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kizzer55555 · 6 months ago

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Super Dead Soulmates

In this universe, any injury or scar you sustain appears on your soulmate. However, for as long as he could remember, Danny never gained an injury that wasn’t his own. When he was very young, his parents would always say that he was just a late bloomer and perhaps his soulmate was a few years younger than he was and thus, just wasn’t born yet. As Danny grew older, they got more absorbed in their work and just seemed to forget about the whole ordeal. Danny never asked them about it again, afraid they might think a ghost had ‘cursed’ him or something. It was hard enough to hide the lack of additional scars at school. Luckily, most people don’t get injured very often so it was easy enough to play off some of his injuries as that from a soulmate. The only ones who knew the truth were his sister and his best friends. Danny was just convinced that he didn’t have a soulmate and had accepted that fact, even if it hurt. Then the accident happened and for once, he was thankful his soulmate wouldn’t have to feel his pain. And even more so when he started to fight the other ghosts daily. Danny was content to live like this, but with more ghost fights, his injuries started piling up. Danny excused them saying that they were from his soulmate. It didn’t completely get rid of the scrutiny but most people bought it. Afterall, how else would puny Fenton get those kinds of bruises? So for a while, that excuse worked…until someone realized that Danny and Phantom’s injuries linked up (I vote Wes). Now normally, the natural conclusion would be that Danny and Phantom were the same person. But due to the fact that one of them was dead and the other clearly alive, everyone gained a new theory…that Phantom was Danny’s soulmate. It would explain the recent injuries as Phantom was often seen fighting other ghosts. And to be honest, this was the perfect cover. It’s not like Danny had an actual soulmate who might show up and this added another layer of protection against people thinking he and Phantom were the same person. So Danny remained silent and let the rumors grow. Sure people now thought he and Phantom were dating but that was fiiiiiinnnneee. (But BOY was that an awkward conversation with his parents).

And then Kon was born.

As a clone, all he knew from the outside was implanted into his mind. He knew the color of the sky, the sound of music, academic equations and a lot of common knowledge such as soulmates. He knew that injuries were shared between a bonded pair and that everyone had a soulmate. But he was different. He wasn't born a baby and grew up alongside another person. He wasn’t even real according to some people. Yet one day, he noticed bruises lining his arms, he was confused. He should have had impenetrable skin like Superman. As far as he could remember, his skin had never been pierced before. And it’s not like he fought a godlike being that day. He shouldn’t have any injuries. Kon decided to ignore them but the injuries kept showing up. It got so bad that his team started to notice and sat him down asking if everything was alright with his powers or if he was exposed to kryptonite somehow. So, very confused, Kon had explained that the injuries just kept showing up. It was only after his team gave him a curious look and explained the concepts of soulmates did everything click with him. Sure, Kon knew about soulmates but surely that couldn't be what this was! He was a clone! He shouldn’t have a soulmate. It was impossible! But after a few more days of observation and a bit of testing, everyone determined that this was, in fact, a soulmate bond.

To say Kon was ecstatic was an understatement. Actually, it was a mix of excitement, nervousness, worry, and joy all rolled into one. He was elated at the idea that he had someone meant for him. Someone who would accept all of him. Kon had looked at the others and there had always been a slight jealousy when he saw a paper cut bloom on their fingers or see them rub a bruised knee fondly.

But more than anything. He was happy because this was proof that he was real. Afterall, a soulmate wouldn’t match with him unless his soul was equal to theirs. His body almost melted with relief at that realization. A weight off his shoulders he never fully grasped was still there.

Of course there was the worry of why exactly his soulmate had so many injuries. For a hero, it was obvious they would get injured (although they tried to have as much protective padding as possible to limit that possibility. But some injuries still got through.) Yet the amount of injuries Kon’s soulmate sustained were far more than that (because Danny lacked proper padding and didn’t think he had to worry about a soulmate. Most injuries looked worse than they were anyways due to his fast healing). And on the contrary, Kon’s skin was perfectly clear. With his kryptonian biology, even if he got hurt, it never left a mark. So all the injuries and bruises sustained on him were purely from his soulmate. And there was enough for two people. On the bright side, it helped with his cover, on the downside, Kon started to worry about his soulmate. (Meanwhile, Danny didn’t notice a difference. Sure, sometimes he would feel a temporary ache or sharp pain but no mark was left so he just assumed the pain was sore muscles from a previous battle or that one of his rogues were hitting harder than he thought.)

As for Kon, he and his team used every resource at their disposal to try and track down Kon’s soulmate. They did this for every member of the team as hero soulmates were in more danger than most but they paid special attention to Kon’s soulmate due to the rapid accumulation of injuries.

Kon would fantasize on what his soulmate would be like. Would they be tall? Short? They would probably be able to fight. Boy or girl? It doesn't really matter. Kon knew opposite gender soulmates were more common but he wouldn’t mind a guy either. His days were filled with dreams of a mystery person. Someone he could hold in his arms and protect. Who would comfort him after patrols and who he could introduce to his friends.

After a while, Tim finally found a lead. Some doctor records of a boy in a small town called Amity. Apparently he was prescribed pain medicine to help with ‘soulmate injuries’. The lost of injuries were extensive and after looking at some pictures, they realized that his scars and Kon’s scars lined up. A perfect match. So it wasn’t long before they made a quick road trip to Amity.

This place was already on the Justice League radar. It was a town that appears to have a permanent portal to the afterlife and was attacked often. (Which might explain why Kon’s soulmate was so injured). The Justice League had not interfered yet because the town had a local hero as well. Someone who seemed good at his job and who Tim was even thinking of recruiting. So this was a good opportunity to hit two birds with one stone. Afterall, not much was known about this mysterious Phantom other than he dedicated his afterlife to protecting this one town. Once they got to Amity they would probably need to check in with Phantom before anything. And despite his impatience with finding the person who might be his soulmate, even Kon was excited to meet this hero. Apparently Phantom had vast experience but also a major power set. He might gain another flying buddy or someone he could wrestle with without worrying about his strength. Afterall, Phantom also supposedly had super strength and even if he didn’t, it’s not like you can kill a ghost. Yet no matter how hard they looked, they couldn’t find him. It was only by coincidence that they stumbled upon Danny instead and his group of friends.

The first time Kon saw Danny, it was like coming home. He wanted to do nothing more than rush to his soulmate and hug him and vow to always keep him safe. He wanted to prove that he would be the best soulmate ever and he wanted to know everything there was to know about him. He was practically vibrating where he stood in his civilian disguise and it was only his friends that held him back from flying over and surprising the poor boy.

But before he could do anything, a ghost attacked. Kon barely had enough time to grab his friends and dodge when some kind of glowing creature crashed into a building. And while normally he would immediately find somewhere to change, Kon’s first instinct was to check on his soulmate, only to see the two people he assumed to be the boy’s friends but no sign of Danny. Frantically looking around, he didn’t notice the glowing creature behind him (was that a dragon?) but before it could reach him, another glowing figure intercepted the attack. They looked almost ethereal with white hair softly floating in the air and a suit that hugged his muscled form tightly. The figure turned around and gave a sheepish smile towards Kon. “You ok?”

And it felt like for the second time that day, Kon was rendered breathless.

Someone was protecting him.

Someone was protecting him?

Yet it felt…nice. Warm.

Before Kon could gather his thoughts though the battle picked up in earnest. He and his team found cover and changed into their suits. When they came to help, the person Kon assumed to be Phantom looked surprised at their sudden appearance but it wasn’t long before he and everyone else started working together. Unfortunately, actually fighting the ghost seemed to be impossible. Whenever they got close, their hits just passed right through so Phantom quickly regulated them on defense and citizen protection duty. Occasionally getting a hit in when the creature was tangible. Watching Phantom fight was something. Kon could understand why he was elected to join their team. He had this sort of grace and power that couldn’t be explained in words but was clearly from the experience of many battles.

Despite not being able to do much, fighting with Phantom was fun. They seemed to be completely in sync and it wasn’t long before Kon started to enjoy his loud commentary and puns as the two ghosts fought.

However, one particularly hard hit made it so that the dragon’s claws grazed his chest. Leaving three shallow gashes, but Phantom took the close proximity that attack gave him and sucked the creature into…a soup thermos?

But Kon wasn’t focused on that. He was wholly focused on the stinging pain suddenly coming from his chest, underneath his untouched uniform that clearly had not been hit. Kon didn’t know how to process what was happening. Everything suddenly became louder and he vaguely tried to move but it was like his mind became mush as he tried to process what that meant. He managed to get away for a bit and undid his shit, looking down to see three shallow scratches along his chest. Scratches that perfectly mirrored Phantom. In the corner of his eye, Kon saw a head of black hair and witnessed as Danny reunited with his two friends he had been separated from in the chaos. And as Danny twisted to hug them, his shirt flipped up enough to see another identical 3 scratches along the boy's stomach. Perfectly mirroring Phantoms.

It was only later that Kon and his team did some more research on the town and it’s ghosts and learned the unofficial secret that Phantom and Danny were dating. That Phantom had Likely come back from the afterlife to protect the town his soulmate lived in. On the bright side, at least now he could confirm Danny really was his soulmate. And he knew where all those injuries were coming from.

Kon had found his soulmate.

Correction, he found his soumates

And they were already bonded to each other.

…

….so where did that leave him?

There are now two options.

1: Kon decided that he just needs to woo both his soulmates and starts doing so both as Superboy and as Conner. Danny is very confused who these people are (because as far as he knows, he doesn’t have a soulmate, and since Kon doesn’t visibly show injury, there is no sign (unless Danny somehow injures himself in a place that is visible but he’s been trying to avoid that to make everyone worry less.)). Kon goes all out. He gets flowers, chocolates, writes poetry (whether good or not doesn’t matter) starts wooing Phantom in hero form, showing off his strength and skill whenever possible. (And unfortunately, also his dork side when he isn’t paying attention while flying) Asking to hang out, insist on paying for everything. Danny sees this tall Hunk who is paying attention to him and he doesn’t know what to do. And there are TWO OF THEM! (Also, in this version it might be funny if people suspect Danny and Phantom are dating but don’t know for sure and since they are never around each other, people might assume they just don’t know. So Sam, Tucker, and Jazz are all for Danny possibly starting a relationship with Kon along with Kon’s team who are cheering them on and trying to help the poor clone boy who has no experience with romance. Meanwhile literally everyone else in the town who likes Phantom is trying to run interference and get Danny and their hero together.

