#not putting this in the tags for once i have self preservation instincts

[orphiclovers]

not to sound actually unhinged but people who draw ship art with dkos saving astronaut!yjh when it was SP who did that Clearly Detected the spyjh vibes in that scene and are too afraid to admit it to themselves. im only half joking when i say this btw you have to admit i have a little bit of a point. if theres no romantic tension there why are we putting kdj in sp's spot huh. checkmate nonbelievers /lh

[miss-oranje-disco-dancer]

my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder

pairing: javi p x reader

cws/tags: angst, p in v, oral, idk? drinking? canon death mention? javi pov

summary: reader, a dea agent, arrives in medellin (season 2 time) and quickly forms a bond w javi. are they just friends or is it something more?

a/n: there is a part 2 which will give the full picture (hopefully)

wc: 8.6k

taglist:

@gothcsz @onlyasimp4-2dbitches

There was Helena, and then, Gabriela, before that, Vanessa, and certainly some others here and there, but with all of them, Javi had his expectations set upfront. Or at least, he thought he did, he tried to, but he'd be lying if he said Helena only came to mind when he was lonely in the middle of the night, naked and unable to sleep. 

Elisa was a mistake, an unfair mistake that was dropped off at his doorstep before he could tell himself that this doesn't mean anything. There must've been some self-preservation instincts in him that held him back from begging her for more, from moping around after she left. He risked a lot for her, but he would've risked more if she'd let him.

Prostitutes and wanted communists are one thing, but you are something else. Javi can't quite put his finger on what that something else is yet, and it’s too late once he figures it out. 

In the beginning, Javi was skeptical of you, mostly because you came to Medellin with Messina and crew, and he falsely assumed that being her subordinate meant you would take her side if there were ever to be conflict between her and Javi – and there was from their very first conversation.

More than skeptical, he was intrigued. Being sent to Colombia to participate in the fight against Escobar was usually reserved for higher-ups with a much longer tenure, or fresh meat for the front-lines. As a newcomer, that meant that you were either a highly-skilled agent in the field of investigation or you volunteered yourself – likely unknowingly – to be slaughtered. You might be a fast runner or a sharpshooter, but young girls aren’t known to fare well on the battlefield.

Once he’s determined that you’re not a threat, you’re a coworker. You keep to yourself. You don’t seem shy, just focused, and for that Javi is grateful. Considering the fact that he’s forced to work with the people he deems to be ‘RIP’ and a fuckton of bureaucracy, you make his life easier. 

Obviously, you’re gorgeous. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder or whatever but he sees the way others look at you. He notices because he is also looking. You walk with confidence, but not arrogance. You traverse the halls with purpose, but not urgency. You rarely stop to mingle with Colleen and only exchange cordial glances with men who would melt if you gave them any more attention than that. 

His first interaction with you aside from your initial greeting, begins with a headache. It’s the phone ringing, then the keys clicking on the typewriter, even the tick of the clock gets to him. He groans - somewhat dramatically - and puts his head in his hands. 

“Agent Peña,” you pipe up from beside him. “Are you okay?”

“Just a headache. I’ll recover.”

“Do you want Advil? I have some in my purse.”

“Yes, please.”

You dig through a sizable bag until you find a small bottle. You carefully shake two caplets out and pour the excess back inside their container, closing the cap tightly before putting it back in your purse. 

“Hold out your hand unless you want me to feed them to you,” you say jokingly. 

He opens his palm and takes the offering, greedily swallowing the pills dry. 

“You should really take those with water,” you say. 

“Does coffee work?” He presents the near-empty mug on his desk to you, swirling the contents. 

“Here,” you say, giving up your water bottle. 

“You’re a fuckin’ angel, you know that?” he says, before taking a gulp of your water, tasting the chapstick on the rim. Cherry. It leaves a pink stain that matches the color of your nails.  

When he returns the bottle to you, you seem oddly flustered. He meant angel as in miracle worker not as in divinely gorgeous woman, though both could be used to describe you. You should know that, he thinks. 

“Not really,” you say with a breathy laugh. “I’m just prepared for any surprise Aunt Flo could bring me.”

“Huh?” Javi’s a man without sisters, daughters, or a wife, he’s never heard the expression. 

“My period.” 

Honestly, he’s impressed at how plainly you say it, shameless as you should be. 

“Ah.”

“She makes me more of a demon than anything, but it means I’ve got a whole pharmacy in here.”

“Got anything fun?”

“Not unless you find enjoyment in a handful of tampons and a spare pair of underwear.”

Depends on the underwear, he thinks. They’re probably modest, but you’d look good in fuckin’ granny panties. By the end of the day, he’s imagined you in just about everything.

At the time, Javi's not interested in flirting with you. It's not a conscious effort not to get involved, he's just so caught up in everything else that there's little time to think about romancing you. 

Even the night he and Steve first invite you for drinks, it's sheerly for the sake of camaraderie. In fact, it was Steve's idea, not his. Murphy thought you looked lonely – in retrospect, Javi thinks it might've been projection. Javi agreed to invite you out of pure interest in what you'd be like outside of the office.

Nice. That's the best way he could describe it. Likable.

You all get drunk. Javi watches your professional facade slip as you’re swaying in your seat to the rhythm of the current hits on the radio. Your skin, dewy with summer sweat, makes you glow like an angel in the dim light of the bar.

It takes Steve a drink and a half to bring up his marriage problems. Javi, stupidly, has forgotten that you're not privy to any of this, so you endure 25 minutes of conversation time before asking, "Who's Connie?"

"Steve's wife," Javi says.

"Where is she?"

"Miami."

"I've never heard you talk about her before."

"Because he's in hot water," Javi, again, is the one to answer.

"I can answer for myself, thank you." Steve insists.

And so Javi lets Steve talk - he's probably heard it all before - and he lets himself have a break. Just a little break, no one will notice if he lets his mind wander for a second. Really, he's mostly listening, he thinks.

"Javi." Murphy's voice from across the table is oddly stern.

"What?" Javi mirrors his tone.

"What do you think I should do?"

"About what?"

"Connie."

"I don't know."

"Were you even listening?"

"Yeah, of course." 

It takes one long stare to get him to break. "Okay, fine. I was not listening. Tell me one more time."

You excuse yourself from the table to use the restroom, and it feels like you've fed him to the wolves – rightfully so.

"You like her." It's not a question. It's a statement, whispered as if Murphy cares about the confidentiality of Javi's love life or lack thereof.

"It's not like that." But Javi can't meet his eyes.

"I know sleeping around usually works for you, but I don't want you to fuck this up. Not right now when we're so close."

What he means is: do not fuck her. It should be simple – and to Steve's credit, he's right. But the thing is that Javi doesn't just want to fuck you. It's not like that.

"What do you think I am? An animal?" Javi asks.

Yes, he absolutely does. To him, Javi is a tiger, waiting to pounce on whatever prey he can get his hands on. Really, Javi's a mopey zoo lion if anything.

When he notices you making your way across the room, he changes the subject. "Anyway, I think you should call Connie, and tell her how you feel. Just be honest."

"That's what I said," you beam with pride, as if you've gotten the answer right.

Looking into Murphy’s bloodshot eyes, he adds, "But you've gotta sober up first."

"I agree," you say, and Javi only notices now how you slur your words.

He convinces you both to go home with the promise of a second hangout next week. It's an empty promise – he just needs to get you home safe. He assumes you won't remember in the morning. But come next Friday, you approach him, and ask if you're going to the same bar you went to the weekend prior.

It was an empty promise, but one he decides to keep.

It becomes a weekly thing. The three of you. You all get along perfectly well, but if this were any other circumstance, if you were any other beautiful woman, Javi would've pulled Steve to the side and told him to pound sand. But there is a mutual knowledge and acceptance that Steve is cock-blocking Javi. It's for everyone's benefit.

Your group hangouts typically begin and end at the same bar down the street.

The friend group arrangement works until it doesn't. Until Murphy has plans.

"How the fuck do you have plans? Your wife is in another country," Javi asks bitterly.

"Unlike you, my life isn't centered around women I want to sleep with," Steve says with less bite because he knows he's won the conversation.

Fuck Murphy. Javi was tired of hearing him bitch about Connie anyway. But you. He could never get tired of you.

"We can still go out, right, Javi?" you ask, and he's fairly sure it's the first time you've ever called him by his first name.

He doesn't have time to find an excuse to say no when he's pushing away every knee-jerk flirtation in his mind.

"Yeah," he says, "of course we can."

It takes only one word to seal his fate, but he gives you five.

That evening he sits across from you rather than next to you, so he can't put his arm around the back of your seat and you can't lean on him when you start to feel tipsy. Instead, he has to try to pay attention while you're looking him in the eyes, smiling at him and no one else.

When you decide to call it a night, and you stumble on your way out the door, Javi grabs hold of your arm, steadying you.

"I'm gonna walk you home," he says. Not an offer, a statement of fact.

"I got it," you say, patting him on the chest in thanks.

"No, you don't." He sighs as he leads you against your will, trying not to let your stupid grin get to him.

As you walk past the lit-up buildings filled with young singles dancing with their bodies pressed up against each other covered in sweat and spilled drinks – the nightlife of Medellin, a song escapes one nightclub that you recognize, and you begin to sing along. Your tune isn't bad, but your lyrics are far from correct.

Javi laughs heartily, unable to hold it in.

"What? You don't like it?"

"No, I love it – it's original. I love the way you've completely changed the lyrics."

"You're so mean, Javier!" You playfully shove him – or attempt to, but you end up falling into his arms.

He takes your hands in his, holding you upright. 

“It’s ‘hold me closer, tiny dancer’, not ‘hold me closer, Tony Danza’,” he says. 

“Okay, fine,” you say, hands still clasped in his, swaying a bit, coaxing him into dancing with you slowly. 

Halfway through the song, he’s leading you, step-by-step, twirling you like a ballerina because he loves the way you laugh when he does it. 

Though you’re the one that needs help standing, you keep him on his toes too. The words are no longer ‘Tony Danza’, nor ‘tiny dancer’ - it becomes ‘hold me closer, Javi Peña’. 

For the rest of the walk, he keeps his hands – respectfully, protectively, friendly – on you. Just an arm around your shoulder, or your hand in his at most scandalous.

It takes you a moment to unlock your door as you fiddle with the keys – their clinking metal being the only sound echoing through the halls of the apartment building. Anticipatory silence. He won't come into your apartment, he knows that. You're too drunk to consent to anything. You leave him with a kiss on the cheek, and he hopes that it means less to you than it does to him.

“It’s kinda like Cheers when you think of it,” you note off-handedly.

“In what way?” Javi asks like he’s challenging you.

“Well, we’re always at the same bar.”

“Oh yeah? ‘Where everybody knows your name’? The bartender still calls you ‘señorita’.”

“He calls me ‘gringo’,” Steve mumbles into his glass.

As it turns out, the bartender does know your name, and just as Sam Malone would, he makes out with you in a room marked ‘employee’s only’.

Watching you get whisked away by the bartender, Javi sighs a little too loudly, prompting Murphy to inquire, “you jealous?”

“No. I’m gonna go… mingle,” he says, turning towards the area that has become a dancefloor over the course of the night.

“Okay, I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk about it.”

“Fuck off. We agreed that I’m not sleeping with her – I did not take a vow of celibacy.”

Murphy doesn’t stay to watch Javi find an eligible woman to suck him off in the women’s room. Instead, he closes his tab and asks the bartender – the one not making his way from second to third base with you - to relay a message to Javi when he inevitably comes looking. 

“What do you want me to tell him?” The man – unamused, but bored enough to entertain him - asks.

“Tell him I left to fuck his wife.”

The bartender seems to think it’s funny enough, especially when he already harbors certain negative feelings towards Javi for reasons that may or may not be justifiable, depending on who you ask. 

Javi learns of this later when he closes out his own tab, but before he does so, he has a mission to see through. 

Barely concealed by a stall door that could use a new coat of paint and some WD-40 on the hinges, Javi is about to tell this woman - whose name he’s already forgotten - not to leave any marks above his collar, but then, he remembers you, and says nothing, only groans when her teeth scrape the skin on his neck.

He brushes this need to ‘conquer’ off as a typical rivalry between friends. When your friend exits the room to go hook up with someone, it’s your duty as a man to find a mate of equal social stature to theirs, and engage in at least some heavy petting by the end of the night. Or at least, that’s how it worked back in college – which, come to think of it, was about a lifetime ago for Javi. Looking back, he realizes that those nights taught him the infinitely valuable skill of bullshitting his way in and out of situations.

Though, he tells you the absolute truth of who, what, where, and how it all went down for him that night on your walk home. He only omits the why.

“Are we going back to the same place next week?”

“I thought we already established that we go there every week, just like they do in Cheers,” he says.

“Can we go somewhere else next time?”

“Why? It seemed like you were having a good time back there,” Javi teases.

“I guess…” you mumble, kicking gravel aimlessly down the sidewalk. “But he wants to see me again.”

Javi hums as if he understands.

“I just don’t wanna get caught up in anything serious, you know?”

“Oh, but I’m the asshole when I say I’m not good at commitment?”

“That was Steve, not me, and to his credit, you said you left someone at the altar. You committed and then you backed out. You broke a promise – that’s why you’re an asshole.”

“Then, she dodged a bullet by not marrying an asshole like me.”

The rest of the walk home is silent. Tense, and not the good kind. 

This is not the climax of the movie where Javi pushes you up against the wall next to your apartment door, and you engage in the steamiest makeout session allowed on cable television – the kind where you pull away panting, take one look into each other’s eyes and realize you’ve been in love all along. 

You keep your eyes pointed at your feet and he keeps his hands by his sides. It feels like you’re strangers who happen to be walking at the same pace, to the same destination. There’s nothing more to say. 

Until you reach your apartment, and when the two of you part ways, you say to him, “I’m sorry I called you an asshole.”

