days she barely even felt alive. She felt like a ghost, a shell of her former self, only going through the motions, trying to just get through every day.

Nights were simultaneously the worst and the best part of her day. Every time she sank into the cold, empty sheets of her and William's bed, something in her chest cleaved, and a knife burrowed itself into her heart. And if by some miracle she was able to fall asleep in the early hours of the morning, it was accompanied by choking sobs and shuddering gasps. The bed was too cold, too empty. But at night at least she dreamed. She dreamed of him. Dreamed of his scarlet gaze, his scent, his touch, his voice. In her dreams she could love him again and enjoy a few blissful hours of ignorance before morning cruelly ripped her away into consciousness. She woke every morning with silent tears streaming down her face, his side of the bed cold and undisturbed, exactly like the rest of the room. She'd left it all the same as the day it all happened. All his papers were still strewn across his desk; she dared not disturb them lest she severed the last thread of hope pushing her forward, the silent voice whispering that he might come in any second to collect them and stew over them. His clothes were still in the closet, everything besides the coat, the hat, and the cane he took with him that day— those she missed the most, they were an integral part of him. His books on the shelves she dusted every day— after all, what if he came back and wanted to read them again? She had to. And anything else she couldn't keep in their room she left in his study, locked to anyone besides her and Louis.

Grief was a living thing eating her from the inside, almost as much as the rage. Those first few months were the worst. She screamed, cried, and cursed the heavens, herself, this wretched country, and anyone she could. She was so angry at everything, but mostly at him, for leaving her, for carving himself a place in her soul so thoroughly, then ripping himself away leaving a jagged wound left to fester and rot. She was furious with Sherlock, for promising her something he could not deliver. For dying with him, instead of saving him. For damning them both. But most of all she was empty. Numb. As if everything that was human and alive and good about her died on that day together with William.

With a blink, she ripped herself away from those thoughts, feeling cold droplets slide down her cheeks onto the papers below. It was not the time for nostalgia and melancholy. Wiping them away with a silent curse she inspected her work for any signs of smudging. None. Her handwriting was neat and precise as always, detailing all of the plans for the MI6's newest job. Doing this work helped. Sitting here in William's office and focusing her mind on the simple tasks in front of her helped her to not succumb to the gaping abyss of grief. Besides, without him here, someone had to document and keep everything in order.

There was a silent knock on the door and she turned around in the chair to see Louis entering with a tray. The sunlight from the window shone golden light onto his platinum hair, now pushed back and not hiding his scar anymore. His tired gaze met hers and she fought back the wave of sadness threatening to overwhelm her. They were so similar, him and William. Looking at him made her feel like she was looking at a distorted mirage of the past. She assumed he felt very much the same when he looked in the mirror. She wondered what he thought when he looked at her.

A kind of understanding had been built between them in these three years, a sort of bond forged in shared grief and pain. They both understood that William had tasked them with taking care of each other, his two closest. She genuinely believed he was the only one who truly understood her loss, and she his. It was true, that losing William indeed impacted everyone in the group, that they were all battling their pain in their own way, but she and Louis just felt it a little bit differently– a little bit more acutely. Albert, too, she assumed, but he wasn't here now.

"I brought you tea," he said gently, leaving it on the desk next to her papers.

She stretched in the chair, raising her arms above her head and nodding gratefully at him. "Thank you, Louis."

"Do try not to overwork yourself. My brother would have my head if he thought I haven't been taking care of you." He chuckled wryly, but it didn't reach his eyes. They were concerned and pleading. He was aware of her insomnia and her tendency to bury her raging storm of emotions in work. He never said so outright, but she noticed his subtle pleas for her to rest and the food he prepared for her to eat when she forgot. He noticed everything, much in the same way she noticed his sunken eyes on the days after a night plagued by nightmares not too different from her own.

"Don't worry, Louis. I am almost finished." She glanced down at the papers around her. "I just need to go over a couple of things."

He nodded and turned to leave. "We are having a meeting in the main lobby in ten minutes to finalize the plan. Join us if you can."

She hummed, still writing, without glancing at him. "I'll be right there."