2: The angst option. Kon decides that the fact that he has two soulmates who are together is likely a result of him being a clone. It’s not that he had someone waiting for him (how could he think someone was waiting their whole life just for him? How stupid was he?!) Kon had just hijacked a different bond. So he tries to stay away. Unfortunately, Tim had talked with Phantom while Kon was out of it so now they have started to team up. This makes avoiding him very difficult as he keeps running into Phantom. Moreover, he runs into Danny because they need him for the ghost hunting equipment. And slowly but surely, Kon falls in love with ‘both’ his soulmates but doesn’t want to get ‘between’ them. And Danny wants to know why one of his new teammates is avoiding him.

#Dpxdc #dcxdp #Kizzer55555 ideas #Super dead soulmates au #Danny x Kon #Danny x Conner #Kon is having an identity crisis and Danny helps but then makes it worse.#At one point Danny might figure out clones and decide to have ‘Phantom’ and ‘Danny’ in the same place. Kon sees this and almost combusts.#Kon’s team are the ultimate wingman’s/wingwoman.#Tim is deep diving into research and planning dates. He has a board covered with red string on how to make this work.#It’s scaring some people.#I don’t know if this is young Justice or teen titans so I was vague while writing it. Choose whichever team you like best!#All I know is that this is the version of Kon with all of Superman’s powers. I want him and Danny to have flying races.#Danny is oblivious.#Kon is in permanent gay panic mode.#Kon gets super protective of both Danny and Phantom.#At some point Phantom comes into contact with blood blossoms so that’s going to be fun. :)#The reason They talk to Danny is because he’s Phantom’s ‘supplier’ for Ghost hunting equipment.#Secret third option: they find Phantom first and bring him to the team and Kon thinks he’s his soulmate after seeing matching injuries and #gets closer to him as a friend but doesn’t know how to breach the subject. Then they go to a ‘supplier’ for Ghost equipment that Phantom #Trusts and meet Danny. And then something happens where they see how ‘Danny’ and ‘Phantom’ are ‘soulmates’.#Then you can deviate to the angst version or wooing version.

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devilmademewriteit · 2 years ago

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Playing Dangerous

part 2 of Salvatore

pairing: javier peña x afab!fem!reader

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

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

word count: 10.7k (sorry again)

no use of y/n in this fic

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

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

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read part 3, Dark Paradise, here.

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

“I am not speaking to you.”

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

“Please.”

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

Not a fucking chance.

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

And it was a shame, really.

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

More than fine. Not even awkward.

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

Everything had been fine.

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

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

“Missing part?”

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

And the missing pieces fell into place.

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

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

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

All to get inside your pants.

God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think, genius?”

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

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

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

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

A relief.

A short lived one.

Too short.

Because…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t have to stay with me—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peña was lying.

He had to be lying.

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

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

It was all bullshit.

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

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

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

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

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

She hadn't.

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

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

Come on.

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

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

Because, afterwards? You were going out.

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

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

They remembered him.

They made sure you couldn’t forget him.

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

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

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

Slowly, slowly the hours trickle by.

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

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

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

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

‘Cause soon? You’ll be dancing.

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

Christ Almighty.

Turning slowly, you find yourself triangulated between Noonan and…

Fucking Steve Murphy.

That one looks apprehensive. The former?

A bit red in the face.

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

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

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

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

And you whir on him.

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

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

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

It’s not because of his earnestness.

No.

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

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

“Fine.”

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

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

Good.

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

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

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

And frankly?

You couldn’t give less of a shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Noonan came through, then.”

It’s all he says.

Your nostrils flare.

The skin on your face positively burns.

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

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

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

“Fuck off, Peña.”

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

Leaving you alone with Peña.

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

“You look hot.”

It’s all he says.

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

But it just makes you want to scream.

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

Silence won’t do for Peña.

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

Dog.

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

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

“No, you’re not.”

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

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

“Yes, I am.”

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

Just like any other man.

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

Because God forbid you fuck anyone else.

God forbid you even think of touching anyone else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dig. Dig. Dig.

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

His eyebrows jump up, eyes widening with the movement.

Just. So. Close.

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

“—okay, enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To hold you steady.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for a brief, suspended moment—

You do.

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

And his tone turns to stone.

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

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

Pig.

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

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

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

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

And you’re gone.

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

It’s perfect.

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

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

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

“Want to get out of here?”

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

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

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

Good.

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

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

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

“Yours or mine?”

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

“Here is okay, I think.”

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

This could work.

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

This could work.

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

Please, God—let this work.

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

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

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

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

“Get down!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get inside, now.”

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

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

Javier Peña’s never looked so stressed.

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

He doesn’t answer.

Which doesn’t stop you.

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

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

“‘Cause you’re in the fucking car!”

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

“So?”

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

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

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

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

It helps that you’re still a little buzzed.

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

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

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

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

And oh.

He’s pissed.

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

“Do you understand?”

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

Peña… had just saved you…

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

He’d been telling the truth.

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

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

“So, you didn’t take my spark plug?”

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

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

To yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Putting Javi in danger.

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

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

Now was the time to seek forgiveness.

To make amends.

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

And it’s true.

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

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

The hell you’d given him because…

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

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

Because you’d been embarrassed.

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

Immature.

You lean over, crooning at his turned profile.

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

Again, silence.

It’s fucking unbearable.

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

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

Wiggle room.

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

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

That wanting you’d learned to recognize…

It excites you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s heaven.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever Javi gives you, you take.

Happily.

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

It was the least you could do for him.

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

He looks stern.

Dangerous.

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

“Say it.”

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

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

“I’m sorry, Javi.”

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

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

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

Everything… everything about him draws you in.

He just makes you crazy.

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

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

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

You’re nodding before the question really even registers.

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

Victory. Victory. Victory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That pleases him.

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

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

“Show me—show me how good you taste.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The feeling sends a shiver up your spine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moving your hips in tandem, you set your pace.

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

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

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

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

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

All you can give him is an “Mhm.”

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

“I-I’m sorry, baby, I’m s-sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, just make him happy.

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

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

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

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

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

Keep taking it.

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

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

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

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

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

He pulls you in close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The praise… it makes you melt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You burn right along with it.

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

It would leave a mark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scoffs, but smiles all the while.

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

It takes him away.

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

Pause.

What?

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

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

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

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

Again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That does it for him.

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

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

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

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

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

Utopian fantasy?

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

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

Panic hits you like a bolt of lightning.

It doesn’t go away, either.

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

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

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

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

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

“Javi…”

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

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

And you just don’t want him to leave.

Not now.

Not when you need him.

Not when you need someone.

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

Realization. Acknowledgement. Expression.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The agent can't even get a word in.

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

A lump forms, lodging behind your larynx.

You start to rush.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, cariño—”

And he’s there.

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

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

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

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

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

“I could never be mad at you, baby.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m not mad, cariño.”

“And I’m sorry, baby.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad.”

“I’ll stay.”

“I’m sorry.”

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

And it’s then that you see him.

That you really see him.

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

Protecting you.

Caring for you.

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

You wipe your face dry.

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

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

Oh.

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

Of course he’d been there.

That truth feels… warm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s go inside, sweetheart.”

—

part 3

—

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

—

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

Looking at me, then suddenly

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

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

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

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

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

Then suddenly he's uncuffing me

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

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

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

Love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

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

—

#Javier Peña #javier peña x you #javier peña x reader #javier peña smut #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena smut #javier pena fic #javier peña fanfiction #narcos fanfiction #narcos #Pedro pascal #Pedro Pascal x reader #Pedro Pascal smut #javier peña x y/n #javier peña narcos #javier pena narcos

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damiansgoodgirll · 19 days ago

Note

Hey 💜💜 wondering if you could write something where Damian and reader have been trying to have a baby for so long, and they've done all the treatments, but nothing ever worked, so they’ve stopped "trying". And then she ends up pregnant randomly, and her gift to him on Christmas is a positive test or a cute onesie or whatever, and it takes him a minute to actually believe her 💜💜

i love this request so much! working on it!

damian priest x reader

likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

‼️mention of infertility, pregnancy, pregnancy sickness, a little angst, mention of smut, fluff and comfort‼️

early christmas present

one year and a half.

one year and a half of you and damian trying to have a family together. one year and a half of you going from doctor to doctor, clinic to clinic and changing different treatments and yet nothing ever happened.

maybe it wasn’t meant to be. maybe you and damian weren’t fit to be parents and this was the sign. maybe it wasn’t meant for you to be a mother in this lifetime, no matter how much you wanted to be.

and you spent a year and a half blaming yourself. you reached to a point where you tried to break up with damian, saying how he deserved someone who could give him a family.

he thought you were crazy when you said that. he loved you so much and the idea of losing you was killing him, so, after a lot of therapy sessions, sleepless nights crying in each other’s arms, you came to the conclusion that it wasn’t really meant to be and that there was nothing you could do about it.

the idea of being infertile never crossed your mind so it was a big shock to you but as time passed by, you learned how to live with that and instead of focusing on the bad things, you took your life back.

a few people in the company knew or more - heard - about you and damian not being able to have kids and tried to suggest you many different options, from adoption to surrogacy but even if they seemed having good intentions, it pain you to know that your own problems became public domain.

you and damian lived your life. he promised to stay by your side and he did. he knew how much you wanted this and he was hurting at the idea of you feeling like it was your fault.

you found strength to take your mind off of that and focusing on different things. helping damian training, having dates like it was your first time together, spending much needed time in each other’s company. all the little things you loved that felt lost a year ago.

passionate nights with damian, him reminding you how much he loved you and appreciated you. you felt like yourself again and you got used of being just you and him, even if it meant for the rest of your life.

about a week ago you got sick. thinking it was just a normal cold, you let it go. but it got worse when the delicious smell of fresh bread and coffee became unbearable for you and got you nauseous every single morning.

“stomach issues again?” damian softly asked when he saw the disgust painted on your face.

“i think so…it smells so bad damian” you tried to joke when damian backed off so he could drink his coffee without making you feel worse.

“do you want me to make you something else? eggs? bacon? pancakes? anything you like?” he was so caring with you but the idea of eating made you even sicker.

“i feel like i could throw up the whole menu” you said making him laugh “i booked an appointment for today, i’m having a check up, maybe i got some virus or something…nothing too serious” you tried to remain calm but the idea of being sick for so long made you worry.

“i wish i could come with you but i promised rhea i would help her train…let me call her so i can come with you” he was about to pick up the phone but you stopped him.