“It’s okay.” I’m used to it, he thinks. “People have said a lot worse about me.”

With Connie and Olivia back in Miami, Steve has a spacious apartment to himself, which is where the three of you decide to congregate after your little hook-up with the bartender the week prior.

Buying a case of beer from the convenience store is much more cost-efficient, and Steve can easily talk to his wife on the phone when he gets a little too drunk and misses her, leaving you and Javi in his living room together.

Briefly, you both listen to him murmur into the handset, cradling it like a baby. If it were someone else, you might gossip, at least speculate, but there’s nothing salacious about it, and despite the fact that Steve will one day return home to his loving wife, beating all of the odds currently stacked against them, it’s not a tale of epic romance. Not that Javi knows anything about romance anyway. 

You and Javi sit in the living room, chatting about nothing important, mostly bitching about work and how there’s never anything good on TV anymore. But then, out of nowhere, as if it’s nothing special, you mention a man – a colleague, but the DEA is a large organization, so Javi is unfamiliar with him.

“He asked me out.”

“Did you accept?”

“Yeah, I figured, why not? You know? I feel like I should get to know more people. I really only hang out with you and Murphy.”

“Oh, so we’re not good enough for you? I’m offended,” Javi says, sarcastically, but there’s a grain of truth deep down.

“You know you’ll always be my favorite, Javi.” You lean your head on him and he hadn’t realized how close you were sitting until now.

“Yeah, yeah.” Javi nudges you with his elbow, pushing you away despite himself. “Now, tell me about this guy you’re going out with.”

“He’s really sweet, and like super polite… a gentleman,” you decide.

“Oh, so you like a ‘nice guy’? Someone you can bring home, someone who holds the door open for you…”

“I guess. He’s pretty handsome, too. He’s got brown hair, and pretty brown eyes – kinda like yours.”

You smile, so he smiles. But, how can you say that with such levity?

Because he’s just a friend to you.

You've truly formed a bond with Javi by the time you step into the dating scene in Colombia. So much so that you ask Javi for his opinions on what you should wear for your third date – just as you did for your first and second.

"Either you're great with fashion advice or you're my good luck charm," you say. "So, I need you to tell me which looks best."

"Okay. Go put on outfit number one before I get bored and fall asleep on your couch."

"I'll be quick, I'll be quick. You can pour yourself a drink if it'll keep you awake."

He's never been one to turn down a drink, but what keeps him awake is your 'fashion show'.

"This is outfit number one," you say, smiling in your classic little black dress.

"Beautiful," he says honestly.

"And then," you say as you begin to unzip your dress.

"Whoa-"

"What?"

"Why are you getting undressed?"

For the first time, he's nervous to see a woman naked.

"Each outfit has a matching set of lingerie, so you have to see that too in order to accurately judge."

He gestures for you to continue and tries to keep his expression neutral. And his dick soft.

It's torturous to see you stress so much when he knows the guy doesn't deserve the sight of you like this. Neither does he, for that matter.

"You really like him?" He asks.

"I mean, yeah sure, he's nice, and he's good-looking"

"But you're not over the moon about him." He can hear it in your voice. You don't deserve to settle.

"No, but you can have sex with someone you're not over the moon about - you, especially would know that, Peña."

"Yeah, but I don't dress up all fancy just to have sex."

He has the tendency to get attached even in the most casual of situations, so he’d never dare make an occasion out of sex.  

You sigh. "I guess I do, or else I wasted a shit ton of money on lingerie."

"Fuck the money. Do you actually wanna fuck this guy? 'Cause you know you don't have to. It's not a written rule."

Javi surprises himself with how much of his dedication to making sure you're making the right decision is out of genuine platonic care for you and not jealousy for the man who might get the chance to sleep with you.

"I know I don't have to, but I want to, and I want to look good for him because I want to make a good impression."

He shrugs, dissatisfied. You don't get it, you'll make a good impression no matter what you wear. Any guy would be lucky to get the opportunity to sleep with you, he could say, but it would come off wrong.

His silence allows you time for thought, for worry. Seemingly, apropos of nothing, you ask him if he's ever had sex with a woman who was 'bad in bed'.

"Sort of, not really. Nothing really bad, but I've had times where we're both pretty drunk and it's just… not great. One time I hit my head on the wall." He smiles at the stupidity and you laugh.

"Sorry. I'm sure it hurt."

"It hurt like hell, but it wasn't totally her fault. Another time, a girl's phone would not stop ringing, and she eventually picked it up and it was her mom telling her that her grandma died."

"Did she kick you out or did you stay to comfort her?"

"Depends on what you mean by 'comfort'."

"You did not continue fucking her."

"I did. But, as you can imagine, the mood was kind of ruined."

"Luckily both of my grandmas are already dead, so that won't be an issue."

"See? There you go. Just don't drink too much, make sure he doesn't hit his head and maybe take your phone off the hook."

But you continue to spiral through worries, telling Javi each and every one of them while he sits at the foot of your bed.

Will you bring your date back here? Is the only worry in his own mind. 

Eventually, he asks you, "do you like him? Yes or no. And I mean really like."

"Yes."

"Do you trust him?"

"I don't not trust him."

"That's not the question I asked."

"It's hard to make a blanket statement saying that I trust someone. Trust him with what? To save my place in line, a briefcase holding a million dollars, my life?"

"Let me ask you this way then, who do you trust?"

"My mom, my sister, Murphy, you…"

"When you say you trust me, what does that mean for you?"

"I've trusted you with my life many times before and I'd do it again. But in our jobs we have to put our lives on the line."

"If he had my job would you trust him like you trust me?"

"Not as much as I trust you."

And somehow Javi is stupid enough to think that this means you'll skip the date, maybe even schedule one with him, but you go as you planned to – if he were able to look at you dressed in lingerie and keep his opinions completely detached and as objective as possible, he would say you should go with the red set because it looked the best. But he hopes, selfishly, that you saved it for his eyes only.

As most relationships do, that one ends. The man - whose name Javi rid his mind of - breaks up with you. You lament over it for about a week and then move on.

Javi lets you cry it out with your face buried in his t-shirt, staining the fabric with mascara tears. It was his favorite, but he rubs your back and holds you closer instead of telling you to stop using him as a tissue.

“It’s his loss,” he says along with all the typical phrases one expects to hear after a devastating breakup.

But what makes you feel better is when Javi suggests you watch the episode of Cheers he’d taped earlier that week.

“Can I lie down while we watch?” you ask.

“Yeah. How do you want me?” he asks because the couch is the only piece of furniture facing the TV, which means you’ll have to share it. 

“You wanna lie down behind me? You could be the big spoon.”

He nods, lying down on his side, leaving space for you to curl up beside him.

He wraps his arm around you lazily, resisting the urge to run his hands down the side of your body, to touch you everywhere.

“Can you see from back there?” you ask.

“Mm-hmm,” he lies. He’s already seen the episode, he’d much rather fall asleep with his body pressed up against yours. It’s the closest he’s ever been to you.

Javi has practiced the art of keeping himself hidden. It's a useful trait as both an agent and a reluctant hopeless romantic. He never gets too drunk, not like you and Steve. He never reveals what lies below the facade of a grouchy, sometimes disobedient but wholly dedicated agent on your Friday night hangouts. He disguises himself as a womanizer, an asshole, until he can't anymore.

You find him in desperation. Post-tragedy, a traumatic incident that he can't quite shake. It makes him vulnerable. He does the right thing the first time – he calls up Gabriela and fucks her like he hates her, tips her real well afterwards. The second time is when he makes the mistake of seeing you, not just looking at you when you cross paths, but seeing you.

He knew things were bad after seeing Murphy teary-eyed for the first time. It brought the first incident to the forefront of his mind again. A cigarette and some fresh air would help, he thought. But when he steps outside, he finds you.

"It's late," he says. 

"Why are you out here?"

"I can't sleep."

"Me neither."

You won't look at him. Why won't you look at him?

"I heard what happened today."

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"I'm not asking you to talk about it. What I'm saying is, I know what you're feeling."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do, and you know it. We were both there when-"

"I don't wanna talk about that either."

"Good. I don't either. We should go inside. It's not safe for you to be out here right now."

"I'm not a fucking baby."

"You know what I mean. I'm trying to help you, okay?"

You ask him to stay with you – that's what will help, you say. He shouldn't, but he's too weak to say 'no'. You make him weaker.

"I need to forget," you tell him, and he knows exactly what that means.

It means sex. It means throwing away the future he could've had with you. Not the romantic kind – that was already gone, that's been gone since before you came into his life. He won't have a white-picket-fence-two-and-a-half-kids-in-the-suburbs kind of future with anyone. But he could've had a friendship, he could've gotten the gift of existing near you without any tension, something light and untouched even if it meant keeping himself at a distance.

But, you need this. You're begging him to fuck you, and if he chooses not to, it'll only make things worse – you'd withdraw from him entirely in embarrassment from his rejection because there's no way he can tell you that it's not because he doesn't want to have sex with you. God, no – he wants to have sex with you. In his ideal scenario, you get drunk once – on a business trip, at Steve and Connie's house, at the celebration of Escobar's demise – and you make the "stupid mistake" of sleeping with each other, and it becomes an inside joke between the two of you.

In his dreams, you get married on the beach or at city hall or even at a church if that's what you wanted. But dreams are dreams for a reason. They're distinctly different from reality. They don't come true.

In reality, Javi says the best thing he can, which is "okay", and he lets his lips collide with yours.

When your frantic hands begin to strip him of his clothes, he wants to tell you "it's okay, we have all night" because he wants to take it slow. He knows he won't last long when he gets inside you.

He tries to balance eagerness with gentleness when he takes off your clothes. He wants to be close to you.

"Let's go to your bedroom," he mumbles into the crook of your neck.

You don't bother to pick up your clothes, which are strewn near the doorway, so Javi doesn't either. He can tell you're impressed when he undoes your bra with one hand, and it makes him laugh, a little proud too, despite the fact that it's no more than a party trick (if you consider sex a party).

But his need to be the best you've ever had has him dropping to his knees in the hallway, and it's milliseconds before his hands are gripping your thighs and his nose meets the fabric of your panties.

He looks up, and asks, "can I take these off?"

"Yeah," you say, assisting him by slipping them down your own thighs.

With how quiet you are in the office, he expected you to be the same in the bedroom but you're not. The moan you let out when his tongue meets your clit is loud and unashamed – his favorite kind. It spurs him on.

"Javi, Javi, Javi - wait - I'm - hold on-"

So, he stops. "What's wrong?" He massages your thighs while he speaks, soft and sweet.

"I'm gonna cum."

"I know. That's the goal."

"But I'm gonna fall over."

"You're not, baby. I'm gonna hold onto you. But, if you want, we can finish this in bed." He doesn't wait for an answer before lifting you over his shoulder.

It makes you gasp, just like his lips did moments ago, but this time it makes him laugh. Only you could make him smile on a night like this one.

He doesn't tease you, he dives back in, lapping at your folds, more desperate for your orgasm than you are. If Javi is one thing, it's dedicated, and the bedroom is no exception.

You're still panting when you ask him to fuck you. It might be the first time you've said 'fuck' in front of him. "Fuck me" is Javi's line.

Utterly captivated by the sight of you disheveled beneath him, he agrees.

The second time you say 'fuck' is when Javi tells you he'll go grab a condom from his wallet – which is in his jeans, which are somewhere near the front door – and you say 'fuck it'.

And, utterly captivated by the sight of you, he agrees.

"How do you want me?" he asks.

"Rough," you say. "Make me forget."

You say it with such conviction that he sighs and says, "Okay. Turn over."

He buries himself to the hilt in a single thrust and since Javi can't see your face, he can't tell if the moan you let out is pleasure or pain, so he leans in and whispers into your ear, "Tell me if I'm hurting you."

"I want you to hurt me."

I don't want to hurt you. 

Something holds him back from saying it. He's not one to disappoint, especially in this facet of life. So, he saves the kiss he wants to place on your cheek for later. Instead, he drags his teeth along your soft skin and bites the flesh.

He fucks you hard, the way you want him to – holding onto the headboard, hips slamming into yours from the back at a merciless pace, and maybe if you weren't you, he'd feel different about this. But, instead of staring into your eyes and trying to cover up the immense fondness he feels for you, he looks at the pictures that hang on your wall, held up by clothespins on a string–you're smiling with your friends, blowing out birthday candles, laying on a beach towel in a bikini. He is in none of these photos. Why would he be? You've never taken a photo together. He's not a part of your life like that.

All the while, he keeps an iron grip on your hips and keeps a steady rhythm. Your moans turn into sobs, and he doesn't know how much longer he can take. Both because hearing your cries makes him feel conflicted about everything and because your walls are so tight around him, you're soaking wet and your legs are trembling. It's not long before he feels your pussy spasms and your whole body jolts – you have the sense to scream into your pillow, but he can still hear it.

Finally, he pulls out and jerks himself off, letting his release spill onto your ass, and once he's let go of you, you promptly flop down fully onto the mattress.

With the room finally quieter, you hear banging on the front door. You're about to get up but Javi stops you. "Stay there. I'll deal with it."

He slips on his boxers and flings open the door, and it's the person he least wants to see. Steve. Not because he hates Steve, but because Steve will bring this up.

He doesn't even have to say anything.

"Sorry. We'll keep it down," Javi says.

"Good" is the only word he says, though it's clearly not 'good' because Steve looks more pissed off than he's ever seen him.

He tells you it was a neighbor, but doesn't specify which one. He cleans you up, and prepares himself to leave. That's how this goes, right?

"Stay," you say, tugging him by the hand, so he falls back into bed.

He falls asleep with his bare skin flush against yours but this time it's gentle. He gives you a kiss on the temple before you turn out the light. You're silent but you smile.

The hurt comes the next morning. For you, it's physical, but can you really complain? For him, it's deeper than that. You're deeper inside him than he ever was inside you.