Since Louis took over, their lobby had become sort of their main office, their base. They all gathered there on days when they had missions, holding their briefings and studying her documentation. As she made her way down the dark hallway and the stairs, she noticed more voices than usual inside the great room. Someone else was there. She sighed and resigned herself, squaring her shoulders before entering and sitting in her designated seat. Mycroft was present this time. In much the same way she could barely look at Louis some days, she avoided looking at Mycroft. He was a reminder to her of what she'd lost, of promises broken and grudges simmering beneath her skin. She'd trusted the Holmes', and look where it got her. He and his brother were responsible for separating the Moriartys, Albert now rotting in prison because of Mycroft, and William forever lost because of Sherlock. But now when she looked at him, worn down and silently fixing himself a cup of tea in the corner, she hated him a little less. He'd lost his brother, too. She understood that.

The meeting commenced immediately and she went over their mission with everyone. She was in the middle of explaining their escape route when there was a sound at the front door. Bond excused himself and went to check it out. She faintly heard him talking with someone and figured it was one of the others, not really paying attention. But then Bond shrieked and she heard Louis gasp out one word that made her blood freeze and head whip towards the door.

"Sh- Sherlock?!"

Sherlock stood at the entrance, ebony hair much longer than she remembered, the same mischievous grin on his face. He was speaking, but she couldn't hear a word he said, couldn't focus on what he said to Mycroft, couldn't comprehend any sound around her besides the rushing of blood in her ears. He's alive. Sherlock was alive. They survived. They came back. He kept his promise. But Liam ... Liam? Where is he? Why was Sherlock there and not Liam? Where is Liam? Liam. Liam. Liam. Every word was a painful beat of her heart. Her chest contracted painfully as she struggled to breathe, her gaze darting all around the room, searching for a trace of platinum hair behind Sherlock. Why wasn't he coming in? Surely he is there. He couldn't be– Not him. That would be unfair. Fate wouldn't save one and not save the other. It wouldn't be so cruel as to give her hope after so long, only to squash it immediately. She stood so abruptly that she knocked over the glasses on the table. Her vision dimmed as she hyperventilated, and she took a shuddering step towards him. Sherlock looked rightfully taken aback when she focused her glare on him. "Where is he?" She choked on the last word but barged forward. "Why isn't he here? Why did you come back alone? WHE-"

A firm hand on her shoulder halted her movements and the barrage of questions. She finally took a deep breath and glanced at Louis, stone-faced beside her. His hand squeezed, telling her to breathe and calm down, but she could feel him shaking. His unreadable gaze was staring directly at Sherlock. "That day..." He swallowed. "You fell with William into the Thames, and now you're the only one standing in front of us." His gaze sharpened. "Can you please explain yourself?"

She glanced back to the man in question. She noticed now that he looked more worn out, or maybe that was because of the pitying glance he shot her way, a tortured sigh wrenching itself from deep within his chest. He brushed a hand through his hair, something he did whenever he was uncomfortable. "That time, when Liam and I fell, considering the height of the bridge our chances of survival were half at best. I held him in my arms and tried to protect him the best I could." He looked straight into her eyes as he said that as if to make her believe him. To say that he really tried. Maybe he felt her resentment, her grudge. "We lost consciousness, and before I knew it, I woke up on an unfamiliar ship, Liam sleeping next to me. He was safe but injured. And then..."

The rest of his story blurred, his recollections of their life abroad, of Billy, of their work fading into background noise. All she could hear and feel were Sherlock's three words. He was safe. He was alive. Liam was safe and alive. All she could do was offer her thanks to the heavens.  Her knees gave out and she slumped back into her chair. Sherlock said that he was hurt, maybe that's why he couldn't come back. Maybe he didn't want to? How badly was he hurt?

She opened her mouth to ask, but Louis shook his head. "Let's focus on the mission first."

Right, the mission. Let's finish the mission first, there will be time to ask Sherlock about William later. Numerous thoughts ran through her mind, and she didn't even notice when their negotiations ended; when their briefing concluded. She was only numbly aware of Bond gently leading her back into her and William's shared room. She barely remembered why she'd been down there in the first place. Ah, that's right, they had a mission. And Sherlock came to help with their work. Sherlock who was alive. Who saved William. Liam was alive.

Her shaking legs carried her to the bed, where she numbly sat down, her trembling hands grabbing the fabric of her dress. She had to get ready, but she couldn't. Her shock was too great, her soul too shaken. Her sleepless nights must be catching up with her, she didn't even notice how tired she was. "I'm sorry, Bond. I don't think I can participate tonight."