“it’s not necessary damian, i promise” you smiled “she needs you, i’ll see you later on tonight” he knew that you wouldn’t have let him ditch rhea for a simple check up and he knew that no matter what he said, you wouldn’t let him come.

he nodded, moving the coffee away so he could properly kiss you before you left the house.

a couple of hours later and you were sitting in your car, watching the people passing by as you were trying to elaborate what the doctor just told you.

you weren’t sick - you were pregnant.

you were pretty sure it was impossible for you but all the tests the doctor ran turned positive.

how?

when?

your mind was racing and you couldn’t stop the million thoughts that were going through it.

sure, you and damian stopped having sex with condoms when you were trying to have a baby and when you learned that you couldn’t have kids you never really cared about safe sex anyway.

but how did it happen if you were infertile?

the doctor didn’t have a proper answer and he already scheduled some appointments to keep you checked, saying that it was almost a miracle.

right now, you were thinking about damian.

how were you going to tell him?

many ideas crossed your mind. from a mug with “best dad”, to a small t-shirt or maybe even a teddy bear.

you wanted to make this special for him too so when you crossed a shoe store on your drive back home, you decided to stop and get some inspiration. immediately your eyes fell upon a baby version of the black nike sneakers he had and you thought it was going to be an awesome gift.

your baby wasn’t even born and yet you were buying matching shoes for them and damian. while wrapping the box, the sale assistant smiled at you, unconsciously knowing that you had in mind.

you couldn’t contain your excitement and enthusiasm so you tried to speed back home.

too much surprise damian was already back and he was watching something show when you entered the front door.

his eyes immediately fell upon you, remembering you had the visit that morning.

“hey mi amor” he smiled “how are you? feeling better? what did the doctor say?” thousands of questions immediately echoed in the room, making you chuckle.

“one question at a time damian” you smiled sitting next to him on the couch “i’m feeling better, thanks, and the doctor gave me an explanation on why i keep getting sick, especially in the morning” you tried not to be so excited but it was hard.

“so?” damian was worried. he couldn’t understand why you were so happy and smiley.

instead of giving him an answer, you took the box right out of your bag and gave it to him “let say this is an early christmas present…and also the reason on why i’m always so sick” you watched him look between you and the box “come on, open it” you smiled.

damian carefully opened the small box and for a moment his heart stopped.

mini shoes? he wasn’t understanding.

and then it clicked.

“what? how? is this real?” his eyes moved between your now teary eyes and the little shoes he was holding in his hands “is it real?”

you nodded, not being able to find enough words.

“we’re gonna be parents?” he asked, now fully already knowing the answer.

“yes…” your voice broke a little but the joy filling the room was worth all of the tears you were shedding.

“this is the best gift i could ever ask for” he wrapped you in his arms and held you as you both cried of joy.

“i already booked the next appointments. the doctor wants to run some more tests and try to understand how i actually got pregnant…and we have an ultrasound appointment in a week too…we’re gonna see the baby soon” you cried onto damian’s shoulder.

“fuck, i love you so much mi amor” he quickly wiped off his tears before softly kiss your lips “and i can’t believe you got us matching shoes” he bursted out laughing.

“i can’t wait to get you matching clothes, matching pjs, matching socks, everything gonna be matching” you joked, making him even happier.

damian’s hand went over your belly “i can’t wait to meet you baby…” he softly spoke making your heart warm “you are already so loved…we love you so much, mama and papa…i can’t believe i’m saying this” he was still high on emotions and you couldn’t blame him.

maybe it really was a christmas miracle.

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cutielando · 9 months ago

Text

family | r.c.

synopsis: in which you give Rafe everything he has wished for

my masterlist

Ever since he was young, Rafe had always dreamed of having a family. His wife, his children that he would raise whatever way he saw fit with his partner by his side. He wanted it all.

Growing up, he came to the conclusion that he would never have that. Who would want to love someone as damaged as him? Not even his family loved him, he couldn’t expect a stranger to do so. It would be completely unfair.

Meeting you had been Rafe’s lifeline from the very beginning. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew, from the moment you had first spoken to each other, that he would end up marrying you.

To some people, it might seem rash, or completely unrealistic. How could you think that you would be spending the rest of your life with someone you had known for such a short amount of time? Some even called Rafe delusional.

But he had been right in the end.

You saw Rafe for so much more than his family was making him believe about himself. He had so much potential to become such a great human being, a great CEO for his family’s business, an amazing partner and a reliable friend. He had all the qualities to be amazing, he was just being let down by his own family who didn’t believe he was worth any trouble. A fact which completely broke your heart.

You had vowed to yourself that you wouldn’t let his family dictate his life any longer, that you would not let them bring him down and make him think less of himself. You would show him just how much life had to offer and how much better off he would be without their control over him.

Rafe knew he had to get out. He would never have got better if he were to remain to live under the same roof as them or even be in the same place as them.

Which was partially the reason why the two of you moved in together on the mainland, not even 6 months after your relationship had officially started. Many of your friends thought it was too soon, that you hadn’t thought things through and were just acting up. Typical things coming from entitled teenagers.

Nothing about your relationship was ordinary. The circumstances in which the two of you had met, the very beginning of your relationship with each other, your interactions with his family and especially his father, your mutual decision to help Rafe escape from the toxic environment he had grown accustomed to. Unique circumstances, as your boyfriend had liked putting it.

Those exact circumstances were the reason why Rafe proposed to you on your 1 year anniversary dinner. He hadn’t told anyone he would be doing it, making sure you didn’t suspect anything that would ruin his surprise.

The wedding ceremony had been the one to go down in history books. You’d decided to go all out, inviting every last one of your friends, both of your families, a lot of people from the island, new friends you had made since the two of you moved, wanting the people you loved close to you on that special day.

Rafe had been skeptical of inviting his family at first, very familiar with the way his father made it his life’s mission to make his son’s life a living hell with any occasion.

Luckily, thanks to Rose, that hadn’t been the case at all. You didn’t even know he was there, that’s how quiet and invisible he had made himself out to be.

Being married to Rafe was amazing. You both had stable jobs, but you still made time for each other every single day. He would always bring you something when he would come home, either a bouquet of your favorite flowers, or some kind of jewelry that he had seen on the way home and made him think of you.

Everything was perfect.

But there was just something missing. Something both of you had been thinking about but didn’t have the courage to bring it up until one night.

A child.

“Baby?” Rafe had called out to you one night while you were doing your night routine.

“Yes?” you called out from the bathroom.

“Can we talk about something once you’re done?” his words made you a little bit nervous, figuring it had to be something important.

“Of course” you called back, now suddenly in a hurry to finish your skincare.

Nerves were gnawing at your chest, making all kinds of thoughts run through your head. Deep down, you knew you had no reason to be scared or anything like that. At the end of the day, it was Rafe you were talking about. Your sweet, sweet husband.

You walked back into your shared bedroom, noticing Rafe sitting in the middle of the bed under the covers, playing with his hands which rested on his lap.

Getting in next to him and cuddling with the mountain of blankets you slept with, you smiled at him, which he reciprocated but his smile didn’t meet his eyes.

“What did you want to talk about?” you asked, taking his hand in yours once you realized just how nervous he was.

He cleared his throat, turning around so he was completely facing you.

“I’ve been thinking lately, we’ve got a very stable lifestyle, you know? We both have good jobs, we really have a lot of money, we have a nice and big house, we have friends who support us, we’re doing really well, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked, making you nod. “I was thinking about it, and you can totally say no and I would completely understand if you think it would be too soon. But what do you thinking about starting to try for a baby?” by the time he had asked the question, his hands were shaking even more so than they were before.

You were shocked, to say the least. You had been toying around with the idea in your head as well, but you were skeptical of bringing it up because you had just got married, you didn’t want to pressure Rafe into having a kid just yet.

As it turned out, he had been doing the exact same thing.

“I think it’s time we started trying for a baby” you whispered, biting your lip once you saw how his eyes lit up.

“You do? You’re not just saying that for my sake?” he whispered, wanting to make sure you were truly on the same page about this.

You shook your head, smiling at him fondly.

“Truth to be told, I’ve been thinking about bringing up having children ever since our honeymoon ended, but I didn’t want to make you feel pressured to have a kid right away. Turns out I’ve been worrying in vain all this time” you chuckled, taking a hold of one of his hands.

Rafe chuckled alongside you and let out a big breath, feeling relief slowly taking over his body.

Silence fell over the room, you and your husband communicating through your eyes. There was an unspoken agreement between the two of you, an agreement that it was time for your family to get bigger, that you were more than ready to take this step together.

That you were ready to embark on yet another adventure.

Said adventure proved to come much quicker than the both of you were expecting.

After not even a month since you’d had that discussion and agreed that you would start trying for a baby, the blue stick that you had purchased at the pharmacy had shown a + sign, marking the beginning of your journey towards parenthood.

Telling Rafe had been your favorite part. You had gone out to the store and bought a little onesie and baby socks, deciding to put them in a small gift box along with the positive test you had taken.

When Rafe came home and discovered the gift, he burst out crying, sinking down to his knees and pressing kisses on your stomach, repeatedly thanking you for giving him such a huge blessing to love and care for.

For giving him a family.

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elisiafarias · 2 months ago

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My honest opinion of the story expansion (all the good and the bad)

Hi everyone, remember that this is just a personal opinion and it doesn't mean that everyone should have the same opinion.

-I love Cyrax's maturity and his redemption SHE IS SO CUTE 💕.

-One of the things I didn't like was that Cyrax and Kuai Liang were ex-couples, because in the story there was not a single dialogue that touched on that subject, only that they have known each other for years, it is not even mentioned that they were close, if it were not for the dialogues, the fact that Kuai Liang would have killed her if it were not for Harumi who stopped him. They had the whole story to be able to explain it and not even at the end we are given a hint of their past. It literally seems like a poorly made ship by Dominic for nothing more than doing it.

-Something I liked were the faces of my babies

-They changed the sex of Sektor and Cyrax just to ship them with the brothers, Honestly I felt that way, everything was very forced.

-If there's one thing I can't forgive is that Tomas didn't have a single chapter of the story and it appeared only at the beginning, when there could be so many possibilities that he would have a chapter with the theme of the multiverse, or having accompanied Kuai Liang. Also, wasn't he holding back Bi Han and Sektor? They're wasting a character that has potential.

-About Bihan and Sektor, the truth is that I have mixed feelings about this ship. As Kenshi says, they are made for each other. The bad thing about this is that both of them increase their ambition, deep down they cannot redeem themselves. I find it nice how Sektor loves Bihan despite everything that happened, since she is the only person who stayed by his side.