He wakes up beside you, feeling hungover despite not having any alcohol the night before. It's the vague sense of guilt and confusion, the way he feels more awake than the night before but less awake than he should after a full night's rest.

He retracts his hand from your body, hoping he can slip away before you notice but you turn to him, fully-awake.

If life were different – kinder, he would smile at you and you would try to kiss him.

"Mm-mm. I have morning breath," he'd say.

"I don't care," you'd say, grabbing his cheeks and pulling him towards you.

He'd pull back, just to argue because he likes the way you pout and the way he falls for it every time. You'd settle for a kiss on the forehead with the promise for something more after Javi brushes his teeth.

The quest for better breath would all be for nothing since he'd have coffee and a cigarette for breakfast (you'd tell him to eat more, of course), but you'd kiss him anyway.

His eyes linger on you for too long while he fantasizes, long enough for you to notice – for you to begin to see him for who he is.

Murphy brings it up at work when you're out of the room. Javi can see it in his eyes before he says anything.

"Sorry for keeping you up," Javi mutters, straight-faced and honest.

"Nothin' else to say?" Murphy probes. He seems more curious than angry. 

"Nope. Is there something you think I should say?"

"You fucked her," he whispers.

"Yes," Javi whispers back.

"How? Did it just happen? Or have you guys been a thing for awhile now and I just haven't noticed?"

"We're not a thing."

"You're not not a thing."

Javi doesn't have to admit to Steve that he's right because you walk into the room.

He is forced to silently admit what you are to him when he fails to hold back a rare smile upon seeing your face.

He sees Gabriela again, and though he's slept with her more times than he's slept with you, it still feels like he's cheating.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks while he stands by the window with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

"Work."

"Bullshit." She exhales a breathy laugh.

"Yeah."

"It's not something, it's someone. Isn't it?"

He turns, silently.

"I could tell you were thinking about her when you were fucking me - I thought it was just a sexual fantasy, but you're still fantasizing… and we're not fucking anymore."

"You'd be a great shrink, you know? In case this doesn't work out for you."

"It's working out fine." She flashes him the wad of cash he handed her before they got in bed together.

"Right."

"Maybe I'm supposed to be offended, but you were sweet this time - gentle. If you keep fucking me like that, I don't give a fuck who're you're thinking about."

"You liked it?" He asks with a flirtatious glint in his eye, opting for indulgence as distraction.

"I did. In fact, I think you could get a second round. On the house."

His cock springs to life and he slips out of his jeans. He fucks her slow, pressing kisses down her spine. She cums twice and he feels like a god.

But not like a lover, not like her lover.

You sleep together again, but you don't have sex. You're tipsy off whiskey in his apartment one night, trying to shake off the past week.

The DEA, being of the USA, only knows violence as conflict resolution, so you and Javi aren't trained to solve any problem that comes after the fighting is over. Distraction is the best you can do and alcohol is often one of the greatest methods.

"I wish we had something stronger than whiskey," Javi remarks.

"When in Medellin…" you say, swiping a finger under your nose.

"I think the amount of coffee I've had today is probably equal to a gram."

Doubtful, considering Javi is dozing off in his chair.

"Javi," you say, snapping your fingers to get his attention.

Startled, his body jolts awake. "What?" he asks, frantically.

"Nothing. You're just falling asleep."

"Sorry. I didn't sleep well last night."

"I figured. Everyday for the past week, you've looked like you're going to keel over. Are you okay?"

He takes a deep breath. Shakes the magic eight ball in his mind. Try again later. "I've just been having a lot of nightmares recently. It hasn't been like this since I was a kid."

"Well, how'd you get them to stop back then?"

"My mom used to sleep in my room with me."

He smiles at the thought of his mother. He doesn't often think of her because the funeral comes to mind. But sometimes, when he's lucky, she'll come back to him in memory - now, he sees her through a childlike lens, her face bright despite the bags under her eyes. The love he felt for her was so simple and pure.

His love for you is the most complicated kind.

"I'm not your mom, but if you want, I can sleep over."

"You'd do that for me?"

"Of course. I'd do anything for you."

You say it so flippantly that Javi barely has time to process it. It's better that way.

Finally, he gets a good night's sleep. But that only makes him need you more.

You both go on pretending things are the same until Carrillo dies. He was always the catalyst.

"I don't do funerals," Javi tells you.

You nod, pursed lips, accepting his decision. Giving in easily, which is unlike you.

"I'm thinking about leaving," you announce abruptly.

"You should go home, get some rest, especially if you're going tomorrow." To the funeral. Javi can't stand the word either.

"No, I'm thinking about leaving."

"Leaving where?" He already knows.

"Colombia."

"Are they reassigning you?"

"No, I'm quitting."

"Have you told Messina?"

"No. You're the first person I've told."

He nods and takes a deep breath. "Is that what you want to do? Quit?"

"I don't know. I wanted your advice."

"It's your choice, not mine." I'll miss you.

"I just can't do it anymore." You reveal yourself. You shatter.

"Hey." He places a hand on your shoulder, but you fall into his arms. "That's not true. You're strong. You know that you're strong."

I need you, he means.

So, you stay.

There is something about the grief that fuels you both to fight harder. You're no longer just fighting for justice, you're fighting for vengeance. It makes you both colder, more numb to the cruelty.

But physically, neither of you are much stronger. You overestimate yourselves, run through the streets with handguns after blood-hungry sicarios.

In his pursuit of one of the men, Javi fails to see a shooter on the roof with a gun aimed right at him. You see it, and shove Javi out of the way.

The bullet only grazes you, and Javi leaves with a few scrapes and dirty clothes. And guilt.

A shopkeeper who seems all too used to crisis situations grabs a first aid kit while Javi sits with you.

"You're not gonna call for backup?" you ask.

"No use. They got away. Let's just focus on this right now, okay?"

"This" means the wound on your side.

"It's not a big deal," you say, though you're clearly on the verge of tears.

"You got shot. The number one priority is making sure you're safe."

"Didn't you say that we can't focus on the casualties? That Escobar wins if we waste time mourning our dead?"

"Neither of us are dead."

You'll need more than the basic first aid that Javi can give you, nevertheless, he uses an antiseptic to clean the wound.

You break down in tears at the burning sensation.

"You're doing so well," he tells you, "I'll be done in just a moment."

When the ambulance arrives, he insists on accompanying you to the hospital.

They ask him who he is and he flashes his DEA badge, knowing that "friend" doesn't mean anything in this case.

Friend isn't enough.

You don't need surgery, just stitches – and some pretty decent pain pills. The kind that makes you sleepy.

Once the two of you are alone, after the doctors have finished with you, Javi tells you - finally, "Thank you, by the way, for saving my life."

"Who's to say it would've been a fatal shot?"

"Still." He leans down and kisses you on the cheek in lieu of saying anything else, knowing how badly he could fuck this up if he lets himself say everything he's really thinking – if there are even words for his feelings.

Luckily, there might not be.

"Javi," you whisper.

"Yes, hermosa?"

He rarely calls you nicknames, so it seems to fluster you a bit.

"Can you kiss me for real?"

"How much of those drugs did they give you?"

You look like you're holding back a batch of giggles and Javi can't help his stupid grin.

Before his cheeks hurt from smiling the most he has in a while, he leans in and kisses you – for real.

Breathless, you pull back and ask him, "do you think we could get away with doing it here?"

"Are you serious?" There's no way you are, he thinks, and yet he considers the option. "No, cariño, we shouldn't risk it."

He does take you home with him, but again, you don't have sex.

In the morning, you tell him confidently, "I'm leaving."

And he knows you don't just mean his apartment.

"I just can't do this anymore – the constant fear of dying was bad enough, but now…" you point to the bandages covering your stitches.

"I know." It doesn't matter what he says. You're going to leave anyway.

And, he feels guilty for convincing you to stay anyway. You should've left before this, but he was selfish and wanted to keep you a little longer.

He doesn't say goodbye in the way he wants to. He lets you go with a kiss on the forehead after waiting with you until you're called to board.

"Goodbye, Javier," you say.

He can't say anything back or he'll cry. The kiss is all he can give.

You call periodically at first, but the calls get more sporadic until they disappear entirely.

Javier is used to falling in love. So much so that he expects to feel the same way about the next woman he sleeps with. He gets attached to one woman, and then moves onto the next, loving her the same way as the last. The process of forgetting involves ending up in the same mess, feeling the same thing for someone who is blonde instead of brunette, or brown-eyed instead of blue, maybe a cup size larger in the bust. Something old, something new. There is more to the phrase, but the idea of commitment began and ended with Lorraine back in Texas.

Texas. After all is said and done in Colombia, he goes home. Like you, he can't do it anymore. His mind is already rattled with nightmares and his body is worn out.

There's an airport in Laredo, but he can't get a flight there until Monday, so he decides San Antonio is close enough.

The airport bars tend to be filled with people waiting to depart, not passengers who have already arrived. But, Javi decides to have a drink before calling a cab. There isn't any rhyme or reason to it. His feet lead him there, not his brain.

There are two open barstools, one on each side of a woman he can only see from the back. He chooses the one to her right. She looks like you, he thinks, just a slightly different haircut.

He barely glances at you before trying to wave down the bartender.

"Javier?" It's your voice from next to him.

He turns his head so quickly he swears he might've given himself whiplash. He's speechless, but smiling.

"What are you doing here?"

"On my way home. To Laredo."

"You left Colombia?"

"Yeah, I quit."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I didn't know you wanted me to."

It's been years since we talked, he thinks. The last conversation was about you leaving.

"Are you on your way home or…?"

"Yeah, I will be, once my boyfriend gets our bags."

Boyfriend. Boyfriend who gets her bags. Boyfriend who sits next to her on the plane. Boyfriend whose spot is beside her.

"Oh."

"I feel like I've been sitting here forever."

"It's hectic down at baggage claim."

"Yeah, there's a million suitcases and none of them are mine. I really hope it's not lost. My favorite necklace was in there."

"The gold one… with the pearl?"

"Yeah, that one." You grin, excited yet surprised. "You remember that?"

I remember seeing it on your bedside table. I remember you taking it off with everything else. The one thing you didn't tear off, the one moment you slowed down.

"Yeah, you wore it all the time."

"And you stared at my tits a lot, so…" You wink, sipping your drink.

"I did not… not all the time."

A man walks up behind you, lugging two suitcases.

"Hey, babe," he says, kissing your cheek.

"Oh!" You beam at him. "This is Javier. My coworker from back when I worked at the DEA."

Coworker. Not even friend.

'Eric' – as he introduces himself, extends his hand to shake Javi's, and it feels like he's making a deal with the devil. Promising your love – something he doesn't even have – to this man for nothing in exchange.

"I'll see you around," you say.

And he thinks it's just politeness, an everyday lie, but you call.

You invite him to your housewarming party.

“Eric and I just got our own place,” you tell him.

Javi congratulates you, and it’s an empty platitude. He says it because he has to – why else would he be here if not to celebrate you and your new home? He knows why. 

He shouldn’t have come at all, but he had no excuse that he could give you. The reason why wants to see you and the reason why he shouldn’t see you coincide, but after years of knowing you, and years being apart, he still can’t admit that reason. 

You were right to call him a coworker – it’s an undeniable truth. You might have been friends too at some point back in Colombia. To make the best out of the situation, Javi brings a bottle of wine – that’s what a friend would do. It’s a nice red blend, something too expensive for Javi to buy for himself. He managed to save money by not buying you a bouquet of roses. It’d be too romantic a gesture coming from a friend, let alone a coworker. 

The party is an intimate affair. Everyone he speaks to is friendly, even your boyfriend, and while he wants to be happy for you, he can’t help the fact that it irritates him more than anything else. He is no better than this man – in fact, he’s worse. 

Over the course of the evening, he meets coworkers and friends of yours. “I love you all,” you tell them, “but Javi’s my favorite.”

Everyone tells him he’s a hero for taking down Escobar, including you. He feels like a fraud, but accepts their thanks humbly because it’s easier not to talk about it.

He’s happy when the attention is taken off of him. Eric makes a toast. It’s to you, to your future.

A wave of nausea hits Javi as he watches your boyfriend become your fiance.

He shouldn’t drink anymore, so he goes outside for a cigarette. You appear by his side and the sweetness of your voice pains him.

“I thought I lost you,” you say.

“You could never lose me,” he lies.

When you show him the ring, he takes your hand in his, gently, pretending to care deeply about the shiny new diamond, but it’s just a rock, an obstruction, something hard covering your soft skin. 

It’s beautiful, it suits you.

You linger on the balcony with him. You show him the ring, you let him touch it.

You must know that the goodbye hug you give him will be the last time you’ll touch him.

Despite the ring on your finger, you kiss Javi on the cheek one final time. Your fiance won’t mind. Because it doesn’t mean anything.

Javi doesn’t kiss you on the cheek. Because kissing you would mean something. It always has.

[a-forbidden-detective]

Toto needs to visit Therapist.

To answer the question, yes, I think Toto has an extremely unhealthy tendency to sacrifice himself. I guess it stems from his low self-esteem. When I look at Toto's many actions in terms of saving people, to me it seems like more than just a desire to solve cases.

Because the desire to solve cases was there even before Ron. And for some reason, most of Toto's actions on his subconscious level are connected with self-harm in some way. Like, his instant reaction, regardless of his instincts for self-preservation, must come from somewhere, and the very fact that at the sight of danger, his feelings aimed at saving himself fade away in the name of others, it's kinda bad.

His actions, to one degree or another, despite saving others and good intentions, are equally aimed to self- distraction.

Toto never care about himself ( I'm talking about his thoughts about himself) This is probably most clearly seen during the cruise arc. When he was tied up, put to sleep and the first thing when he wakes up in his head was about Ron. But Not about even one thought about himself.