Bond placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Louis already arranged for you to stay back. Don't worry, we'll be able to finish it ourselves." He knelt in front of her taking both of her still shaking hands into his. "I promise we'll find out everything we can about him from Sherlock. As soon as we get back you will be the first to know."

Tears prickled the corners of her eyes and she squeezed his hands gratefully. "Thank you."

With a nod, Bond raised himself and pivoted to leave, assuring her they'll be back soon. She hardly heard him. She was afraid of speaking, of breathing too loud, as if any unexpected noise might shatter this glass-thin fragile ball of hope growing in her chest, burying the razor-sharp edges of the shards of disappointment deep into her flesh, slicing fatal wounds she would not be able to recover from. She didn't let herself dwell on it. She just kept repeating to herself that he was alive and that that was enough.

After some time— she wasn't aware how much of it had passed — she became dimly aware of commotion happening down in the foyer. Throwing on one of William's old cardigans, she raced down the stairs, fully expecting to see only Louis or Bond back from the mission.

What she hadn't expected to see was everyone– even Moran– huddled in front of the main lobby in the foyer. As soon as he saw her Bond gestured for her to hurry up and enter the room. She hurriedly threw open the door, seeing three figures inside– one of them Louis, the other Albert. Her gaze widened as he met her eyes, lips pulling into his signature smirk, his eyes softening as her own filled with tears. He was released from prison. But how? Louis– who was standing with his back to her, obscuring the third figure– turned towards her, and her steps came to a screeching halt as she finally got her first look at the remaining person. Her hand flew to her mouth, as a heartbreaking sob tore its way from her throat.

Him. With his same platinum hair, now a little longer. His same gentle smile. His same scarlet gaze– one of his eyes now hidden under an eyepatch. He was standing behind his brothers, but when he saw her he took a slow step forward. It took her a second to really categorize the feeling currently coursing through her, filling her every pore. It was joy– pure, unadulterated joy was rushing through her veins. It had been so long that she'd almost forgotten what it felt like. Her gaze roamed over him, noting all of the differences that separated this William from the William in her dreams- her William. One thought ran through her mind— He looks so much thinner now– and then she thought nothing as she flung herself at him with another choked sob. He caught her readily, burying his face in her hair. No hesitation or doubt in his movements, as if showing her that no matter how much time had passed he would always be there to catch her in his arms– where she belonged.

Somewhere through the fog in her mind, she heard Albert and Louis excusing themselves,  leaving them alone and closing the door behind them— probably also asking everyone to give them some space– then the only sounds in the now silent room were her desperate gasps of his name and William's gentle reassurances saying: "I'm here, darling. Don't worry, I am not going anywhere. I'll always be here."

She was babbling, she knew, but she couldn't help herself. "Liam... Liam... You are alive. Sherlock said so, but I couldn't believe it. I–" Pulling away, she grabbed his hands, gaze unfocused, like some madness was forcing her to speak— as if she was a woman possessed. "It's you. It's really you. You returned. All this time I thought–"

His eyes shone, probably mirroring all of the storming feelings now reflected in her own. He traced abstract patterns on her skin with his thumbs as he kissed away her tears, his lips feather-soft on her skin. "If it were my choice, I would've come back as soon as I awoke, but I was gravely injured. When I finally regained consciousness, Billy had me working all over America. The matter was of utmost secrecy so I was unable to contact anyone." His shoulders slumped even more, and to her utter shock and confusion, she could see his entire being tremble softly. His gaze lifted, and the anguish in it dulled its usual scarlet hue into something more hollow— something akin to the colour of dried blood. "I am so sorry, love. For everything. For not returning sooner. For leaving. For that night." He gave an impossibly sorrowful smile. "Please forgive me."

Her knees wobbled and she found herself with no strength to stand, plopping ungracefully on the floor. He knelt right next to her, embracing her strongly, paying no heed to the tears staining his vest. "I am so sorry, darling." All he could do was repeat that as she cried and sobbed, clawing at his shirt. He made no moves, only hugged her tighter, and waited patiently for her to come to terms with this world-shattering revelation. As she screamed all her pain at him, all her grief. He just listened, murmuring soft words of love and acknowledgment.