-Tanya and Rain were a really cute couple but they kill rain already ( one of the few couples that I like)

-And this is something UNFORGIVABLE ABOUT BI HAN NOT HAVING BEEN REDEEMED, I mean, they had everything for him to have his redemption arc, however, when he became Noob Saibot they showed him as egocentric as never before and immature. You don't know how angry it made me. The only hope it gave me was that he stayed in the temple of the Elementis, but Sektor took him out, and Bi han asked to stay as he was. Even though his mind remained intact, I still think that something different remained in him.

-And not to mention the final battle against Havick, he was defeated by Bi Han and then Geras froze him, I felt like everything ended suddenly. I thought there was going to be a final battle,This expansion was very short

-Honestly, as always, I loved Liu Kang throughout the story, after everything Bi Han did to him, he still wanted to help him.

-In the end Bi has remained as before but being Noob Saibot

-The story was really weak and quite predictable.

Mi conclusion final;

Dominic had every opportunity to make a good story but he ruined it, he had good characters, good origins, he knew what the fans wanted but it seemed like he didn't care, you don't know how angry it makes me

#mortal kombat #mk sub zero #bi han #mk1 #sub zero #mk smoke #mk scorpion #kuai liang #tomas vrbada #smoke

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thegreenlizard · 10 months ago

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Mand’alor Kenobi (Duke Kryze)

Obi-Wan leaves the Jedi, marries Satine, gets widowed and ends up as Duke Kryze.

Two alternative endings:

1) Jango Fett resurfaces and returns to Mandalore; or

2) After the war, Cody and his brothers receive an offer for repatriation from the Duke.

Obi-Wan leaves the order for Satine—and for Mandalore, ravaged by a civil war that never truly stops.

During his mission to Mandalore, Obi-Wan not only keeps Satine alive but is invaluable in consolidating her power. However, the hostilities never truly cease, the political situation is a powder keg, and at the conclusion of the Jedis’ mission, Satine sees how it’s Obi-Wan who’s holding the tenuous peace together. She asks him to stay and he leaves the order—not only for Satine, but for Mandalore and her people whom he feels the conclusion of their mission leaves hanging.

In the following months, everybody is running ragged trying to keep Mandalore together. Having already proved his worth as a negotiator/mediator, Obi-Wan quickly rises to a lynchpin position in the new government. Despite his background as a Jedi, his actions during the clan wars have earned him the respect of the more traditional warrior clans and he’s seen as a more moderate option to Satine’s extremism. Tl;dr: instead of treating Obi-Wan as arm candy, Satine puts him to work and inadvertently puts a lot of political power in his hands. What can you say? Sizeable and/or politically influential fraction of Mandalore’s population/clans likes Obi-Wan better than Satine—or perhaps, finds Satine more palatable with a warrior partner.

To prevent her fragile and fractious government from splintering further (and to put an end to the talk about republic agents), Satine and Obi-Wan decide to make their relationship official and marry. Half of it is because they truly care for each other, but half of it is to consolidate the political power and marry the separate factions within their government together. They have irreconcilable differences of opinion when it comes to politics, but they both want what’s best for the people and that’s a unified leadership that’s not fighting with itself. So they have screaming matches in private, but pull together in public.

Stuff happens, Death Watch kills Satine (with or without the involvement of the Sith)—and New Mandalorians/Sundari/Mandalore unites behind the widowed Duke Kryze.

SO: That’s either a plot or a setup for the erstwhile Mand’alor Vhett to resurface, with or without an army of clones, a galactic war, the return of the Sith, and perhaps a political marriage that may finally unite Mandalore.

Perhaps:

- Obi-Wan grieves his wife, he truly does. But in the aftermath, he hardly has the time. And in retrospect, he has to wonder if half of the reason why achieving compromise always seemed like an uphill battle wasn’t because he spent half of his time fighting Satine and trying to moderate her extremism to something more palatable to the clans.

- In the aftermath, Obi-Wan may or may not finally succeed in putting down the Kyr’tsad and winning the Darksaber, which may or may not go a long way in convincing the remaining traditionalist and Kyr’tsad clans to get in line.

- Any Sith coming to take a piece of Mandalore or its Duke may find they’ve bitten off more than they can chew.

- Korkie Kryze may or may not be Satine and Obi-Wan’s son. Or maybe he is Satine’s baby nephew—Obi-Wan and Satine may still end up adopting him, depending on who else is left.

- Bo-Katan Kryze may or may not survive Kyr’tsad, but regardless, a Death Watch lieutenant is not going to be accepted by the people. She may get a seat in Obi-Wan’s council to placate Kyr’tsad loyalists, but she has no shot at getting the rule. Tbh, Obi-Wan would absolutely be the type to adopt his late wife’s feral terrorist little sister.

- Obi-Wan ends up adopting a full squad of feral murder children, in a true Mandalorian fashion.

- Jinn may or may not be alive; Anakin may or may not be his apprentice or have taken refuge on Naboo after his death; Obi-Wan may or may not be carrying a grudge towards the Sith for killing the man who raised him. And then killed his wife.

- The idea of marriage is probably actually first put forward by the clans who dislike Satine but find Obi-Wan acceptable. That would be a compromise solution: they’d accept Satine’s rule, but with the moderating influence of Obi-Wan as her husband.

- Actually, wasn’t “Ben” a nickname that Obi-Wan was originally given by Satine? He might then go by “Ben Kryze” after his marriage.

- Mand’alor is the sole ruler → before and during the Clan Wars, Obi-Wan is titled the duke. After he’s unified Mandalore under one sole government, he’s the Mand’alor.

- Timeline fuckery: instead of 15, Obi-Wan and Satine are ~20, early 20s. Young, but not teenagers. Satine may be a few years older.

- Jango may think he’s coming to Mandalore to oust the hu’tuun Duchess’s Jetii widow, only to find said widow to be a) the most mandokarla verd he has ever met, and b) more widely supported than he himself ever was. There’s no ousting the Duke now and if Jango were to kill him, he would only succeed in making him a martyr and uniting Mandalore further in avenging him. Jango… deals with these revelations. Well—he tries.

ALTERNATIVELY: After the war, Marshal Commander Cody and his brothers receive an unexpected offer of repatriation from Duke Kryze of Mandalore, who was tragically widowed during the war.

And perhaps:

- The offer may or may not be unexpected: if the Sith decided to go after Mandalore, there’s no saying what the Mandalorians might have discovered and whether their Mand’alor might have taken a proactive approach to the threat.

- The second dark sabre wielding Jedi Mand’alor might be something of stuff of legends—or nightmares—in the republic space/among the clones.

- Jango Fett might not have wanted the clones, but apparently this Duke Kryze does. If he is to be believed, Fett might have been the vode’s dar’buir, but according to Mandalorian law, there is no such thing as a dar’ad. Whether Jango Fett ever called them his sons or not, the mere fact of consciously partaking in their creation is enough to make them recognised as such in Mandalorian space.

- And so, here in Cody’s hands is an offer of citizenship for all of his vode; colourful pamphlets about various welfare and retraining programs; and apparently, a seat in the Duke’s council for the aliit’alor Vhett.

- Cody is torn between crying from relief (an end to the indeterminate arguments in the senate between citizenship and decommissioning?) and justified suspicion (a no-strings offer of home and sentient rights for all of his brothers? Too good to be true).

- Mandalore’s famous warriors have been decimated first in the clan wars and then in the galaxy wide conflict, which has left Mandalore in a more precarious position than may outwardly seem. The offer is not purely altruistic (Mandalore would be gaining an army of millions), even if Obi-Wan does also see it as justice. To Cody who’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop, this feels like relief. This, he can understand. What’s honestly more confusing is the Duke rushing to explain that acting in defence of Mandalore is something that’s expected from every citizen, not just the vode. Moreover, if someone can not or chooses not to fight, they are not forced to do so, simply expected to do their part in another way.

- And if the clones want to ply their trade as mercenaries? Well, it’s a time honoured profession on Mandalore—of course they may. As it happens, in the aftermath of a galactic war, there’s no end of work for hired guns. This may… upset the struggling republic. Any vode that decide to seek work in republic space keep their buckets tightly on as they may or may not be recognised as sentient, still—and other Mandalorians do so in support. Not all of them may *like* the clones, but treating other mandalorians as lost property? Not cool.

- Culturally, I would absolutely see Mandalorians as the sort of a culture that would not only think that their children are their future, but also that their people are their strength. The republic might see millions of vode as mouths to feed and bodies to house. But Mandalore? They see millions of trained warriors the republic doesn’t seem to want anymore and think “the greatest prize in the galaxy, up for grabs”.

- If Obi-Wan went on the offensive, he could declare that the vode are citizens of Mandalore by birth and the republic better stop treating Mandalorian warriors as expendable slaves or else. He can’t, of course. But it doesn’t stop him from wanting to.

- If Jango Fett dies as in canon, Obi-Wan’s family of adorable murder children might or might not include Boba. If the kids don’t kill each other, Obi-Wan will go down in history as Mand’alor the Unifier. This sort of adopting the offspring of your slain enemies is not ethically unproblematic btw, but on the other hand, I could see how the practice might fit in the Mandalorian culture.

About politics & war:

- Point of contention: Satine wants to exile the traditionalists to Concordia, there to fight each other to extinction in a pointless battle for dominance (canon, what the fuck?). Obi-Wan wants to unite Manda’yaim, not divide it further. This point alone, if he manages it, would win him points over Satine. So: instead of all traditionalists exiled, Obi-Wan manages to wrangle a shaky alliance of New Mandalorians and moderate traditionalists. Not necessarily the same bunch as Haat Mando’ade though there might be overlap.

- Satine, meanwhile, would be happy to import agricultural products from Concordia to the biodomes of Sundari. That’s a mess from an economic and food security standpoint. Again I ask: canon, what the fuck? You exile the unwanted parts of your population and then rely on them for food production? That’s not actually a realistic plot point, maybe scrap it and write something that provides actual political tension that doesn’t make caricatures of any sides/characters.

- Actually, the New Mandalorian policies in the preceding years are probably a large influence in the development of the extremism of Kyr’tsad. (Canon—wtf, I might be tempted to terrorism if my government unilaterally exiled large fractions of the population?)

- During the clone wars, Kyr’tsad still allies with Dooku and the Sith. The civil war, which had been on a slow simmer, boils over again. In the fighting, Satine is assassinated. Obi-Wan is not only the best but practically the only option to succeed her and keep the precarious alliance of New Mandalorians and moderate traditionalists together.