To me, this is a giant red flag that something is wrong. Considering Toto's habit of overworking himself to be useful as shown in the early chapters where he literally sleeps in his office. Moreover, his lack of any social life, and active workaholism, to help others BUT not himself. This screams that he has an unhealthy way of thinking where he puts himself last, above everyone else. He is ready to buy his grandmother something expensive, but as can be seen in the 1st case about the hot springs, he mainly relies on his salary. And this could be attributed to his kindness and good qualities, but it simply screams of a broken psyche. There is no healthy egoism in him. And well this is bad.

Also recalling our discussion about his upbringing, Toto was taught not to show much emotion in public.

However, in my opinion, sometimes all this stupidity seems very much like a fake, and his true personality is what we saw in his neutral frames. Well, I don’t believe that it’s not fake when one second he just looks blankly at the mention of Kei, and the next he’s already laughing.

And the fact that he and Ron don’t have the healthiest relationship (This is strictly how I see them and I'm not saying that they are bad) is a topic for a separate post.

Also lmao now i have my own tag there! 🤣 It feels like we're on a show or at an interview. 🤭

Ah, that’s an interesting take.

I mean Toto doesn’t have a lot of friends. And he’s probably damaged too for all we know. With the emergence of Ron he has something to live for. And it might be that he is fighting with and for Ron to hell with his own life, yeah, might not sound healthy, and it could destroy him once Ron decides to leave him, but I don’t think AA is so heartless to put Toto in this situation. Apart from each other they have accumulated other friends too along the way. So maybe, just maybe it would not come to this.

Heh! Created a hashtag for you. 😊

[lucky-clover-gazette]

prince's gambit highlights & annotations

chapter 7

indented text is from the book. some quotes have commentary, some do not. some comments are serious, and some are definitely not. most of them will only make sense to people who have read the series. and, like, there are spoilers. so please read the books first if you're interested!

also: part of the reason i'm doing such a close reading is to study cs pacat's style, especially in terms of how she does romance and erotica. there are "craft notes" that might seem weird, like i'm being redundant or restating something rather than analyzing, but those are more things that i want to remember/take away from the writing!

i'm going to tag these longer posts with "sam reads capri" in case anyone wants to read them all at once.

this is a google doc i wrote with overall content warnings for the captive prince series. it's not perfect, but i do think it's important to include.

He remembered the first time he had unpinned Jokaste’s hair, the feel of it falling over his fingers, and the memory tangled with a stirring of arousal, which a moment later became a jolt, as he found himself confusing blond hair with brown, remembering the moment downstairs when Laurent had pushed forward almost into his lap.

oh i think someone mentioned that there’s a reference to jokaste having brown hair that never got edited out! this must be it. also, damen likes blondes mention #7. the first of this book!

He shrugged on his shirt and jacket, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He was gentle when he put a hand on Laurent’s shoulder.

screaming into a paper bag

Except that the next balcony was perhaps eight feet away, further than was comfortable considering that the jump had to be made from a standing start. Laurent was already judging the distance, calm-eyed. ‘Can you make it?’ Damen asked him. ‘Probably,’ Laurent said.

i love his whole “probably” thing. it’s the game he likes!! the small victories!!

He turned back. Laurent was wasting a precious few seconds re-judging the distance. Damen suddenly realised that ‘probably’ did not mean ‘definitely’, and that in answering Damen’s question, Laurent had calmly given a truthful assessment of his own abilities. Damen felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Laurent jumped; it was a long way, and things like height mattered, as did the propulsion that came from muscle power. He landed badly. Damen instinctively grabbed hold of him and felt Laurent surrender his weight to Damen’s grasp, clutching at him. He’d had the wind knocked out of him by the railing of the balcony. He didn’t resist when Damen hauled him up and over, nor did he immediately pull away, just stood breathless in Damen’s arms.

some real catlike behavior from laurent here

Damen suppressed the urge to groan. The whole length of Laurent’s body was flush against his own, thigh against thigh, chest against chest. Breathing was dangerous. Damen needed, increasingly, to interpose a safe distance between their bodies, to push Laurent forcefully away, and couldn’t. Laurent, oblivious, shifted slightly, to look behind himself and view the proximity of the shutter. Stop moving around, Damen almost said; only some thin thread of self-preservation prevented him from speaking aloud. Laurent shifted again, having seen, as Damen saw, no way for them to squeeze out of hiding without giving themselves away. And then Laurent said, in a very quiet, very careful voice, ‘This is . . . not ideal.'

i love how laurent is entirely oblivious here. he’s doing 5d chess in his head while damen’s just trying not to moan

That was an understatement. They were hidden from Volo, but they could be seen very clearly from the other balcony, and the men pursuing them were somewhere in the inn by now. And there were other imperatives.

HMMMM damen what kind of imperatives do you mean??? want to share with the class???

‘Stay back, old man. It isn’t your business. This is the Prince of Vere.’ ‘But—I only paid three coppers for him,’ said Volo, sounding confused.

Damen felt Laurent start shaking against him, and realised that, silently, helplessly, he was laughing. There came the sound of at least two more sets of footsteps striding into the room, greeted with: ‘Here he is. We found him fucking this derelict, disguised as the tavern prostitute.’ ‘This is the tavern prostitute. You idiot, the Prince of Vere is so celibate I doubt he even touches himself once every ten years. You. We’re looking for two men. One was a barbarian soldier, a giant animal. The other was blond. Not like this boy. Attractive.’ ‘There was a blond lord’s pet downstairs,’ said Volo. ‘Brained like a pea and easy to hoodwink. I don’t think he was the Prince.’ ‘I wouldn’t call him blond. More like mousy. And he wasn’t that attractive,’ said the boy, sulkily. The shaking, progressively, had worsened. ‘Stop enjoying yourself,’ Damen murmured. ‘We’re going to be killed, any minute.’ ‘Giant animal,’ said Laurent. ‘Stop it.’

i love how we got from book 1 to this exact moment, and like we really GOT here. it feels earned. like this wouldn’t be nearly as funny or rewarding to read if it stood alone. nothing too insightful to say here, this just makes me happy :)

He found himself laughing a little breathlessly, and saw his expression twinned on Laurent’s face. Laurent’s blue eyes were full of mischief.

<3

‘I think we’re safe,’ said Damen. ‘Somehow, no one saw us.’ ‘But I told you. It’s the game I like,’ said Laurent, and with the toe of his boot he deliberately pushed a loose roof tile until it slid off the rooftop and shattered in the street below. ‘They’re on the roof!’ came the call from below.

CAT. BEHAVIOR.

Laurent sent another roof tile into the street, aimed this time. From below, a yelp of alarm.

this entire scene supports my “modern au laurent is a gamer” agenda

‘Wait. It’s too exposed. You stand out, in this light. Your mousy hair’s like a beacon.’

HA he’s quoting the house boy!

Damen felt it then, the first dizzy edge of new emotion, and he let go his hold of Laurent like a man fearing a precipice; and yet was helpless.

i like how this wave of Oh No I Have Feelings comes from laurent being clever and competent, rather than blonde and pretty. it really speaks to damen’s true values—he might be a lot more sexually motivated than laurent, but he really does see and care for him as a person first. we just don’t hear that in words, because his point of view lacks the self-awareness to spell it out for us. but he does have the awareness to remark, often, that laurent is very pretty.

He said, ‘We can’t. Didn’t you hear it, earlier? They’ve split up.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I mean if the idea is to lead them on a merry chase through the town so that they don’t follow your messenger, it’s not working. They’ve split their attention.’ ‘I,’ said Laurent. He was gazing at Damen. ‘You have very good ears.’

oooh a moment where damen fully knows something laurent doesn’t! and his knowledge directly ensures the success of laurent’s plan! laurent won’t admit this outright, though, and will only settle on a half-compliment. instead of saying that damen saved them both by noticing, he just tells damen that he only knows better because he has good ears.

‘If I wanted to escape,’ said Damen, ‘I could have tonight. While you bathed. While you slept.’ ‘I know that,’ said Laurent.

they make me crazyyyy

‘You can’t be in two places at once,’ said Damen. ‘We need to separate.’ ‘It’s too important,’ said Laurent. ‘Trust me,’ said Damen. Laurent looked at him for a long moment without speaking. ‘We’ll wait for you for a day at Nesson,’ Laurent said, eventually. ‘After that, catch up.’

1) oh, you KNOW laurent fully accepted that this was goodbye. he has zero expectation for damen to come back.

2) BUT he does trust damen to curb the people after the messenger, which is by his own admission a very important task.

in other words, laurent knows and trusts that damen will do the right thing here—he just doesn’t consider coming back to him (laurent) to be the right thing for damen to do. laurent doesn’t trust anyone to stay by his side without an ulterior motive—least of all damen, who he spent 13+ chapters antagonizing.

damen, meanwhile, means every word he says here. this is no longer just about loyalty to akielos from afar—if it was, he could protect the messenger and then go his own way, just as laurent expects.

but damen isn’t even thinking of doing that. his loyalty to laurent has become its own driving force. i don’t think damen quite knows or accepts this yet—he only recently admitted to himself that he’s attached to laurent at all—but i’m pretty sure it’ll click when he throws a sword at laurent’s would-be killer in several chapters.

He had no fear for Laurent. He was quite certain that the two men in pursuit of him would be on a fruitless search for half the morning, stumbling along whatever path Laurent’s demented brain thought up for them.

damen you are not immune to following laurent’s demented brain path. just wait until the “hello lover” scene in book 3

The trouble, as Laurent had implicitly acknowledged, was that the remaining pursuers might have peeled off in order to cut down Laurent’s messenger. A messenger who carried the Prince’s seal. A messenger who was important enough that Laurent had risked his own safety on the chance that he would be here waiting, two weeks later, for an overdue rendezvous. A messenger who had worn his beard closely trimmed, in the Patran style.

context: laurent has allies in patras, who he is most likely trying to turn against the regent. it is important to damen (because akielos) and laurent (because no shit) that this message is not only successfully delivered, but also kept away from the regent’s men.

‘Charls. What happened to the men who were here?’ ‘They left, and then two of them returned to the inn to ask questions. They must have learned what they wanted because they rode out of here. Perhaps a quarter of an hour ago.’ ‘They rode?’ said Damen, his stomach sinking.

context: they’re chasing the messenger already, and surprise! they’re on horses. damen will not be able to catch up on foot.

Charls had a very good horse. Catching up to a rider in a long chase was not difficult if you knew how to do it: you could not ride full pelt. You had to choose a steady pace that your horse could sustain, and hope that the men you were chasing burned their own mounts out in a burst of early enthusiasm, or were riding inferior horses. It was easier when you knew the horse, knew exactly what it was capable of. Damen didn’t have that advantage, but the bay of Charls the merchant set off at a good clip, shook his muscular neck and implied that he was capable of anything.

i love the occasional reminders that damen is intelligent, well-practiced, and intuitive. he’s not a himbo, he can just seem that way when he’s partnered with laurent! in fact, i almost see damen as having better practical sense than laurent. most of damen’s thinking is expressed through action, while laurent often prevents himself from acting intelligently because he’s so stuck in his own head. it’s like the thing with the grate in the wall: laurent puzzling over how to solve it, while damen just rips it from the plaster.

also i’m picturing cartoon spurs over the riders’s heads in the part about horse stamina. like in zelda games. and now i have the horse race music from ocarina of time stuck in my head

There were increasingly huge protuberances of granite heaving up on either side, like the bones of the landscape showing through the soil.

craft note: love this description

He was lucky, at first. The sun was not yet at the midpoint of the sky when he overtook the two men. He was lucky to have chosen the right road. He was lucky that they had not conserved their sweat-lathered horses, and that when they saw him, instead of splitting up or pushing their exhausted horses forward, they wheeled and turned, wanting to fight. He was lucky they didn’t have bows.

craft note: the repetition works super well here

Or try to. Damen had crowded his mount, causing a minor commotion among the horses, which Damen weathered, but the man did not. He detached from the saddle, but unlike his friend managed to quickly scramble up and try to run for it—again—this time across the countryside. Whoever was paying him obviously wasn’t paying him enough to stand and fight, at least not without the odds heavily skewed in his favour.

dungeons and dragons-ass encounter Damen dragged him up. ‘Who sent you?’ The man was silent. His pasty skin was patched over with white fear. Damen judged the best way to get him to talk. The blow snapped the man’s head to one side, and blood welled and spilled from his split lip. ‘Who sent you?’ said Damen. ‘Let me go,’ said the man. ‘Let me go, and you might have time to save your Prince.’

love how this rando immediately clocked that damen took this detour to beat him up because he cares specifically about “his” prince. yeah it’s probably more to do with the overall sense of loyalty displayed by the prince’s men, but still. he said “I Know What You Are.”

And that was when the man started talking, and Damen realised he was not lucky at all. He looked up again at the position of the sun, then he looked around himself at the vast, empty terrain. He was half a day’s hard ride away from Nesson, and he no longer had a fresh horse. I’ll wait for you for a day at Nesson, Laurent had said. He was going to be too late.

honestly i’m not sure what else he could have done. he told laurent he was going to protect the messenger, but at the time they hadn’t known about the horses. it was a miscalculation. either damen would have had to abandon the messenger in order to make it in time, or end up running late

[theheirofthesharingan]

Hii!! What are your thoughts on those who say Itachi is a terrible person and on this opinion?? I know you love him so I would like to know your thoughts on this .

I have no opinions on his haters, except for the fact that I want them to keep their hate boner for him in their pants and the relevant tags and not slip into my notes, which unfortunately doesn't happen, because haters think their hatred for a morally grey anime boy makes them morally superior, and they can't fall asleep unless they have broadcasted this everywhere in the world. I've seen haters invade the most normal posts about him to express how agonized they are because people love a character they hate. Who'd tell them the world doesn't revolve around their hatred for one character? Give it a break already. You're allowed to hate him or whatever but stop acting like a prick and let people have fun without getting offended.