She wasn't aware of how long they'd stayed like that, but when her sobs finally quieted and breathing no longer felt like sandpaper down her windpipe, she leaned away to truly look at him. She placed a gentle hand on his cheek, her wide gaze ran over him, dry lips parting to say something. "What happened to your eye?" Her fingers lightly traced the eyepatch.

He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing as she raised her hand from his eyepatch to brush it through his hair. "Sherlock helped me heal it. It's my badge of honor for my foolishness. But a small price to pay for all of the sins I've committed." He opened his eyes to look at her. "For leaving you."

"Oh, Liam..." She shook her head, the lump in her throat almost choking her. "I do not blame you for leaving." His lips pulled into a thin line, eyes shining with unshed tears. She swallowed painfully, then continued. "I do not agree with your actions, but I do not blame you. I forgive you." His eyes widened, and before he could react she pulled him back into her, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and placing his head on her shoulder, under her chin.

It felt so right to have him in her embrace like this, after so long, like two halves of a whole. To feel the hollow in her chest slowly filling up. It made these years without him feel like a bad dream, a hazy nightmare. She felt more than heard him whisper the words into her shoulder. "I hate myself for having done it, but I saw no other way. I realize now my mistake." He left a whisper of a kiss on her shoulder. "I shouldn't have thrown away my life like that, and I will forever be grateful for being given a second chance. I will not waste a moment of it." He leaned back and cupped her face with both hands, gaze impossibly soft and sincere. "I have chosen to live and to atone, and I am going to spend the rest of my days making up for the time I missed. I will tell you I love you with my every breath. I will kiss you until I'm dizzy. I know it might not be enough to repay all of the pain that I've caused you, but I hope you'll allow me to try."

"There is nothing to repay," she whispered as she stroked his hair. "You— William James Moriarty— are a kind, beautiful soul. One worthy of a second chance. So thank you... for believing in this world and for coming back to me."

His gaze lowered and she noticed his lower lip trembling before he pulled her into a kiss. A barely perceptible sound left him when their lips met, something akin to a sob, and she said nothing more as she felt the first searing droplet slide down his face and hit her arm, only deepening the kiss. With each kiss a miniature chunk of her soul broke, razor sharp and jagged, but with each next one, it smoothed and evened out, until they were all like pieces of a puzzle slotting themselves back into their rightful place. There will be enough time to talk later. For now, this was enough. Just holding him, kissing him, while they were both shattered and reborn anew was enough.

They separated after way too long, her finally remembering there were other people still waiting to see him. She called everyone back, all of them rushing into the room at the same time, surrounding William. There hasn't been this much joy in the house in years. She hugged Albert, grateful he was back as well and enjoyed the sight of the three brothers back together again. The sight was just right in her mind– it always felt wrong to see Louis all alone without them. After some time Albert shooed her and William away, saying he should get some rest after travelling so far. She led him into their shared bedroom and he paused at the threshold. She felt his hesitation, his cautious step forward betraying his inner turmoil. This must feel unreal to him as well, he didn't think he'd be coming back here. She couldn't even begin to understand what thoughts were racing behind his gaze as he entered and glanced around the room, his eyes widening. "It looks-"

"The same?" she chuckled, turning her back to him and slowly walking to his desk to trace the documents strewn there. "Yes, I didn't dare touch anything. Having it all unchanged like this made me feel-" Like you were coming back. She knew he heard the unspoken end of the sentence as he silently made his way towards her, slotting his hands around her waist, and pressing her to his chest. His heart was racing against her back– or was that her heart?

With a silent chuckle and a loving sigh, he whispered in her ear. "Well, since I have made a miraculous return, I do believe I'll need to tidy up my space again."

Her voice was still trembling as she answered. "I dusted your books. Your clothes are still in the closet. But your study is a mess. Wait, I'll tell Moneypenny-"

He tightened his arms around her. "Later." He traced gentle kisses down her throat to her shoulder. "I find myself impossibly weary and in need of some sleep. These last years my nights were restless at best and downright torturous at worst without you by my side."

"Of course." Her nights were exactly the same, although she suspected he already knew that. She also suspected this was truly more for her benefit than his. She couldn't remember the last time she'd truly slept and she was probably swaying on her feet. He saw right through her, as always. With a pointed glance at her and then the bed, he quickly maneuvered her towards it, laying her down as he joined after her.