- It’s a long and a bloody fight against enemies both at home and in the shadows; fought with guns, with diplomacy, with fixing the deep divides in their society, and hunting the shadows fuelling the flames. Obi-Wan proves himself the same military genius and negotiator as he did in canon. He’s decisive, ruthless and compassionate.

- And eventually, he manages to defeat the leader of Kyr’tsad in single combat, wrangle the warring clans to the negotiation table, hunt the Sith, and unite Mandalore. And that’s how the Mandalorian civil wars and the Clone Wars tie together at the end there, and how Obi-Wan emerges from those wars: with united but weakened Mandalore, a dead wife, and a couple of orphaned foundlings. Victorious, but grieving. The erin on his armour long since painted over with black and gold (which he has earned many times over now, avenging his wife and his people). While the rest of the galaxy is reeling from the aftermath of the war, the republic shaken to its foundations, the separatists defeated but but still seceding, the weakened republic unable to hold onto CIS territories.

- This is the man Marshal Commander Cody meets. This Mand’alor, who seemed to have emerged from the funeral pyre of his wife in the image of the legends of old, reforging the Mandalorian empire anew. But still: just a man, victorious but grieving; with a core of beskar, but a heart so full of light it makes Cody’s teeth ache. Cody: Himself one expendable clone among millions, defying his fate and rising to lead armies to victory or ruin. And yet, a man fresh out of a war that has decimated his brothers and broken his faith in the galaxy.

#plot bunny #blanket permission #mand’alor kenobi #codywan #or #jangobi #space bunnies #space bunnies on mandalore

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haddonfieldwhore · 9 months ago

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safe and sound - matthew tkachuk

matthew tkachuk x gn!reader

summary: matthew gets hurt during a game; you get worried it’s bad like last time

warnings: mention of injury, sprinkle of angst

word count: 0.9k

you watched with bated breath as matthew skated cautiously towards the bench, doubling over in discomfort as he sat down, and you pinched your arm gently between your fingertips. ‘it’s just a bad dream- like it always is’ you thought to yourself; ever since he had fractured his sternum during the playoffs last season, your body tensed anytime he was hit into the boards. more times than you could count, you had woken with a start from a nightmare of matthew getting injured again, only to reach over and find him asleep next to you. the thought of him getting hurt like that again plagued your mind, and you wanted more than anything for this to be a dream.

but as the game continued on in front of you, matthew still sat on the bench, you came to the conclusion that you were awake; that this was real. it hadn’t looked like a dirty hit, just an unfortunate one as number 19 found himself crushed between two of the carolina players; no love lost between these two teams. you were not at the game tonight, and as the players departed to the locker room for the first intermission you watched your phone impatiently for a text from matthew.

it finally came through, after what felt like perhaps the longest five minutes of your life, and you breathed a sigh of relief as you read the message on the screen.

he said he would be home soon and you tried to focus on the rest of the game, which remained scoreless until nearly the bitter end. florida scored but the goal was called offside and taken away, and in the end carolina scored with only 18 seconds left, leading to them winning the game.

not long after matthew returned home looking defeated and tired, his hair messy and his white shirt unbuttoned at the top underneath his grey suit he had worn to the game. his tie had been forgotten as it was absent from around his neck, and you walked over to the door to greet him, pulling him into a cautious hug.

“hey,” he hummed under his breath as he placed his bag on the ground and his arms circled around your body. your head rested on his chest as you breathed in his familiar scent, easing your anxiety slightly.

“hey matty,” you sighed, kissing his exposed collarbone softly.

“i’m not gonna break, you know,” he laughed softly, noticing your hesitation, but his body betrayed him as he winced slightly from the laughter shaking his chest. he hoped you hadn’t noticed.

you did.

“but you can, and that’s what scares me,” you protested, still holding on to him carefully. “what happened? are you okay?” you asked, your fingertips gently touching his torso.

“yeah, it’s probably just a bruised rib. they’ll evaluate again tomorrow but for now it should just be a day to day thing,”

“don’t push yourself. if you’re hurt like you were last season…“

“i’m not,“

“are you sure? don’t think i’ve forgotten that brady had to physically drag you out of bed and help you get dressed. and then you played a game after.“

“i know. im sorry baby,” he kissed the top of your head.

“i just worry about you,” you sighed, pulling away to look up at him, your hand reaching up to brush his curls away from his forehead. his hair was getting long, and he had let his facial hair grow out a bit as well; he looked beautiful, though his eyes remained sad as they looked down at you.

“i hadn’t noticed,” he teased, a smile spreading across his face as finally a sparkle of amusement reached his eyes. “i love you,” he smiled again, and the corner of your mouth pulled upwards.

“i love you more,” you argued. “i love you in one piece though, so please try to stay that way-“ he interrupted you with a kiss, and you could feel his smile against your lips.

“i’ll try,” he promised, and he meant it whether you believed him or not.

“thank you,” you kissed him softly again. “but just for the record, i will always be here to put you back together.” you gently slid his suit jacket off his shoulders, placing it over the back of the couch as you walked towards it to sit down. matthew pulled you into his side and you snuggled close to him.

“did the seattle game start yet?” he asked, and you laughed; he truly did live and breathe hockey.

“i think so, probably a few minutes ago,” you said, grabbing the remote and switching on the tv. “i still can’t believe you want to watch hockey after playing a game. you guys don’t even play them again this season.”

“yeah but vancouver is only two points ahead of us, so i want them to lose,” he explained. it made sense; florida was fighting back and forth with boston for first in the eastern conference right now, and both teams were right on the tail of the canucks who were first overall in the league.

“are you sure you don’t want to just rest?”

“i’m watching a game, not playing it,” he laughed, and his lips pressed against the side of your head as he held you close to him. “and besides,” he said with a smile as he looked at you. you who always made sure he was okay. you who probably would’ve dropped the gloves (metaphorically speaking) with svechnikov yourself for hitting him if given the opportunity. you who he loved more than anyone else in the world.

“i feel better already.”

disclaimer: all screenshots, events, and/or interactions depicted in this are a work of fiction. i have no association with any parties mentioned

#nhl #nhl fic #nhl imagine #nhl players #real person fiction #hockey #florida panthers fic #florida #matthew tkachuk imagine #matty tkachuk #matthew tkachuk x reader #matthew tkachuk fic #matthew tkachuk #tkachuk

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monimccoythings · 10 months ago

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Alastor x daughter!Reader (Platonic)

So, I finally gave in and watched the series. It was cool but the pacing was a bit too fast for me and sometimes i felt like it was deviating way too much from the original plot for such a short series. But wow, y'all were right about Alastor. He stole the show. I wanted to write something for him, but I was not sure how to proceed given that he is aroace (tremendous irony considering that I might be aroace irl). Nothing seemed to fit, given that this dude has never had a bit of romance in his life and refuses to do so. But I came accross a wonderful fic about Alastor having an adopted daughter who became an angel, and everything made sense to me. I saw the light. Whoever you are, I will find your fic again, like it, and reblog it.

Big reminder: Alastor is in hell for a reason. TW: gory elements, blood, near decapitation, implied death threat towards a child.

This is not proof read. So please excuse any grammar and vocabulary mistakes.

Part I (You are here!)｜Part II｜Part III

This deer man has never shown interest in neither romance nor sex. So the only logical conclusion is that he adopted you when you were just a baby.

He found the idea of having that much power and control over someone amusing, molding them just the way he desired.

How unexpected it was for him to suddenly find that it was you who had him wrapped around your little finger and not the other way around!

But how could he not adore you! You were delightful! You were his little fawn, always so sweet and loving, he would have thought his own beloved mama had been secretly raising you from the afterlife!

Oh, with how much joy your eyes filled when you saw your papa return home after a long day at work! He was your everything, always smiling and fun loving, but also knowing where to draw the line.

He absolutely loved singing to you, his tunes filled with rythm along with the smoothness of his voice were enough to give you a full night of sleep filled with sweet dreams.

And while you dreamed... Your dad was outside, creating nightmares.

He made sure you never got to see that side of him. You were too naive and pure, your light could become corrupted.

Very overprotective father. Always subtly controlling who are you hanging out with and how much time (he would despise having to share his beloved child's attention with someone else) "Darling, I think you have already played enpugh with X I'm sure their parents miss them." (and if they don't, they WILL).

Finding about your Papa's double life would be entirely on accident. One day, he would take you to his job at the radio station, and some drunk and racist asshole would harass you on the streets, terrifying you out of your mind. Your dad kept a calm and collected expression never once losing that charming smile of his, but you could tell something was off. He quickly brushed it off, casually reminding you that it was just your terrified imagination playing tricks on you.

That night, your papa was taking too long from the station, so you decided to come and get him (dunno how safe the streets would be for a child that time because reader is about 13-14 years old). You wished you had waited and stayed home. Because the only light was coming from the recording studio, and peeking through the small opening, your blood froze in your veins.

Your Papa was pushing off himself the dead body of the same man that had assaulted you early that day. His pristine white shirt that he always made sure to keep in perfect conditions was drenched with blood that was quickly drying up.

You quietly tiptoed your way back to the entrance, wondering how you weren't heard given how loud your heart was hammering in your chest.

You felt like your entire world had come crashing down, and as you returned home, you tried your best picking up the remaining pieces.

Your beloved father would never do something like that, right? There had to be a misunderstanding. That was it. That man had viciously assaulted you earlier that day, maybe he came back and tried to attack your dad at his job? It had to be self defense. That was the only option.

Your dad seemed to be breathing heavily, probably from the adrenaline rush from having had to take a life in self defense, but had you not been so shocked and scared, maybe you would have noticed the manic glee in his eyes and the way his smile had widened into something outright demonic.

You decided you would never tell anyone. Yes, it was horrifying that it had ended up like this, but telling anybody could get your dad in serious trouble and in this case he was not the one to blame.

So you kept quiet. Tried to act as normal as you could in front of your father and everyone else. If Alastor noticed, he never told. Everything seemed back to normal, until...

Until one day someone knocked at your door. A police officer. He seemed to be asking questions about the guy you saw your dad kill, protect himself from, a week ago. He was the son of some big shot from the city. A very important one. Rats.

He had come knocking on your door because some witeness had said that the very same day of his murder he had saw him in an altercation with your dad. Double rats.

It was amazing how your father didn't lose composure at all, not even for a second, always keeping a calm smile on his face while he patiently described the events of that day. You could barely refrain from shaking, how was he so relaxed?.