As to the opinion that he's a "terrible person."

Sighs.

People have a hard time separating a character's motivations/actions with his intent. When you're analyzing any character, there are two factors to be considered — Reason and Consequences. Itachi is judged based on the consequences of his actions rather than his reasoning behind them. Everything else, except for the character in question and his feelings, is secondary in his analysis. This fandom makes everything else primary when it analyzes Itachi, whereas his own experiences and trauma aren't taken into account. If he hadn't lived the life he did, his, the clan's, and eventually Sasuke's fates would have been completely different.

If he wasn't taken to the battlefield when he was four, he wouldn't have developed the desire to end the conflict in the first place. He might have been able to preserve his innocence a little bit longer.

If he wasn't sent to Anbu at the age of 10, or if Danzo tried to persuade his family and his family refused, he wouldn't have witnessed the darkness that consumed him slowly.

If Shisui hadn't died he would have one person he could rely on.

If his clan didn't consider him a traitor he might not have lost it either.

If his family hadn't given up on him after Shisui's death, MAYBE things wouldn't have gone as bad for anyone.

Not only the way the village treated him but also he way the clan treated him made it impossible for Itachi to put his trust in anyone.

He didn't choose any of this to happen to himself. These things did and he drew into himself, entirely incapable of trusting other people. So, if I'm analyzing Itachi's character his experiences and feelings are to be prioritized first and foremost.. The consequences come later on, the primary factor is always the reason behind his actions. Not just for Itachi, but for every character who falls in the same category that Itachi does.

Ah, yes... Itachi is so terrible as a person that —

When he saw war happening in front of him, dead bodies, pain on the faces of the dead, his first instinct was to stop this destruction instead of letting this to be their future.

When a bunch of seniors came to bully him (in the novel) clearly with the intent of violence against him, he chose not to fight with them, even though none of them stood no chance against him.

Whatever horrible thing he did — murdering his clan or destroying Sasuke's life — he didn't expect any redemption or forgiveness even if his parents would have forgiven him and Sasuke also forgave him. In canon, it's impossible to change his mind about his self-loathing. He took the responsibility of his actions and lived and died with it.

When he returned as Edo Tensei, he chose to protect people because he knew war was hell. You could argue he was under the influence of kotoamatsukami. But someone in complete control of kotoamatsukami wouldn't be disgusted with Kabuto for doing something that broke grieving hearts of the loved ones of the dead again, making people go through the agony they'd once witnessed. What kind of terrible person feels this way?

When he learned Kabuto was also used by the Shinobi world, just like he was, instead of leaving Kabuto in Sasuke's care, entrusting him to kill Kabuto, Itachi chose to save his life.

Anyone who came closer to knowing Itachi, who had nothing to do with the village or anything, couldn't help but respect and admire him, despite him being a renowned criminal. Kisame, Killer Bee, etc., for example. It's a pity that very few people did and those who did never bothered to know the truth behind the massacre. And the others were dead.

Itachi wasn't a bad person. He was placed in the terrible circumstances that demanded him to make decisions. If his life had been teensy bit easier or if he'd had someone to support and guide him, he would have been more aware of his own faults, weaknesses, and tried to find a different path to handle the same situations. Just because he took the moral responsibility of his actions doesn't mean he was the only one responsible for the mess. He seems to be in complete denial of his trauma and sufferings, which is why we never see him blaming others. He, too, judged himself for the horrible things he'd done, and that was why he wanted to die at Sasuke's hands to avenge the clan or be hated by Sasuke forever.

[cynda-queer]

OC SMASH OR PASS

Rules: Pretty self explanatory, include physical descriptions or pics, and propaganda. The “other” label can be used for if you aren’t into smashing for any reason, but you want to do a specific thing to them like perhaps a hug, studying them under a microscope, etc.

tagged by @full---ofstarlight

Rapid Fire Stats:

Name: Zu’zu Duhawl

Height: 6’ 0” (don’t fucking at me)

Age: 30 (Dawntrail MSQ)

Sexuality: Gay

Gender: Nonbinary

Race: Keeper of the Moon Mi’qote

Star Sign: Born under Rhalgar (but he’s a Virgo)

Son of Ala Mhigan resistance fighters, he was raised in Southern Thanalan after his parents left him there. At the behest of his mentor, he left home to study in Old Sharlayan where he met the grandchildren of Archon Louisoix and formed a fast friendship with the twins. After completing his initial studies with the Studium, he returned home to Eorzea to put his knowledge to practical use before being involved in ordeal after ordeal after ordeal. He's seen the world. And places beyond.

Pros:

- A Capital-F Flirt

- As any good musician is, he’s very good with his mouth and hands ;)

- A bard by trade, he knows how to fill quiet with stories and songs that stir the senses and soul

- One for a good joke, even at his own expense (sometimes especially at his own expense)

- A fiercely loyal companion once his loyalty is earned (can and will go to the ends of the universe for you [ex. Shadowbringers. And Endwalker. And Dawntrail. Damn, do we have a pattern, Yoshi P?])

- Easily talked into a lot of things and will do whatever stupid, impulsive, or dangerous thing you want to do if he doesn't suggest them himself

Cons:

- The most emotional emotionally unavailable man you will ever meet

- Insists that he does not do long-term relationships (which, like, I guess could be a good or bad thing depending on what you’re looking for?)

- Vain. Like so vain. His hair is everything to him and you are NOT allowed to touch it (He found out about those 17+ step skin care routines in Solution Nine and it changed everything)

- Very low self-preservation instinct and it’s only gotten lower over time (He’s god’s specialist little princess, she won’t let him die, so why should he be careful?

Tagging: @keclan @goreador @fluffy-fern and anyone else who wants to do it! (please tag me, I want to see your OCs)

[ell-vellan]

WIP Wednesday

My first little BG3 drabble as I get used to everyone's voice! Not sure if I'll go anywhere with this, but it's fun to play around.

Summary: Folk hero Tav (Safiel) frustrates Astarion to no end. One evening, she asks him why.

Tagging if anyone has anything to share! @thebookworm0001 @shretl (happy birthday! 🎈) @thegoblinwitchqueen I consistently forget which of my mutuals is a writer/artist so if you want to share something, please do and tag me in it so I can see/remember!

---

"Astarion, why does it bother you that I help people?"

Astarion startled out of his book. The silly little half-elf was looking over at him with those unsettling, mismatched eyes of hers. He tittered. "Oh, my dear, I'm quite certain you don't want my honest opinion."

But she was undeterred. "By all means, go ahead. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."

Astarion sighed shortly and snapped his book shut. For all her ditzy naiveté and sickeningly sweet do-goodedness, the girl had let him tag along with her and the snooty cleric and the fearsome githyanki, increasing his odds of survival at least a tad. She'd been a useful tool so far, hadn't blinked when he fessed up to being a vampire after she'd caught him (almost) red-handed, and had even offered her neck willingly with that wide-eyed conviction of the young and foolhardy who haven't yet learned how the world works.

He studied her for a moment. She never seemed put off by his fits of temper, even when he was trying to annoy her. Either she was just that dense, or she had incredibly poor survival instincts, which seemed an unlucky trait for a druid.

If he hadn't needed a source of fresh blood and someone to watch his back out here in the sunlight, he wouldn't have thought twice about slitting her throat. Even after he quite nearly gutted her, she had acted as though he'd behaved with perfectly reasonable self-preservation, and forgiven him immediately. 

But she was going to earn herself – and worse, him – a knife in the back if she didn't learn. And quickly.

Fool child. It rubbed him the wrong way.

And yet...

"My dear, simply that there are a million reasons why we should not waste what very little tentacle-free time we may have left on the plights of strangers, and I cannot think of a single reason why we should."

"We seem fairly tentacle-free so far. And if I happen upon someone who could use my help, why wouldn't I at least try?"

He gaped at her, flabbergasted. "Why wouldn't you – perhaps it has crossed your mind that we are risking our lives for random passers-by who could not be arsed to give a single shit about us in return? Fine, fine, do a few jobs if you need coin, if you must. But for free?"

She just looked at him placidly, a little smile on her face that annoyed him. "I had a wildcat once. A kitten, really – I found him, orphaned and half dead. He bit me when I tried to heal him, and bit me every time I fed him. But I didn't mind. I knew that to him, I was very big, and he was very small and scared, and he was only doing what he felt he needed to do to survive. I chose to help him even knowing I would be bitten, and scratched, and that perhaps he would never come to see me as a friend no matter how much kindness I showed him. But I couldn't walk away from something in pain knowing I could do something to ease it."

Astarion glared at her, but she either didn't notice or didn't care. "Is there a point to this frustratingly saccharine monologue, or can I return to my book?"

"You remind me of him," she quipped, a teasing glint in her eye when he, predictably, glowered at the comparison. 

"I am the disheveled bitey kitten you scooped up and fed scraps to? My dear, your analogy has a few holes."

Safiel laughed and tossed another branch into the fire. "I know. I didn't say it was perfect, only that you reminded me of him."

"Darling, I am no one's pet."

"He was never my pet. He was a wild creature. When he was well enough, he fled back to the woods where he belonged. I never planned nor attempted to tame him."

He eyed her suspiciously. "You see, this is precisely my point. Did you never think that perhaps one day, the fully grown wildcat you so lovingly wasted your energy on would pounce out of a tree and make you its dinner?"

"Of course I considered that. But should that day come, it would only be acting according to its nature. And if I couldn't defend myself, it would be fully within its rights to eat me."

Astarion glared. "You may not mind taking foolish risks with your life. In fact, I would encourage it! If my own fate was not so terribly twisted up with yours."

Safiel shrugged. "You're free to continue on your own way whenever you like, Astarion. I don't mind that you disagree with me. And I understand your reasoning better now – thank you for answering my question. I'll do better to consider that lives other than my own are also at stake here, and take your point of view into account in the future."

Well, Astarion did not know quite what to do with that. He couldn't remember the last time someone had thanked him for his opinion, or promised to take it under advisement. Not honestly, at least. 

"I don't want to take actions that others are uncomfortable with. Everyone has their opinions on the best course of action. But we all have the same very dire problem, so I hope we can find a way to work together. And to help each other."

Gods, she was so ready to believe they could all be a happy little family. And he truly believed her to be perfectly truthful about all of this.

What fairytale grove had she come from where life was all sunshine and rainbows? 

Astarion threw up his hands, book clutched in one of them, and made a frustrated sound. "Well, yes, I would agree to that. Our odds are certainly better together. If we don't spend our remaining hours saving kittens and starving little orphans."

Safiel had the gall to laugh. She inspected a branch in her hand, stripping off the leaves idly. "A reasonable request. But let me ask you – isn't it just as likely that one day, we may come to need help, and someone else may come along to offer it without expectation of reward? That the good we do now for others may find its way back to us?"

Astarion sputtered, speechless with outrage. "No!"

Safiel grinned at him. "Then you have not spent much time around druids, I imagine."

She actually winked at him. Then stood, brushed off her knees, and sashayed away to chat with Shadowheart, still smiling. 

"Ridiculous," Astarion muttered, rolling his eyes as he opened his book again. His eyes tracked her retreating form, wondering if people this empty-headed actually survived into adulthood, or if it was some sort of long con she was playing. If the latter, he had never seen such a good actor. "Absolutely absurd. Going to get us all killed, that naive child."

But still…he snuck one last glance up at her from beneath his lashes, scowling, wondering. 

[frutavel]

i saw you tagged an oc named samaela on my post. who are they im curious. please share with the class 👀

(aka “i made that post about a character archetype i love and getting to hear about new characters that fit that archetype is literally the best case scenario for me”)

Oh hi for the love of god hello!!!

This is Samaela. My babygirl. I desperately wish I had more recent art of her to share, but alas I don't. A quick scroll through my blog also shows that Most of the posts I've made talking about her are also a few years old and outdated at this point but rest assured I think about her Constantly.

Samaela is a World of Warcraft OC, and also one of my oldest OCs in general regardless of fandom/universe. Long story short, she's a Forsaken hunter with little to no memory of her past life but Vivid memory of her death (by werewolf) and a history of making bad decisions in the name of Living Deliciously.

She was resurrected post Death By Werewolf, and the process caused her to Become Werewolf. Sorta. She's a weird little fiend and an abomination even by undead standards, which leads to her necromancer running All Sorts of Tests and Experiements. Now those aren't as bad or nefarious as they sound, really, but Samaela gets tired of being a science project pretty quick, so she moves as far away from her necromancer as she can, makes a few friends and enters a 2-ish year long situationship with her Boybestfriend, during which she indulges in many bad habits such as hunting living humans for sport and eating them, which garners her a reputation for being vicious and needlessly cruel. She regrets some of it sometimes, mostly she doesn't care, and gets off mostly scotch free because she's very good at weaving stories that paint her in a good light, and her folks don't like humans anyway. Which just emboldens her.

(Here seen with her Boybestfriend, Tari, my other babygirl, after a bad hunt)

Eventually her Boybestfriend has to leave, and she is Very Sad about it but they part amicably. Unfortunately having her voice of reason and only person whom she trusted in this whole wide world move away makes her Worse. She continues to be Very Good At Lying, but still ends up in trouble with the authorities a handful of times, some friends turn their back on her as a result and she makes self preservation her number one priority. This leads to a sleuth of Decisions which eventually end up putting the life of someone at risk, someone Very Important to her Boybestfriend, and once he finds out their relationship cracks even more. She jumps to anger and resentment straight on and continues to push people away and make more Choices, until her own life is put at risk and she's forced to rethink.

Currently she's at this rethinking stage. She doesn't regret most of the things she did, but she regrets the things that affected her personally. Empathy is a hard concept for her to grasp, but she's willing to make an effort for her own sake. At her core she still wants to survive above all else, and if that means letting people help her..... well, she doesn't like it but she'll think about it.