Immediately she inched as close as she could to him, breathing in his scent, feeling herself relax for the first time in who knows how long as he hugged her to his chest. Everything was still so fresh, so raw. It was too much and too little at the same time. She wanted to never let him go, but she was also so terrified that if she clutched too hard he would vanish and she would wake up all alone again. As she gazed into his eyes, she saw the same torment in him and she knew right then, as she slowly succumbed to peaceful slumber, that he would understand why on some nights she'd hold onto him tighter, as if afraid he might disappear into mist and smoke. And he knew that she would understand why he would sometimes look at her reverently, drinking in her visage as if to compensate for all the times he wasn't able to.

The next day was a flurry of movement and preparations and action, with William having invited Sherlock and his flatmates for dinner. Everyone was so busy following Louis' orders that by the time the guests arrived she'd had almost no time with Liam the entire day. The tables were set, the finest china was served, and the room was slowly filling up with all of the planned attendees. A sudden wave of nostalgia washed over her watching the scene. It was almost as if nothing happened. Once again she had the feeling that these three years were just a horrible nightmare.

While everyone was busy socializing, she spied Sherlock's dark head in the corner of the room, and with a determined set of her shoulders, she made her way towards him, each step purposeful and direct. She didn't let herself falter, didn't let herself doubt. Once in front of him, confronted with his confused and– dare she say it– scared gaze, she stopped and bowed deeply. "Thank you..."

He was obviously taken aback, his eyes widening and his hands flying to wave in front of him. "No need, I was just-"

She rose from her bow. "Please, I need to say this." He coughed awkwardly but didn't stop her as she continued. "I admit that I have been holding a grudge for the last three years. I thought that if I ever saw you I would not be able to forgive you." He might've muttered something along the lines of "Yeah I was aware of that", but she couldn't be sure. She glanced down at her clenched fists." Still, you brought him back." Once again her gaze connected with his. "You brought Liam back. You were his friend and you saved him and cared for him. And that's something I can never repay." One of her hands clutched her chest as she poured all of her feelings out to him. "You have my deepest gratitude, Sherlock Holmes."

"Hey now-" He dragged his hand through his hair and groaned, feeling awkward under her unwavering attention. "Ah, this is so troublesome. Listen, Liam is my friend, I couldn't just let him die after I promised you I'd help him. Besides-" He stuffed his hands in his pockets and huffed out a breath giving her a sincere glance. "What kind of a friend would I be to him if I didn't bring him home to you." Her breath hitched in her throat, tears threatening to fall once again as Sherlock gave her a cheeky grin. "Just... treat him right, okay? He truly loves you."

She nodded her head. "I know." She knew it was redundant to tell him that she loved Liam, too. From the look on Sherlock's face, he already knew. Clearing her throat, she said: "If you ever need anything this house will always be open to you."

Sherlock was about to answer when she heard silent footsteps behind her and felt an arm softly wrap itself around her waist. "Something interesting you two are whispering about?"

She relaxed into William's hold, feeling his familiar warmth and scent envelop her. "Nothing. I was just thanking Sherlock."

She felt his amused humm and saw him give Sherlock an apologetic smile before enveloping her hand with his and gently tugging her after him, away from the main lobby. "Can I steal you away for a moment?"

She followed him without complaint. "Of course."

Quietly, he steered her along into one of their libraries, closing the door shut behind him, but still unable to completely drown out the cacophony of Von Herder's latest gramophone concert invention. She laughed as he led her deeper into the room. "Should the hosts be missing their event like this?"

He gave her a conspiratorial smile, his scarlet gaze bright with mirth. "I'm sure Sherlock will fabricate some excuse for us." Pulling her towards him, he pretended to consider it. "After all, they were all with you all these years, I'm sure they'll allow me to have you all to myself for a little while."

So saying, he gently took her hands, positioning one on his shoulder and holding the other, while his other hand slotted itself on the small of her back. With another mischievous smile, he pulled her closer and started slowly swaying to the music still bleeding into the room. A chuckle of surprise left her lips and she rested her head on his chest, following his lead and swaying along with him. They all could wait a little longer for all she cared, she wanted to stay like this forever. Basking in his embrace, in his warmth– she knew now that that was what home felt like. Like yin and yang, she knew that their love was everlasting. Even when she has to let it go, it will always, unfailingly and undoubtedly, come back to her.