You knew your father was lying, he had to. What else could he do? Confess that that man had assaulted him again at his studio at night and he had to fight for his life? He would be hanged. No one would believe his word against that of a rich white man.

When the officer left, you thought that would be the end of it, your father's charms having won him over as always.

Nothing could have prepared you for what happened a week later.

The first red flag would have been having your father letting you stay at a friend's house for the night. That never happened. Your father always insisting very dramatically that if he were to be apart from you for an entire night he would surely die of grief!

But that day something seemed... Weird. Your father had a determined look on his face and gave you no explanation when you asked if there was something wrong.

You couldn't sleep, there was this nagging at the back of your head that was practically screaming at you that you should return home right now.

You quietly sneaked out of your friend's house in the middle of the night and made your way back home. That unnerving feeling growing inside your mind. 'Just a quick peek, just to make sure he's alright and I'll go back to my friend's'

The lights at your home were on, but it was so dim you could barely make out anything. It was coming from the basement. Someone was humming a tune, you recognized your father's voice.

There was a terrible smell coming from there, like rotten fruit mixed with burning trash. It made you gag, but at the same time you needed to know what was going on there.

Curiosity killed the cat, that was your father always told you.

On top of the wooden table, laid a dead body that you sadly knew too well. It was the police offcer that had come home to interrogate you a week ago. His chest had been cut open and some organs seemed missing. His head had been nearly torn from his body and was only hanging by a few tendons in his neck. The blood was forming a sticky puddle on the floor.

If that wasn't horrifying enough for you the worst part had to be the look on your father's face. Joy. Pure unbridled joy and elation. It chilled you to the bone.

You tried to take a step back, tried to return to you friend's house and forget everything, pretend this had never happened. But your shoe got stuck. And you fell backwards.

That caught Alastor's attention. His joyful expression changed into one of confusion, but never once losing his smile.

"Y/N?" He asked flatly.

You bolted. You didn't know what to do where to run, but you knew you had to escape before he caught you.

You could hear him giving chase, calling your name. You could see him getting close, reaching for you.

What you didn't see was the truck that ended it all.

#alastor x reader #alastor #tw: blood #tw: death #tw: gore #tw: body horror #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #platonic reader

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milliesfishes · 6 months ago

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Hi!!! I love ur writing! I was wondering if u could write when for some reason reader and billy break up but maybe its a misunderstanding or he did something but they break up but end up getting back together? No rush!!

౨ৎ꣑ৎyou and billy break up (and then get back together)౨ৎ꣑ৎfem reader x billy the kid warning: reader has loss of appetite/has a hard time eating for a period of time

Billy knew that it was hard to be with him.

He knew that being the sweetheart of an outlaw had more than its fair share of difficulties. People talked about such a sweet girl being with such a hardened man, and it took a toll on you. You weren't ashamed to be seen with him in public, but he was always keeping an eye out, wary of the judgmental stares and not so subtle whispers.

Because he knew he didn't deserve you. You were such an angel to him, a sweetheart in every sense of the word. So, he doted on you, spoiled you the best he could. With kisses, cuddles, sweet words, little gifts he'd bring you from the places he came and went. Because he loved you, more than anything. And he was overly concerned with what he thought you needed to have.

Which is why he'd come to the conclusion he was at now, standing in front of you in a dimly lit barn, hat literally in hand.

You were crying, your eyes hopeless as you looked up at him. He felt awful seeing you like this, felt awful that he'd made you cry when you hadn't even done anything wrong.

"I’m sorry baby,” he whispered, his expression somber.

“Why?” you asked quietly, tears pouring down your cheeks. “What happened…what did I do-“

“Nothing.” He cut you off, dropping his hat and going to you. His hands came to your cheeks. “You didn’t do a damn thing wrong. You’re perfect, angel.”

“Then why?” Your words were pathetic in tone, desperate.

He sighed, looking down at you sadly. “I ain’t no good for you darlin’.”

“I don’t care,” you pleaded, holding his wrists. “I love you. I don’t wanna live without you.”

“Baby…” he tilted his head, eyes somber. “I love you too. Love ya more 'n my guns. But I can’t do this to you…’s hard on ya.”

“No it’s not,” you insisted.

“Ya don’t know what you’re sayin’ darlin’,” he shook his head, the weight of all he’d seen in his voice. “One ‘o these days they’re gonna find me ‘n string me up by the neck from the nearest tree. Your heart’s too pure. Can’t put ya through that.”

“There’s no guarantee of that,” you pleaded, tugging on his shirt. “Billy.”

“Sweetheart…” he shook his head firmly and you could see he wasn’t budging.

And so you dissolved into tears.

“‘M sorry baby…’m so sorry,” he brought you to his chest, pressing your face to his chest. “Baby.”

You shook your head, pulling away from his arms, not wanting him to comfort you, not wanting him to see you like this. “Do-on’t.” Your voice broke in the middle of the word, collapsing in a sob.

Billy looked helpless. “Sweetheart?”

You shook your head, turning your back, folding your arms around yourself and whispering, “Just go.”

He felt a little stab in his chest. Unable to do anything else, he nodded, picking up his hat. Before he shut the door behind him, he said, “I’m sorry. I love you.”

And then he was gone.

You pined for him. The only thing you could think of was Billy. Your mood was noticed by your father, who was confused at it. You were usually so happy and vibrant. He didn’t know you’d been seeing Billy of course, or anything that had transpired between you two.

After about three weeks of this, your father sent you out with a few of your friends. He gave you a little money, telling you to get something nice. You knew he was trying to make you smile, so you did, albeit a little sadly.

Your friends were lively, chattering eagerly as they walked arm in arm with you. They were trying to cheer you up, you knew, but you remained solemn, forcing smiles to make them feel better.

They went inside a shop, and you lingered outside, hoping they wouldn’t notice. Luckily for you, they didn’t, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

You leaned against the wall, your head resting against the wood as you looked out at the square. It was bustling as usual, with people coming and going all over the place. You were numb to the energy of it all, a cloudy haze coming over you as you simply watched.

In the three weeks since he'd ended things you hadn't heard a wink from him. You'd avoided town as not to see him, and all but barricaded yourself in your bedroom. You figured the distance would make it easier, but in truth it only made you miss him more.

You didn't sleep. You were hardly eating. It was a miserable existence, missing him.

Looking back at the shop door, you wondered what on earth was taking your friends so long. Or maybe they'd only been in a few minutes. Time was irrelevant to you these days.

"Darlin'?"

Your head turned, and there he was. Tall dark and handsome. Gun at his hip. He looked concerned, but you'd grown so used to that look on people's faces that you hardly batted an eye.

"Billy." You offered him a tired smile.

He looked just short of stunned. You knew you didn't look well, but by the look on his face you would have guessed you were close to death. "Ya doin' okay?"

Shrugging unhelpfully, you said, "Fine."

Billy raised an eyebrow. "You look a long way from fine, pretty."

You pursed your lips and shook your head tiredly. "I don't know what you want me to say." Reaching your hand up, your fingers found the end of your hair, pulled into a loose braid. "It's been hard."

"'S been hard f'me too," he said softly, looking as though he wanted to reach for you. "Sweetheart...I'm gonna ask ya 'gain 'n this time you're gonna be straight with me. Are you doin' okay?"

It was no feat to see that you weren't, but you felt as though he could see the extent of it. He'd always been able to see you so clearly. Billy had only said a few words to you for the first time in weeks, and yet his presence disarmed you. You bit your bottom lip, not wanting to cry in front of him. You'd already done so much crying. So instead of speaking, you simply shook your head.

"Thought so," he said gruffly, moving closer to you. He lifted your chin to look into your eyes, studying your face. "You been eatin' at all honey? Sleepin'?"

Your silence told him everything he needed to know. Instead of waiting for a verbal answer, he nodded and held out his other hand. "C'mon, we're gonna go get ya somethin' to eat."

"No," you shook your head, drawing back from him. "It's okay Billy. I don't..." You didn't want to be a burden. For some reason it embarrassed you, having to be taken care of like a child. Having to be coaxed to eat. It all made you feel unexplainably guilty.

Billy knew his girl, knew you well enough to understand you didn't want to be coddled. At least, not right now. So instead, he kept his hand held out for you. "Why don't we go for a walk, hm? Just you and me."

You hesitated, looking at his hand. It was tempting. You'd missed him so much. On the other hand, he was the one who'd hurt you. Besides, "I can't leave my friends."

"I'll have ya back soon. It'll be alright," he reassured you.

When you looked up at him, his eyes were so earnest, so caring. He nodded, giving you a small smile of encouragement and flexing his hand.

So, you took his hand, and let him guide you. He kissed your fingers, and the two of you walked side by side outside of town. You knew where he was taking you- your special place for when you were feeling overwhelmed or upset. It was the top of a hill, where a tree growing peaches sprouted tall and wide.

Billy sat you down, and set himself beside you, leaning against the trunk. His hand was still holding yours. He looked over at you, just watching you for a moment. Then he ventured to speak. "How've ya been?"

You knew you couldn't lie to him. "It's been really hard," you whispered, looking at the ground.

His brows were knitted, eyes soft as he looked at you like you were disappearing. "You haven't been eatin', have ya?"

Shaking your head, you refused to look at him. Though your appetite had disappeared not of your own volition, you still felt ashamed.

"We gotta get ya somethin'," he squeezed your hand. "Can't have ya wastin' away."

"I can't," you nearly choked out. "I haven't been hungry for so long."

Billy exhaled softly, nodding. Then he looked up at the tree, at the heavy fruit hanging from the branches. "Could ya eat one of these, honey?"

You shrugged hopelessly. He stood up briefly, picking a peach from a low branch. Sitting down beside you, he held it out. "Try it."

The peach was perfect; plump and round and rosy. Any other time it would have tempted you, but you could only stare at it now, willing yourself to want it.

Seeing that you weren't going to just eat it on your own, Billy took a bite himself. "We'll share it. Just try a bite f' me, yeah? It's good."

You looked from him to the peach, your mind running. Maybe just a bite wouldn't hurt? So hesitantly, you took the peach and held it up, looking at him again.

He nodded, giving you a smile. "Go on pretty."

Your teeth sunk into the peach; the juice sweet on your tongue. The fuzzy skin was a comforting texture, and you swallowed your bite. Almost as soon as you did, your stomach growled lightly, accepting the bite and wanting more. Your eyes filled with tears, and one slipped down your cheek.