Samaela is Difficult, and she will never not be. She needs a strong support system to help her, but unfortunately the mere thought of letting her walls down and being vulnerable makes her sick. She is hard to get along with and harder to like.... but a handful of people have gone through the effort it takes to love her all the same. That's enough for now to keep her from spiraling more, but her fate is very uncertain. She has many amends to make and she's not exactly willing to make all of them, but her self preservation instinct is so strong it might as well push her in that direction even if just to keep herself alive.

Despite her many Ls she has many Ws. Women want her. Men fear her. She fucks hard and nasty. She makes dioramas in her spare time. She is surprisingly good at keeping people safe. She likes the color green so much she always has at least One green acessory on her at all times. She's not very good at swimming but still loves the beach. She has a gender that can be best described as Indescribable. Woman, but watch out. She can also pretty effectively communicate with her hunting dogs due to her mutations, and her insides are so rancid due to the Experiments that getting bitten by her in an immediate death sentence, and she is quite fond of biting. Because of this some have taken to calling her Plaguehound <3

As for her previous life.... well that's a whole other mess. All I'll say is that she has two living siblings, one who hasn't given up looking for her, but neither one would recognize her now, and it's unlikely she'd recognize them either. She barely remembers enough about her human life to know her name, much less about her family.

In fact, she has met her older sister in the past. It didn't end well for the sister in question. Dog fights are gnarly 💖

[applepato]

Here’s a lil something I wrote for this year’s May Trope Mayhem! I’ve been meaning to do something for this challenge all month and now I’ve finally finished my college project so I can focus more on writing :]

Fandom: Sanders Sides Tags: analogical, virgil is a vampire, biting, kissing Prompt: Vampiric Feeding Wordcount: 1312 AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47175820

“Virgil?” Logan called, voice echoing through the seemingly-empty apartment. “Are you here?”

It was a stupid question, really, Logan thought. Being a vampire, Virgil was unable to go outdoors during the day, for fear of becoming a pile of ash by the side of the road, and from what  Logan could tell, Virgil didn’t leave all that much during the night either. He preferred to get deliveries from the local butcher shop rather than seek out a more lively source of food.

That was one of the reasons Logan hadn’t immediately run for the hills upon realising his roommate was a vampire - that and the way his eyes glowed softly, drawing Logan's gaze wherever he went...

Logan shook himself out of his musings with a frown. Now was not the time to be daydreaming.

“Virgil?” he called again, knocking on his roommate’s door. “Are you okay? I was going to watch March of the Penguins, would you like to join-”

The door burst open and Logan jumped back, startled.

His roommate stood in front of him, wearing ripped black jeans and a black tank top in place of his usual hoodie. Logan carefully didn’t stare at the vampire’s exposed skin and forced himself to meet his eyes. His eyes that were- exhausted.

Deep black shadows hung underneath his eyes and, for once, Logan didn’t think there was any makeup involved. Even the bright purple of his irises seemed more dull than normal. He swayed slightly on the spot, his naturally pale skin almost translucent in the faint light shining from the closed hallway curtains.

Logan put his hands out as if to steady Virgil, and said, alarmed, “Virgil? Are you quite alright?”

“Oh, hey Logan. Yeah, I’m okay- just-” he shuddered a bit, “Just hungry.”

Logan widened his eyes. “You haven’t eaten? Wait here, I will get you some-”

“There isn’t any.” Virgil interrupted.

“What do you mean? Surely, there should be some left over from Friday’s delivery.”

Virgil shook his head. “There wasn’t a delivery on Friday. James texted me saying there was a delay and that I’d have to wait till next week. I thought I had enough in the freezer but there’s none left.”

"Shit.”

Despite his state, Virgil laughed. “Yep, that about sums it up.”

Logan’s brain was whirring, running through all the possible options and discarding them just as fast.

Logan could go out and buy some blood? Nope, it was 5pm on a Saturday, the butcher’s wouldn’t open again until Monday.

Virgil could just wait until then? No, Virgil had told Logan that vampires could only last around three days at most without eating and any longer than twenty-four hours could be detrimental to their health, as demonstrated by the shaky man standing in front of him.

…Virgil could go out and hunt? Logan shuddered. Virgil would never. And anyway, aside from the obvious moral issue, Virgil was in no fit state to do that at the moment.

Fresh animal blood was always a possibility, however wild animals would be exceptionally difficult to catch for a sick vampire and domesticated animals were not an option.

Ah.

Logan had a solution.

“Bite me,” he said bluntly.

“What? Logan, no-”

Logan interrupted him, looking right into his eyes, “Virgil, the next chance you will have to get blood will be Monday morning, and with your current state, I sincerely doubt you will make it that far. At least, not without serious damage to your physical health.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, his self-preservation instincts were screaming at him to stop offering himself up on a figurative platter to a hungry vampire, but the louder part of his mind was inexplicably focused on the sheen of sweat across Virgil’s face and the slight tremors running through his body. This was logical. This would save Virgil and come at little cost to himself.

Provided Virgil was able to control himself.

Well, no time to back out now; Virgil still seemed unsure but he nodded slowly and muttered a small, “Okay.”

He gestured into his room. “Should we- Maybe it would be best to do it in here? You’ll be able to sit down on the bed if you need.”

The two entered Virgil’s room and turned to face each other. Virgil was close enough that Logan could count the freckles dusting his cheeks. Or he would’ve been able to had he not been distracted by trying to keep his breathing even.

“And you’re sure you’re okay with this?”

Logan nodded, cleared his throat, and said, “Yes. This is the logical solution.”

“Right,” Virgil took a breath - out of habit rather than necessity. “It might hurt a bit, just at first.”

And he stepped closer, until they were only inches apart. Logan hadn’t really noticed the height difference between the two of them until now. Virgil’s mouth exactly lined up with Logan's neck.

The sensation of Virgil cupping his hand around the back of Logan’s neck surprised him, goosebumps tingling across his skin. Virgil moved his head closer, opened his mouth and sank his teeth into Logan’s skin.

A small gasp escaped Logan’s mouth as Virgil’s needle-sharp teeth pierced him. Although he had expected the pain, a warning wasn’t enough to dim the shock.

A moment passed and Logan began to feel a tugging sensation in his neck. It didn’t hurt anymore; if anything, it was bordering on pleasant. Logan supposed that was an evolutionary tactic to keep prey from struggling too much.

Logan didn’t struggle.

He let Virgil push him gently back into the wall behind them. Without thinking, he placed his hands on the shorter man’s waist, tugging him closer until they were pressed together. It may have been Logan’s imagination, but he could’ve sworn as his own body was drained of warmth, Virgil’s usual chill seemed to lessen slightly.

And just as lightheadedness began to creep up on him, Virgil pulled away. Logan swayed for a moment and his roommate caught his arm, worry clear in his violet eyes.

“I’m sorry, did I go too far?” There was an edge of panic to his voice.

Logan shook his head, although he did let Virgil guide him to the bed where he sat down gratefully. Virgil took a seat next to him and asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Logan offered a smile.

Virgil nodded, although he still seemed unsure of himself. There was a silence, broken only by the tapping of Virgil’s fingers; a full meal always left him with a burst of energy.

Logan couldn’t help but admire the vampire, so different from the person who had opened the door fifteen minutes ago. His face, although still much paler than Logan’s, was tinged pink, his eyes were glowing a soft iridescent purple, and he just seemed stronger. Less likely to blow away in a summer breeze.

Virgil turned towards him and, before he could think about the absurdity of what he was about to do, Logan leaned forward and kissed him.

It barely lasted a few seconds before Logan came to his senses and pulled back. “I apologise,” he said quickly, “I should have-”

He broke off as Virgil surged forward and met his lips with just as much enthusiasm as Logan himself. Logan’s mind went static-blank for a second before his brain caught up with the current situation.

The taste of iron inevitably met his tongue, his own blood sweetened by the delicate touch of Virgil’s mouth. Virgil put one hand on Logan’s waist and the other behind his neck, fingers accidentally brushing the bite mark in a way that made Logan shiver.

It was a long moment of overwhelming sensation before the two finally broke apart. Virgil smiled shyly. “Thank you. For, you know, letting me bite you.”

Logan smiled back as he realised he really wouldn’t mind being bitten again.

[enbyonmandalore]

Tear Me Apart

Din Djarin x afab!reader

Rating: NSFW 18+

Word count: ~2630

Warnings: penetrative sex, unprotected sex (don't be a fool, wrap that tool!!), choking, gagging, picture of the position they're in at the very bottom, gender neutral language but female body parts are explicitly mentioned, the helmet stays on!

Summary: P*rn without plot. Pure filth. Basically Din Djarin destroying his machanic's pussy.

A/N: Have some filth for Valentine's Day, folks... There is a separate version for all the amab!readers out there! Check the tags to find it easily!

___________________________________________________________

Tear Me Apart

"So you're telling me how to fly my ship?", the Mandalorian asks in a tone that sends an ice cold shiver down your spine. You roll your eyes.

"I'm telling you what is good for your ship.", you retaliate, crossing your arms in front of your chest. "This thing is bound to fall apart if you don't at least try to fly more carefully!"

In hindsight, you probably should have tried to control your temper, but this man was driving you nuts. No wonder he'd been looking for a mechanic to take on missions with him... His ship is a shit show of second-hand parts and in a constant state of disrepair.

The Mandalorian in his silver armor steps closer, lifting a finger to your face.

"I didn't hire you for advice, I hired you to fix things."

"Get your finger out of my face", you hiss, "Or I-"

Or I just might quit, is what you want to say - an empty threat. Of course you don't want to quit. He pays well, usually honors your skills and to be honest with yourself, you had begun to find his strong-and-silent type of character very pleasing lately. There is just something about this guy, but you can't quite put your finger on it.

"Or you what?", he interrupts you. His stupid finger is still on one level with your face...

"I think you know.", you say with a glare and move his hand away from yourself as gently as you can.

"That's not a kriffing answer.", the Mandalorian replies and steps even closer.

Without thinking any further, you shove him out of the way and shoot him another glare. You just want to get back to work and forget about this silly interaction with this stupid Mandalorian.

But he doesn't let you get far. You're able to take two steps, before he grabs your shoulder and spins you back around, taking you by surprise. Your self-preservation instinct kicks in and you duck, slamming your open palms into his torso to keep a distance.

What he says next, though, completely knocks the wind out of you.

"You wouldn't quit. I notice the way you look at me."

He what-

Oh no.

And it gets worse. "You really think all your staring has gone unnoticed? I'm not blind, you know?"

You gulp. Suddenly it feels like there is no oxygen left in the Razor Crest's hull. Your body doesn't respond to your urge to leave this part of the ship and retreat to your tiny bunk. He sighs.

"And I'm not deaf either."

You're still frozen in shock. You should have known, you should have kriffing known.

The Razor Crest isn't exactly sound proof, but night after night you had done your best to keep quiet. Yes, you touched yourself at night or when he was gone and thought of him and the things you wished he'd do to you. Being in a small space with only one other person for a long time does things to your mind... You had sworn to yourself to never admit to him how much you like him, but it seems like saying it out loud is no longer necessary.

What happens next doesn't exactly compute in your brain - Mando is way too close. So close you imagine you can feel his breath on you. What is going on?

"And don't think that these feelings haven't been getting to me, too. I'm a lonely man. But I need you to shut up and get back to fixing the ship."

"Make me, then." You can't stop the absolute no-brainer of a sentence from leaving your mouth. Regret immediately starts flooding your chest. Fuck.

But once again, the Mandalorian's response takes you by surprise.

"Fine. I guess you'll get what you want."

With ease, he picks you up by the shoulders and sets you down on a storage crate. The next moments pass in a blur as your boots are yanked off, your pants following soon after, thrown into a corner of the ship. Din Djarin helps you remove your shirt and it too is tossed aside. The anticipation and arousal swirling in your stomach drown out the cold of the metal crate you sit on as you carefully watch the Mandalorian remove part after part of his beskar armor. Not once does he take his eyes off of you, you can feel it.

He steps closer and this time you neither flinch nor move away. He is standing between your legs and you nearly swallow him whole with your gaze. Even without most of the armor he looks imposing. He is so broad.

With a shaky hand you reach out to him and touch his arm, squeezing it lightly. Din mirrors your gesture and brings his hands to your sides and your breath hitches as they sweep up and down your sides in a surprisingly tender way. That's when you notice something else pressing against your bare body. Din Djarin's bulge pulses ever so slightly as he presses it between your legs and you can feel the heat he is emitting through his flight suit.

"What do you want me to do?", Din asks in a low gravelly voice.

"Take me the way you want." The words slip out of your mouth before you can form a logical thought. The Mandalorian's helmet tilts to the side, then he nods. Okay.

He closes in even further and you spread your legs just a little more, pushing your hips forward to press against him. As Din's hands slide down to your ass, you reach for the outline of his cock bulging against the fabric. He feels huge. The moment you start palming him, Din's fingers dig into the flesh of your ass. The imagery of him in your head makes your mouth water. You need him and you need him more than you thought.

Without warning, Din Djarin lifts you up one more time and presses your back against the freezing hull of the ship. A whine escapes your mouth and your eyes widen. But his body heat and the fact that he is now actively rubbing his erect cock against your core make up for the cold.

You can hear him breathe heavily through the vocoder.

The Mandalorian sets you down, put doesn't stop groping at your body. His hands explore every inch of your skin, prodding at your entrance until you're soaking wet. He groans lewdly and takes a step back, you follow. You manage to find the zipper to his flight suit and open it; Din's hand steadily guiding yours as the lower part of his suit drops to his knees. His hard cock feels hot in your hand as you pull it out of his undershorts. The gravelly moan that comes through the vocoder as you stroke him does nothing but fuel the arousal that's already threatening to drip down your thighs.

He lays down on his back and grips his cock at the base, giving himself a slow stroke before beckoning you closer. The tip glistens with precum. Instinctively you lick your lips.