Immediately, Billy gathered you in his arms, hugging you close and kissing your hair. "Atta girl... did so good...know that was hard...'m so proud of ya..."

You turned in his arms, burrowing into his chest, where you knew it was safe. You'd missed everything about this, missed everything about him.

He rocked you back and forth. "Ya think ya can do another for me? Just a little bite?" Billy took the peach from you and took his own bite.

Nodding, you sat up and did as he asked. The two of you passed the peach back and forth, until there was nothing, but a pit left. You stayed in his arms long after you were done, just savoring the feeling of his arms around you.

He kissed your forehead, arms around your collarbone holding you against his chest. You whispered, "I missed you so bad."

"I know," he breathed, his cheek on the top of your head. "Missed ya too."

The truth of that statement hung in the air. You were both miserable without each other. And you knew he wanted you back, but his thoughts about himself were holding him back.

"I don't care if you think you're going to hurt me," you turned a little to look at him. "You're not a bad man."

He shook his head, exasperated. "Baby-"

"Would a bad man be holding me?" you asked, cutting him off before he could say what you knew he was going to say. "Would a bad man have cared that I haven't eaten or slept very much?"

Billy was quiet, just looking down at you. Finally, he said, "Guess not."

"No. A bad man wouldn't," you said quietly.

He sighed, shaking his head, but a tiny smile found its way to his lips. "You're a stubborn girl."

"I wish you wouldn't make me be," you countered, and he laughed lightly. Then your face turned serious. "Don't you ever do what you did again. I missed you so bad...it was like I couldn't breathe."

"I'm sorry angel," he said softly, his hand finding its way to your hair. "Second I left I knew I shouldn'ta done it. Been hurtin' too. Need my baby."

You nodded, turning in his arms so your stomachs were pressed together, your arms wrapping around him. He cuddled you close, holding you late into the afternoon. Right then he knew leaving you would hurt you worse than anything he thought he'd bring your way. So right then he vowed to focus on what he had control over. He couldn't manage whether or not a bounty was on his head, but he could choose to keep you close.

come talk about billy here!

#billy the kid #billy the kid fanfiction #billy the kid x reader #billy the kid x you #william h bonney x reader #william h bonney fanfiction #william h bonney x you #william h bonney imagines #billy the kid 2022 #billy the kid imagines #billy the kid fluff #milliesfishes billy

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canonicallyobserving911 · 2 months ago

Text

TM (showrunner) might be undoing the forced Buckley, Diaz and Han parents' redemptions.

After the way season 7 ended, I still don’t trust TM but it appears he’s back on his BS of revealing the Buckleys, Diazes and Hans for the shitty parents they've always been. Before I explain how I came to this conclusion, I have to go back to the hiatus after season 6 because I completed a post (linked here) about the stereotypes that plagued the season and one of my key points revolved around how it seemed like someone was "pushing an agenda" to get the audience to see them as good people who deserved to be redeemed when everyone who's been watching since season 2, knows they didn't deserve it. Well, now that we know it was the F*X Network hindering Buck’s and Eddie’s progress towards Buddie CANON, I think they were behind the whole "give these shitty parents an undeserved redemption arc" too (post linked here).

Here's what I mean.

The Buckleys

In 7x6, I noticed how Margaret and Phillip were back on their highfaluting "we don’t want anyone to know we're not perfect parents" BS when Phillip called Buck "Evan" even though he specifically asked them to call him "Buck" in 4x5. They called him Buck in season 6 without issue and they were acting like pod people when they told him he was a "miracle baby" but he knew it wasn't genuine. Also, when Margaret made her famous "disappointed face" towards Maddie when she was getting ready to walk down the hospital's aisle/hallway so she could marry Chimney, Margaret reverted back to being the Buckley mom the audience who's been watching for the entirety of the show recognized. Maddie even clapped back at her for questioning her decision to get married there and it reminded me of 4x5 when Maddie told her she didn't get to tell her about her place. Furthermore, Margaret made that face again when Buck returned to the room with soot on his face. It's the face she made in 4x4 before he told them to "Love me anyway."

The Diazes

In seasons 5 and 6, Helena was still pushy and controlling but her behavior wasn’t anything like it was back in seasons 2 and 3. They let Eddie reconcile with Ramon in 5x17 but the things Eddie went through as a child were barely addressed. He NEVER confronted his mom (hopefully, he will this season) about the shitty things she's said to him, "Don't drag him down with you Eddie" was one of the worst. It's been years but she's STILL TRYING TO TAKE CHRIS FROM HIM and instead of letting Eddie confront her, the show gave her a pass and let it all get swept under the rug. Also, they took Eddie’s support system away from him. Isabel moved back to El Paso but the audience didn't know until 5x17 and in season 6, they had Pepa acting like Helena. Prior to season 5, Pepa and Isabel were shown to be supportive of his decisions while remaining at odds with Helena regarding the way she dismissed them as his family in season 2 (related post here). But at the end of season 7, Helena was back at it and Ramon just went along with everything she said the same way he used to when he was away from home working. All the progress Eddie made with him was erased and I think that was on purpose but I digress. Also, in season 8, she's back up to her controlling ways and she's doing everything she attempted to do back in 2017 before Eddie and Chris left for L.A. It remains to be seen if Eddie will tell her she was always the problem in 8x6 or when he goes to get his son.

Sang Han

In 7x6, IIRC, there weren't any mentions of Sang Han during Maddie’s and Chimney’s wedding but the Lees were there. Reminder, they were always said and shown to be his parents instead of Sang. But in 6x10 and 6x11, Chimney was guilt tripped by Albert's mom into believing he was prideful which was total BS because he’s not like that. So, it appears Sang might just be revealed as the man who abandoned his son in another country the way TM wanted it to be. He even brought Kevin back from the dead to save Chimney and lead him home to the Lees, not Sang.

Please note: Shannon Diaz is not included in this because TM likes the actress who plays her and after that "Vertigo" and doppelgänger f~ckery at the end of season 7, any chance there was to undo her retconned past was an EPIC FAILURE especially since Eddie has yet to admit she abandoned both him and Chris. While it’s possible Eddie may address it in 8x6 or beyond, I won't be holding my breath but hopefully, he will tell Chris the truth about his mother so they can FINALLY GRIEVE AND MOVE ON. (My opinion on Shannon is she's a bad mom just like Helena and NO, I won't give her a pass just because she was young when she got pregnant. Younger women than her don’t abandon their children so if you like Shannon, good for you but DO NOT REBLOG THIS WITH AN OPPOSING OPINION. CREATE YOUR OWN POST ON YOUR OWN BLOG AND GUSH OVER HER ALL YOU WANT. ANYONE WHO TRIES IT WILL GET BLOCKED!)

Anyway, IMO, it appears F*X wanted 9-1-1 to show the Buckleys, Diazes, Sang Han and Shannon Diaz to be redeemed and the show followed suit but now that TM is back at the helm and they’re on a new network, he’s like... NOPE, there won't be any redemptions because he’s going to show them for who they really are. They're shitty parents who deserve to be called out on their BS and they should have their long overdue conversations on screen with their children.

#buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #maddie buckley #chimney han #madney #911 abc #911 on abc #911 season 8 #911 season 8 speculation #911 spoilers #911 speculation #christopher diaz #anti helena diaz #anti shannon diaz #anti sang han #anti margaret buckley #anti phillip buckley #Canonically Observing 9-1-1 Speaks

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soggyriceee · 1 year ago

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Hello, I hope you are having a great day.

I haven't been able to get Slasher König and his reading wife out of my head for days. It's a scenario where he comes home from killing someone and asks his wife if she's proud of him, to which she says yes and some HUGE obscenity ensues.

Also if you can include something like the reader is madly obsessed with how strong König is (especially his arms) and how tall he is.

Thanks 🙇‍♀️

proud of me | Konig

sorry for how late this was, im trying to catch up on all the requests y'all

warnings: mentions of killing, oral(f! and m! receiving), somno, fingering, unprotected p in v, aggressive, dom to slightly sub Koni, cowgirl, missionary,

you didnt really expect him to do it. I mean, who would expect your husband to go and murder your ex? your stalker ex.

" he won't stop calling me from different numbers." you'd cry to him, trying to refrain from waking your 2 year old baby. you and Konig had been married for 4 years now, together for 7. you would think any other ex's you've had would be married or with their true love. right? not your ex.

every year around your birthday, he'd call. you'd assumed every year he changed his phone number, and then using fake ones after you blocked his first number. you hadn't told Konig about it until it hit the third year. the year you got married. thats when the calls would get worse. when you had your baby it was no better.

Konig was not happy when he had to figure out on your honeymoon when you ex managed to track you down in the middle of Cancun, threatening to kill himself if you continued to hurt him. you never imagined your honeymoon with the love of your life being completely ruined by someone from years ago. "Im so sorry, I never thought it would get this bad." you cried to him as the police took your ex off the beach.

from then on Konig always threatened to find your ex, fighting him or even killing him for doing this to you. to both of you. but you didnt want Konig to leave. not when you were in the process of getting pregnant with your second baby. "what if you go to jail and I get a positive result." you cried, pulling him arm back to the bed as he got up from the bed, moving towards the drawer the gun lived.

he agreed, not wanting to hurt you more than you were already hurting. but he also felt completely useless in this fight. your ex wouldn’t leave you alone. not until you and Konig divorced. but that wasn’t an option for either of you and you both were content on remaining together.

that’s when you decided to get a restraining order on him. Konig was delighted you came to that conclusion yourself and even offered to pay for the lawyer if you needed one. thankfully, there was no fee for getting a restraining order and the process was done quickly and in no time.

but, of course, why would your ex even care?

this only seemed to anger him more and made him more and more persistent on talking to you. he’d find you in parks when you’d take your now 3 year old to the park. Konig would come speeding over but of course he’d run before Konig could even get there. it angered Konig. to the point you two began to argue about it.

this led to lonely nights. Konig sleeping on the couch or in the baby’s room. you were left alone to keep yourself warm at night. the sex was different. it was full of anger and rage. and it only happened when Konig came home from a rough day, using you to get off and then returning to the living room to sleep. you felt disgusted with yourself. but also hurt at how he was letting your ex ruin you guys’ marriage.

the calls and texts from your ex never stopped. he still showed up at random places and threatening to kill you if you didn’t come with him. you’d call the cops now instead of Konig, knowing that he’d get fined or even put to jail for breaking the order. but the second it ended, he began to show up at your home.