"Come on, you can do it", the Mandalorian encourages you as you lower yourself onto him; your back facing him. The flushed tip pushes inside of you at a whole new angle. Suddenly you're scared that he won't fit - but those concerns are washed away quickly.

"Good", he murmurs along with more hushed words of praise as your pussy swallows inch by inch of his length until there is no more left. Just as you are about to look over your shoulder and ask what you should do now, the Mandalorian's gloved hands land on your shoulders, pulling you backwards into an awkward lying position*.

Your legs are spread, but bent at the knees, effectively pushing your heels into the sides of your thighs. Your back is arched over his chest and your head finds a place on his shoulder, his helmet a mere inch from your face.

The beskar is cold to the touch despite you both panting and sweating. It's nice at first, a cool sensation against your cheek and neck, but after a moment it makes the rest of your skin feel even hotter and like it's melting.

Everything is hot and wet.

The sweat on your back soaks through Mando's scrunched up shirt, effectively sticking your exposed bodies together and making an audible squelching noise whenever you move too much.

You can feel little droplets building up on your forehead and running down your temples. You wonder what he feels like under that helmet.

He's got to be suffocating... You could hear his heavy breathing he was trying so hard to control.

But any more thoughts about that are wiped from your brain the moment Din Djarin thrusts his hips up. A startled sound escapes your throat and you quickly press your lips together as he begins moving at a steadier pace, his massive hands holding your hips in place. This is a whole new experience. Every single sensation feels different. Why haven't you done this before?

As Din's hands move over your body it becomes harder and harder to contain the moans building up in your throat. Full of desperation you reach up to grasp at his helmet to ground yourself somehow - only intending to touch it, nothing more. But Din is faster. One of his hands that had just been roaming your body darts forward and intercepts your movement. You find your arms pinned to your torso, with Din's arm locking them in place.

You give it an experimental wiggle, but he doesn't budge.

You swear you can hear him chuckle triumphantly between some grunts.

The complete helplessness makes your body shake in anticipation. You'd never admit it, but you like how much control he has over you right now. His strong arms hold you in place and the feeling of his cock sliding in and out of you make you feel like you're on cloud nine. The edge of sweet release is quickly coming closer.

A tingling sensation brings you back onto this plane of reality and you notice Din has let go of your waist and is instead focusing his attention on your tits. The tips of his fingers ghost over your nipples again, sending shock waves of heat down your spine. At first his touch is feather light, teasing. You wince as he then rolls the hardened buds between his fingers, pinching them in the process.

One of his hands moves down between your legs while the other stays on your chest and fingers begin circling your clit. He slowly drags his gloved fingers along your folds, coating them in your arousal, before returning to your clit. You whine as you feel the arousal building up in your core, like a bomb ready to explode. Your body jerks almost violently as he hits the spot.

"You like that, huh?", he asks teasingly and does it again, getting the same reaction from you, but accompanied by a high-pitched mewl this time.

"I'm s-so close!", you try to warn him.

"Even better", Din says as you feel yourself drift over the edge... The double sensation on your clit and nipples make your core clench tight around him, drawing a deep moan from him. You have no time to prepare for your high, it just happens.

Your body trembles and colorful stars dance in front of your eyes. For a moment it feels like an out-of-body experience and you aren't sure if you're screaming or-

Through the aftershocks of your orgasm you realize that Din is still fucking going, though slower now.

The Mandalorian's hand roams higher, up your chest and across your throat before coming to a halt on your face. He gently caresses your cheek with his thumb, before clamping his hand over your mouth.

"As lovely as you sound, I've been wanting to shut you up like this for some time now. Don't even think I didn't hear-", his sentence is interrupted by a rough grunt, "Hear you moan my name whenever you thought I was away."

A feisty grin sneaks onto your lips, which he couldn't possibly see, but very well feel.

"Oh", he states and stops moving entirely, earning a muffled complaint from you. The tone of his voice meant exactly what you thought it did. He knew.

Lifting the pressure on your lips, you feel Din Djarin turn his head ever so slightly. Hovering his hand over your face he orders: "Take it off."

He slaps your hands away as you lift them to take off his glove. "No hands."

Ah

Another smile spreads on your lips as you open your mouth and tug at the tips of his glove with your teeth. The part covering his index finger budges first, then the middle finger and soon you manage to pull off the whole glove. Din tosses it to the side. You wiggle your hips in a silent plea for him to keep moving, but Din only shakes his head while removing the other glove for you.

"Say it.", he orders and you know what he means.

"Fuck me", you cry.

"Manners"

"Wh- Please fuck me. I need it", you beg and the moment the words leave your mouth, his bare hand covers your mouth once more and he thrusts up into you - hard. White dots dance across the inside of your eyelids.

Your cries and moans now muffled by his calloused palm, the Mandalorian's own moans sound crystal clear.

"You sound even better like this", Din mumbles in between breaths.

And then his other hand lands on your throat, just holding it at first, while you grab his wrists to ground yourself. He lets you, without complaining.

"How's this?", he asks and gives your throat a gentle squeeze. As he does, your core also tightens around him.

Maker-

You inhale sharply -you would have gasped if you could- and signalize an OK with a thumbs up, accompanied by a muffled Yes.

Without further warning, Din Djarin sets a new pace - harsh and desperate. You can hear the way his length thrusts into your pussy getting shamelessly wetter. Din's moans are getting deeper with each move. They start in his chest where you can feel a low rumbling against your back and then become lighter and airier. You imagine him with furrowed brows and gritted teeth...

He slams his cock into you and all you can do is helplessly moan into his palm. It feels so good.

The pressure around your throat disappears and instead Din is toying with your clit.

"I'm- I'm so close", he gasps and you squeeze his wrist in response. You are, too. You're a whining, shaking mess and completely at his mercy, the aftermath of your last orgasm amplifying the sensation even more. Without warning your walls tighten around him and your back arches as you desperately cry out his name.

Din's breath hitches as he cums. You feel him pulsating inside you as his fingers dig into your hips to keep you still. His seed covers every inch of your insides - hot and sticky. You can't help but imagine him cumming elsewhere on your body.

Your legs are shaking and you tremble as Din pulls out. You wince as you notice how empty you feel suddenly. Din lowers you to the floor next to him and if you were able to formulate a sentence right now, you'd probably thank him. But neither of you speak a word for a while.

The Mandalorian turns his head to face you, just as you were about to close your eyes. His gaze lingers.

"Don't-", he interrupts himself, "Just ask next time. Don't get on my nerves like that."

___________________________________________________________

*Okay, so for clarification, this is the position we're talking about:

This fanfiction is property of @enbyonmandalore (Tumblr). I do not own any of the characters associated with the Star Wars franchise. Do not repost/crosspost on other accounts or websites, edit, translate or otherwise change this piece of writing. Rebloging is fine, reposting is not.

[anime-addictt]

Instinctual Variants-2

In the previous post, I did give a brief explanation on why we tag sp, sx, so to our enneagram and what they were, so let’s just go a bit more in depth in that. 

Self-Preservation

This is probably the most rudimentary of all the instincts- the need to protect yourself, your materialistic needs, your immediate relation and surroundings. People leading with this instinct are more likely to: 

Be extremely concerned about the quality of food they eat. They are the types who would most likely keep track of their calorie intake, solely due to the fact that not doing so would jeopardize their health.

Set up a financial plan/ be stingy so that they have enough money to avoid situations that would put their personal needs in trouble

Stay true to the comforts of their life. These people would focus more on their taste, their space, their comfort zone.

They have a very ‘self-interested’ view. ‘Secure yourself before helping others’ is one of their absolute motto.

BOUNDARIES. YOU CANNOT CROSS THEM TILL THEY CHOOSE TO LET YOU IN. 

From the above points provided, you will notice that a huge part of self-preservation is the self. It’s always about what they would get, what they would need, how they would attain something to make themselves secure. It’s not necessary for them to follow all these bullet points. An Sp type can be solely focused on earning money at the cost of their health. Or they could be extremely health conscious to the point that they lavishly spend on the most healthiest protein shake. No matter what they choose to focus on, all of it comes down to protecting themselves by hoarding the resource they believe they lack.

Sp doms can look very different from each other based on their enneagram and their auxiliary function. 

Sp/So usually function in a very business-like manner, due to the social instinct. They make use of their social instinct to secure their basic resources by connecting and interacting with the right people. However, unlike a social dom, they’ll be willing to let go of connections that no longer have a purpose. These types would usually prefer to operate alone, but at the same time wouldn’t really mind grouping up with like-minded people, if it helps them gather resources. 

Some of the most common traits that I have observed in them are: 

They like being with like-minded people who belong to a similar social background. A friend of mine once mentioned how comfortable she was in this group where all of them were the ‘nobodies’ of the class. (Notice that her bonding technique is very focused on finding comfort in people that have a lot in common)

They can easily fit in with a group but, unlike a so-dom, have trouble conforming to everything the group agrees on especially if it is really away from their comfort zone. 

Has weirdly accepted the fact that they’re boring (?) and that it’s okay not to have anything unique about oneself. 

Cannot handle intensity. They don’t understand why anyone in their right mind would run behind intensity. They also agree that many times, their main source of connection with another person is based on how secure they feel with someone, and not based on some random voodoo energy (that’s what they call sx). 

A friend of mine admitted that she was a bit hurt by my way of connecting with people by sx energy since she believes that true form of connection only occurs when people talk and share their like and dislikes. Just walking away from people purely based on intensity is wrong because you never really see them for who they are.  

They remind me of white noise. An ordinary noise in the beginning that grows onto you. Before you realize and understand what it is, you’re comfortably asleep to the softness that it brings. They are weirdly calming.   

Sp/Sx on the other hand, is a lone wolf. Being so-blind makes them the most independent instinctual stacking. Their sx helps them have a very intimate connection with others. However, never expect anything more from the energy that they give off. They can be very nice, but ultimately, if you don’t serve a self-preservative purpose to these people, you’ll be dropped. And not in the nice way like an sp/so would do. They do come off as heartless, self-centered and egocentric, due to being so-blind. 

Some of the most common traits that I have observed in them are:

Not really interested in the groups around them. Nor are they bothered if they can’t fit in. 

Always has an air of indifference around them that is either extremely off putting or excitingly mysterious. 

No matter how distant they are, there’ll be a clear distinction in the way they interact with people who they’re genuinely interested in, and in those they aren’t.

When they actually like someone, 1 out of the 10 wall that are built around them will open up.

They’re boundaries are stronger than the nuclear force attraction. 

The sp/sx in my life are actually pretty confident about their appeal, but at the same time never really go out of their way to display this appeal like an sx dom would, unless they’re extremely sure of it. 

Another interesting thing about my sp/sx friend is that he would never put anything or anyone above his basic needs. For example, if he has a homework due tonight, HE WILL walk out on every single person in that room, without bothering to explain how or why he’s doing it (even if he’s having the most sx-intense moment with someone). 

  He will never approach me or ask me for anything, till I offer to help him. 

They remind me of a pitch black cave. I can’t see anything, but I know there’s a waterfall somewhere deep inside cause I can sense this cool misty breeze. And I eagerly keep searching for it. 

[loveislattes]

1 + 10 = Dark and Primal (Predator/Prey) Kink

Summary: Exactly what the title says!

Warnings: Reader is gender-neutral but does own a vagina, primal kink roleplay, semi-public sex, dom/sub, squirting, multiple orgasms, and dirty talk. Ye have been warned!

A/N: This is the first fic drabble to come from the number prompt game!

Tag List:

@when-the-sun-goes-dark

@underthedark13

@fruitypieq

As always, if you would like to support me, I have a Ko-Fi (here) for donations/tips and I usually have a few slots open for commissions (unless life gets in the way)!

“Tell me something,” A deep, rich voice spoke suddenly, “What’s a darling thing like you doing out here, all alone, so late at night?”

Instantly your head whipped to the side, eyes narrowing to scrutinize the tree line for any sign of the stranger, but found nothing other than darkness in return. You were about ready to continue on your trek and blame it on the sleepless night when the intruder let out a rumbling chuckle, the noise echoing around you in every direction.

Hairs now standing on end, you clutched your bag tighter to your body and asked nervously, “Who-Who’s there?”

“Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”

Your lips suddenly felt too dry, the night too cold, the lamp posts too dim, as you belatedly realized that you’d not seen another person on this sidewalk for way too long. It was just you and this stranger.

“I-I’m just walk-walking,” you stammered pitifully.

Dread pooled in your gut and the sense of being utterly alone and helpless intensified egregiously as one by one all the lamp posts in your line of sight flickered out.

“Ooh fuck,” you whispered.

Finally, your self-preservation instinct kicked in and you took off running. It was a dark night, the moon a sliver in waning crescent and providing almost no light. Every slap of your shoes on the ground felt like a league farther from the man. Even as your heart pounded in your ears and your lungs burned with the taste of blood, you didn’t dare slow down. How far would you have to run? Did you dare take your chances hiding out in the woods?

As soon as hope started to rise, it was quickly dashed back down.

“You humans, so fragile.”

The whispered voice in your ear tore a frantic scream from your throat, fear locking up your legs, sending you tumbling forward. Of course you would fall! It wasn’t until he laughed, a smooth luscious sound, that you realized you were braced tight for an impact that hadn’t come.

“What the…”

When your eyes finally opened, you saw the concrete of the sidewalk uncomfortably close to your face but not touching. And then you were lifted. Darkness shrouded your view as arms tightened around your torso and brought you back to your own two feet. A cool gentle breath caressed the shell of your ear seconds before you felt the familiar shape of a nose against your neck.

“I’m giving you one last chance,” he huffed bemusedly, “Think fast but run faster, little fawn, for it will take all of your abilities to escape me.”

“W-Who are you?!” you gasped out.

As the darkness left your vision and the hands retracted from your sides, he purred almost imperceptibly, “I go by Dark, but you may call me sir.”