Konig knew about it. but apart of him didn’t care anymore. he felt like it wasn’t going to stop no matter what. he felt completely useless. he didn’t feel like a man.

and so the lonely nights continued, the aggressive loveless sex continued. your baby was growing up in a house that had no love. and you tried your best. despite working longer hours now just to stay away from home. not even to simply stay away from your ex now. to stay away from Konig as well.

you began to lose weight, drastically. the lack of food and sleep was catching up to you and Konig noticed. he still loves you. you were his soulmate and never for a moment did he doubt that. he hated how he was treating you. but he didn’t know why he couldn’t just talk to you about it. not until he came into the room, the sight of you sleeping with your baby in your arms.

he crawled into bed beside you, wrapping one arm around your waist, swallowing back the tears of guilt but also happiness. he was finally right beside you in bed where he belonged.

“i’m going to make this right for us.” he whispered in your sleeping ear, kissing your cheek before shuffling silently out the bed and eventually out the house.

the next morning you woke up to a text from Konig. “gonna be out until late tonight. make sure the baby’s asleep when i get home. please. i love you.” of course the text worried you, and the spamming of calls did no good for you at all. he simply let it ring and go to voice mail. it was only 11:20 or so, when did he leave and for how long will he be gone?

the rest of your day was full of anxiety and stress. your baby was crying throughout the day, unable to find something to make themselves happy. you were unable to do the same.

every ten minuets youd check your phone to see if Konig said anything. a text, even a simple “hey i’m okay.” but you got nothing. that’s when it hit you that you also haven’t heard/seen much of your ex. maybe it was just a coincidence, nothing to be too worked up over. right?

as night fell, you were finally able to get your baby to relax and fall asleep in his own bed. it was 9 now, still nothing from Konig. plopping on the couch, you closed your eyes, swallowing back the tears that wanted to escape but couldn’t. he was coming home. you had to keep telling yourself that.

you hadn’t realized you had fallen asleep on the couch until you shuffled awake slowly, feeling something moving inside you. panicked, you woke up, looking right at the source of the feeling.

between your legs laid Konig, his head resting on your thigh, lips sucking on your clit while his ring and middle finger pushed in and out of you. his eyes were closed, moaning into your pussy as his tongue circled your clit, his lips sucking it right back into his mouth after.

your hand pressed against his head, pushing him alway. well trying. his eyes shot open, looking straight into your as his arm pulled you closer onto his face rather than farther. his fingers hit deeper inside you with that, a whimper leaving past you.

he placed his head back on your thighs, humming satisfied with your lack of fight. his tongue went back to playing with your clit, his eyes remaining on yours. you tried to hold back your moans, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of how much you were enjoying it. but he knew you were. no matter how hard he tried he knew exactly how to get you to finish.

almost as if it was a subconscious move, your fingers wrapped into his hair, tugging gently. “are you proud.. of me?" he moaned into your cunt, moving your fingers in a 'come here' movement. your toes curled instantly, pussy clenching around him. "f-for what?" you moaned out, still trying to fully take in what was happening.

he pulled your clit with his lip, sticking his tongue out to let it drool over your clit. "I took care of everything. we're gonna be so much happier maus." he said, taking his thumb to rub his spit against your clit.

your head that was tilted back quickly shot up, stuttering out "what?" he smiled and sat up, removing his shirt before standing. you took in his tall figure, every muscle curve on his arms and chest. he slid his hands to his pant buckle, undoing his buckle. slowly he slid his pants down, his member springing up.

the tip was red, dripping pre cum slowly. "me and you and our baby. were gonna be happy forever." he smiled, walking closer to you. you sat up, swallowing and looking up to the tall man. his hands moved to his hard on, grabbing it gently before tapping it on your face. "open." he breathed out. and so you did.

"I killed him." he said before stuffing your mouth, shoving all of himself in your mouth. your hands gripped his thigh, whimpering around him. his hands went behind your head, guiding you back and forth on his length. he groaned, digging his teeth into his bottom lip.

"a..are you proud of me maus? proud what I did for our family." he moaned, moving his hips back and forth against you. but of course you couldn't respond. how would you respond when your throat and mouth is stretched out by the size of him? so all you could do was satisfy him with a weak whimper.

his hips didn't stop thrusting against your face, breathing out heavily. "mm fuck.. take me so well maus." he moaned, watching as your mouth spread around him. tears fell from your eyes, fingers digging into his muscled thighs. "too much for you libe? cant take it all?" he moaned, pulling his dick out your mouth.

drool followed, your lips swollen. his hand cupped your chin to force you to look up at him, a fake sympathetic look on his face. "b-been so.. long." you panted, swallowing while keeping your eyes on him. this caused a big smile on his face now, moving to sit beside you. "come sit." he smiled.

you slowly made your way on his lap, taking in how big he was against you. one of is hands moved up to your chin, pulling you to his lips. the mix of his pre cum and your spit made a mess on each others face. "tell me. tell me your proud of me." he said against your lips, his other hand sliding between your thighs to rub your puffy clit.

you whimpered out, hands finding his broad shoulders, gripping them. "s-so proud of you." you whimpered, slowly moving your hips against his finger. "say it again." he demanded, watching your body react.

your one hand moved up to his hair, gripping it as your orgasm rapidly approached. "im sop-proud of you Koni.. did s-so good." you moaned out, moving your hips against his fingers faster. he moaned out, thrusting his hips up before removing his finger. "need you to show me." he said, gripping your hips to lift you from his lap and align you with his tip.

"okay j-just go slow pl- fuck!" Konig had ignored your request completely, pushing you all the way down on his length. naturally, your body fell against his as he bottomed out inside you, feeling every inch of him while a surprised squeak left your lips. "s-sorry libe", he chuckled, "just got too excited."

his hips moved out of your pussy slow, before pushing deep inside of you. your fingers dug into his shoulders, beginning to feel how small you really were against his body. the muscles in his shoulders tensed, a low growl emitting from him. his large hands wrapped almost fully around d your waist, allowing him to move you at the pace he wants you to, turning you into a real life flashlight.

and it made you even wetter.

"s-so fucking small against me yeah? happy I saved you from that man huh libe? are you happy I saved the day?" he whispered, bouncing you up and down. you wanted to respond, but you couldnt. you were getting off on the fact he was manhandling you, his size compared to you causing your cunt to squelch around him. so all you could give him was a small pathetic nod, partnered with a small meek ‘yes.

he kept up the pace he set for you, beginning to thrust up into you. “oh fuck.. so deep inside this pussy. filling yoh all the way up.” he groaned, his head digging into your shoulder. your arms wrapped around his neck, nails digging into his broad shoulders as your body fell to mush in his grip.

“s-so big.” yoh whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut and hitting your lip, trying not to be too loud to wake your kid. he chuckled, slowing his pace to a halt, letting you also rest. “too much?” he asked, pressing a kiss to your neck before looking to you. you nodded, whimpering out another ‘yes.

he laid you on the couch, sliding out of your cunt leaving yoh throbbing. he laid above you, tapping his length on your pussy. “so wet.. you like me killing for you don’t you?” he whispered, cupping yohr cheek with his hand. you nodded quickly, looking up at him.

his other hand ran up and down your inner thigh, gripping it. “you gotta be quiet for me maus.. don’t wanna wake our baby.” he whisperer, aligning his tip before slowly pushing in, whimpering out as you wrapped around him. your eyes squeezed shut, mouth falling open. his hand quickly found your mouth, head pressing against yours.

he took a shaky breath before sliding oht slowly and pushing back in, whimpering out again. slowly he picked up the pace, his hands finding your hips to hold you down and allow him to go faster and deeper. “so fucking tight.. and it’s all mine.” he groaned, looking at you through his eyelashes. his hips slapped against yours, filling the room with the sound of slapping and moans.

your hands found the back of his head, pulling tightly on his hair. he whimpered out, gripping your hips a bit tighter, releasing his hand from your mouth. “it’s a-all yours Koni. just yours.” you moaned, raising your legs to wrap around his waist. he whimpered out a ‘fuck’, raising his head to look into your eyes. “t-tell me again.” he moaned, moving faster.

he was close you could tell. his breaths got shaky and his fingers dug into your hips. “this pussy is.. is all yours.” you cooed, tugging his hair just a bit. he groaned, pushing your legs up to your chest a bit more, drilling right against your womb. “oh please o-pull my hair more.” he whimpered, looking down to you with desperate eyes.

you smirked, tugging his hair so his head was pulled back, exposing the veins in his neck. your pussy clenched around him, the idea of being in control of the man who towers over you completely. “you l-like being controlled like this huh?” you whisper, clenching around his cock tighter. he whimpered, his hands working up your body now to your breasts.

“i-i’m gonna.. i’m gonna cum libe.” he whimpered, playing with your nipples. you gasped softly, your back arching off the couch slightly. his hips drilled into ykh faster, chasing his own high. his desperation caused yohr pussy to pulse around him, your stomach turning. “so close.. just w-wait for me Koni.” you moaned, your legs tightening around him.

you let his hair go, your hand gripping his face to pull him down to kiss you. the kiss was deep and fast, silencing each others moans. “please libe.. i c-cant hold it anymore.” he begged against your lips, one hand sliding between your bodies to your clit. “keep going in so c-close.. fuck.”

naturally, his hips moved quicker, desperate taking over the once controlled man. his tip abused your womb, causing tears to brim at your eyes as your cunt convulsed around his cock. "c-cum in me Koni" you moaned out, feeling yourself let go. but you didn't have to finish your sentence before his head dropped in between your neck, biting down on your skin to try and silence himself. his fingers dug into your hips, his own hips pounding into you as he forced his cum deeper into you.

your own body shook under him, your hands gripping his hair as you let the pleasure course threw your body. "q-quiet libe.. c-can't wake the baby." he whimpered, placing his hand over your mouth as you came down from your high. he thrusted slowly in and out of you, his body pressed flat against yours. your hands let go of his hair as your body relaxed, your legs shaking less. his hand left your mouth, head still in your neck.

"did you.. really kill him Konig?" you finally asked after a bit of silence. but you got nothing in return. instead, you were hit with soft snoring in your ear, Konigs arms wrapped around your body. you felt him softening inside you, causing the heat to rush to your cheeks. smiling, you kissed his forehead before pressing your head back on the couch, closing your eyes and drifting off to the sound of his snoring.

another request done finally. college is kicking my ass y'all. dont do it. (jkjkjk)

#cod #call of duty fan fiction #call of duty x reader #cod x reader #konig #konig fanfiction #konig smut #konig x reader

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