Then all at once, you were alone. You hesitantly looked around, eyes wide with fear.

“RUN!”

A fearsome screech of terror scratched your throat raw as you stumbled and took off as quickly as possible. You knew if you stayed on the paved path he’d only catch you just as easily as before. You had to chance the forest.

No matter how quiet you tried to be, it felt like every noise you made called out to him thricefold. Your breaths sounded like alarms in your ears and the forest floor cried out like little spies with every timid step you made.

“Oh little fawn, where might you be?”

“Shit,” you whispered in shock.

How were you ever to evade him? It was obvious he wasn’t human. There was no possible way a human could catch up to you without making noise, could track you so perfectly in a nearly pitch black forest. Of course there were also the insane reflexes, catching you so close to the ground, and his ability to speak clearly to you while being nowhere in sight.

Oh so slowly, you let your guard down as you shuffled carefully through the heavily wooded area and got lost in your thoughts; finding out what he was, felt as important as hiding from him. A soft noise of triumph escaped your lips as you spotted a rather large hollow in the base of a giant tree. Your eyes darted around one last time to make sure you didn’t see anyone before you ducked into the wood shelter.

Just as your back pressed up against the trunk, you heard a twig snap outside. The forest was uncannily quiet, no sound of animals nor wind to impede noises made by either you or him.

“A smart little thing you are, aren’t you?”

Your breath caught as fear slammed your heart into your ribcage like a drum. His voice was close, too close. Another crunch of branches and leaves drew your eyes to the right of your hollow. Even in the darkness of the woods, his black pants stood out against the greens and browns. Your assailant was wearing… suit pants? Despite the silliness of the situation, your nerves only increased as he crept closer and closer to you.

“Where are you?” he sang out lowly.

Hushed humming graced your ears delightfully as he passed you, hands clasped behind his back as if simply taking a nice stroll. You couldn’t control the way your stomach fluttered as the beautiful cadence of his voice filled the hollow. Someone so dangerous shouldn’t sound so inviting.

A quick rush of air released from your lungs as he continued on without incident and relief filled your veins. Head falling back, you let your eyes close and took deep slow breaths.

“It’s adorable that you think you’ve won, my little fawn.”

There wasn’t a word deep enough to describe the bone-chilling terror that flooded your body at the sound of his voice so close. Slowly your eyes fluttered open, only to discover a pair of legs standing in front of your only exit.

“Come out now, admit defeat, and I might even be gentle with you, darling,” he offered slyly.

“Fuck you,” you grit out.

Before you could second guess your actions, you bolted forward, right into his legs. While you were sure you didn't harm him, your actions surprised him enough to allow you the room to shove by. You had made it only a couple feet when hands were on you, one gripping your shoulder while the other pinched around the nape of your neck. A cry of shock and pain fled your lips as he shoved you face-first up against the nearest tree and pinned you with his body. Escape was looking more and more like a fool’s dream and yet you didn’t stop wiggling, trying your hardest to break free to no avail.

“Mmm, I do love it when my dinner puts up a fight, makes you smell all that more delectable,” he purred as his thigh slipped between yours, “And don’t fool yourself into believing I can’t smell just how aroused you are.”

Mortification burned up your face and you bit your lower lip hard to contain the distraught noise that threatened to break forth as he leaned into you. The pressure of his thigh served to further argue his point, your panties soaking up the slick between your thighs.

“P-Please,” you whispered shakily.

“Please what?” he mocked, “Please let you go? Now, you know I can’t do that, darling. I’m absolutely ravenous and you’re ripe for the taking.”

Teeth gently grazed the tender flesh of your throat and sent goosebumps across your flesh.

“It’s been so long since I’ve had such a sweet little human to play with,” he groaned quietly.

Fingers teased the sliver of skin poking from beneath your top, tracing the waistband of your shorts with languid little strokes; teeth mimicking the action against your neck.

“Don’t pretend you don’t want this, darling. I’ve smelled your interest since the instant you started to run,” he whispered, giving another gentle roll of his hips.

Before you could contain it, an excited little squeak escaped as you felt the hardening bulge grind against your ass.

“There it is. Give in to me,” Dark murmured, “I promise this will be an experience unlike any other.”

You didn’t dare give an answer. The words felt too wrong on your tongue despite the sudden urge in your body demanding an agreement. As terrifying as he was, there was something about his presence that intrigued you. It felt like there was a war going on in your head as you gingerly wiggled your hips back against him and tilted your head to the side, allowing him full access to your neck.

The moan he gave in return made your knees weak.

In one rough movement, you heard the tell-tale rip of your shorts being ruined and then your hips were lifted in the next.

“Ooh, look at the mess you’ve made of yourself, little fawn,” he cooed mockingly as a finger danced across your lips, “It will be all the easier to make you mine.”

That was your only warning before his cock was lined up against your cunt, thick head breeching every so slightly before he slammed in. Tears sprung up into your eyes and you buried your face harder against the bark as a pathetic cry warbled out. It was devastating and heavenly all at once. When he didn’t follow up immediately, you couldn't help but arch back into him.

“What a needy little thing you are,” he chuckled, “I’m going to have so much fun with you before I destroy you.”

Never in a thousand years did you think you’d find yourself in this position, being hunted down and fucked in the middle of the forest, and yet there wasn’t a place you’d rather be in that moment.

Dark’s pace was brutal, the position even more so. Every thrust of his cock rocked you up against the tree, bark scraping and digging at your skin. Every attempt to move back sunk him deeper inside you. It felt like a never ending sea of desire. It wasn’t long until you were begging for more, until the sting of the micro cuts on your skin was just another layer to the destructive pleasure coiling in your core.

“You want more? You want to come? Then touch yourself,” he ordered huskily, “Rub your clit and make yourself come on my cock while I claim you as mine.”

His meaning came through loud and clear. He intended to mark you in the most primitive of ways, in ways no one had before. You’d never let any other come inside you, too afraid of the risks.

“N-No, don’t-”

Fingers dug into your wrist and jerked your hand down between your cunt and the tree, forcing you where you wanted it most.

“It’s no use, darling, it’s too late,” he snickered, “You’re already in the lion’s den and there’s no escape. Not anymore. You belong to me now.”

You could feel his teeth bared a wicked smile against your skin before they clamped down around your throat. Pain exploded and pulsed through your veins with every beat of your racing heart, and yet it pervertedly only urged you faster. Your fingers shook under the duress of all the sensations assaulting your nerves but you worked them nonetheless, too lost to the desire.

His moan rumbled through your very being as you tightened uncontrollably around him, teetering just on the edge of bliss.

“Mine.”

That one word was spoken with such conviction and punctuated with absolute abandon, all sanity lost as you seemingly became a means to an end; a prey to claim and fill.

“Mine! All mine,” he snarled against your shoulder, “Give yourself to me, now!”

His hand came to cover yours and joined in the efforts, frantically abusing your sensitive nub until finally it all snapped.

“Ah f-fuck, D-Dark, oh my god!”

Your ruse slipped as his name spilled from your lips, but you couldn’t care less as everything coalesced with a vengeance. The pain, the pleasure, the emotions. It was all worth it as your pleasure drenched your thighs, a sob falling from your lips in debauched relief. Pulse after pulse of ecstasy rocked through your core as he fucked you through your first climax into another, and then another.

Stifled grunt and moans shifted gradually into full blown snarls of bliss as he threw your hands up against the tree, pinning both with one while his other arm wrapped around your waist and held you in place.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Shot after shot of hot cum filled your core, palpable with every throb of his cock, and you couldn’t resist melting back into him. With a final few thrusts, he released your hands only to pull you in close and hold you upright as he turned, putting himself between you and the tree as you both came down from the high.

“Holy hell,” you giggled, head tilting back to look up at him.

Dark gave a little chuckle and cupped your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks and directing you up into a gentle kiss.

“I promised the full experience. Was anything too much?” he asked.

“Mm-mm. It was perfect,” you whispered.

As best as you could in the awkward position, you snuggled back into him and pulled his arms around you.

“You can hunt me any time you want,” you admitted cheekily.

[midnightwinterhawk]

I put together a little collection of Sterek and Steter fics for funsies. “Just a few fics”, I thought, “nothing too crazy.” Thirty fics later I had to cut myself off and finalize the list. You can thank @the-cookie-of-doom​ for the inspiration. 

These primarily fall under the Hurt Stiles Stilinski category because I apparently like to see my comfort characters suffer. Most of these have hopeful/happy endings but mind the tags. For reals.

Placed under a cut since I have no self control and this turned into a long post.

Sterek

adore to see your eyes fly by @1001cranes

(11,309 l E)

stiles is a pyromaniac, derek is a sociopath. a match made in some kind of heaven. teen wolf kink meme fill.

take my heart from me by @areiton

(23,188 l NR)

He didn't really mean to adopt Derek's pack of puppies. He didn't mean to make himself important to them.

To Derek.

He just wanted to keep them all safe.

That's all Stiles ever wanted.

"Why Can't You?" by @asterekmess

(3,602 l T)

Now. This was happening now, and he couldn’t be less prepared.

-

After a long night, things between Stiles and his father come to a head.

And You Say You're Alone by bi_leigh_bi

(30,314 l E)

Between the kanima, the Argents, and Peter's untimely return from the dead, everything has fallen apart. Stiles and Derek try to put their lives back together once the crisis has passed. Stiles deals with the aftermath of being tortured, and the distance growing between he and Scott. Derek attempts to become a stronger alpha and keep his pack safe, and that includes Stiles.

A Victory March by @churkey

(2,688 l T)

When Stiles is eight he learns that nothing will be the same. His dad comes home one day after work and sits Stiles down for a talk. He explains that werewolves and all the monsters are real.

They're real and not hiding under anyone's bed.

Bury the Moon by darthjamtart

(16,592 l M)

First things get bad. Then they get worse. Stiles doesn’t know what he’s sacrificed until it’s too late.

Dying is the easy part.

Love's Violent Delights by @dexterous-sinistrous

(10,685 l E)

Derek caught the way the man’s eyes looked over Stiles before lingering on his ass. He waited for the clerk to place the key on the counter before he reacted.

Stiles startled at the loud noise, turning away from the pamphlets in the display box to see Derek pinning the clerk’s head against the counter. He drew in an even breath, looking between the struggling man and Derek.

Derek briefly looked at Stiles, hesitating before he saw the gleam of excitement in Stiles’ eyes and the hint of lust in his scent. “Ever look at him, or any other Omega, like that again, and I’ll slice your eyes out with my claws.” He shoved the man back, not caring of the commotion that was made as he snatched up the key from the counter.

Empty by @discontentedwinter

(48,034 l M)

Jordan Parrish is the new sheriff of Beacon Hills, a town haunted by its past.

Your Vision Borrows Mine by hazyascent

(188,781 l E)

Stiles has encountered a fair share of monsters before, way out of his league - the kinds that children are afraid are hiding in their closets and under the bed.

He’d even become one himself when he was void. The nogitsune was in his house, his body, and his mind.

But the worst monster he’s ever faced took even more from him and got away with it.

It’s why Stiles has never really been as terrified of werewolves and kanimas and darachs as he should have been. They’re really not that scary, relatively speaking, and he has a whole team on his side. They always found a way to win - until they lost someone they really loved.

Stiles doesn’t know how to be normal, not after everything he’s done and everyone he’s hurt. The nogitsune is gone, but another monster is on its heels.

His uncle is back. And Stiles has never felt more alone.

It Was a Wednesday by @isthatbloodonhisshirt

(80,129 l M)

“What happened? Where are you? What’s that sound?”

Derek jumped, having momentarily forgotten Scott was on the phone with him because Stiles had started moving. He’d stalked over to the other side of the cave, still eying Derek warily and growling, then settled protectively over a mass of clothes, leaves and animal innards. It was probably where he was sleeping.

Lovely. No wonder he smelled like death.

“Stiles,” Derek said, answering Scott’s question. Or, one of them, at least.

“Stiles? What do you—Stiles is making that noise?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“How fast do you think you can make it to the south lot of the Preserve?”

Tiny Houses by @ohmyjetsabel-blog

(77,183 l E)

"So this is what Stiles does. He lies in Scott’s bed and waits for Melissa to say she’s found someone to get it out of him, to cure him of the wrongness and the bad, and he dreams.

God, he dreams.

He dreams of fire and swollen bellies and that scene in Alien, of giving birth to jackals through his urethra, the whole horrific nine yards. His head is a terrible place to be, he can’t imagine his stomach is much better, why anyone would want to put a thing inside of it."

I'm There in the Water by @spaceprincessem

(15,878 l T)

“But it’s—” Derek paused, his words unsure, “it’s not like us,” he swallows hard, chin dipping to his chest in frustration, “it’s like a…”

“An abomination,” Stiles finished, nodding his head as he finally lets his gaze really look at Derek since Scott had pulled them from the water.

He suddenly wished he hadn’t because the way Derek looks at him makes Stiles feel like he is ten years old again. Like Derek is seeing him for the first time since they accidentally fell into each other’s orbit all those years ago. Like Stiles isn’t a burden or invisible.

Like he is enough.

Or five times Stiles felt like he was drowning and the one time he finally caught his breath

Gunplay is Not Really Our Kink by theroguesgambit

(2,577 l M)

“The rules to the game are simple. One bullet, six chances. You pick it up and take turns pulling the trigger on the other man, or we gun you both down right now. You play along, only one of you has to die. Fun game, huh?”

--

Derek and Stiles are captured by a group of hunters and forced to play a twisted game that only one of them might walk away from.

The Price by theroguesgambit

(18,452 l M)

Stiles must surrender the most important thing in his life to protect the town… and no one can figure out what it was.

Nieważny by Zethsaire

(2,037 l E)

The pack is gone, everything they've ever cared for destroyed. Now Stiles and Derek hunt the hunters, taking revenge in the only way they know how; blood.

Steter

Make Me Bleed by @asarcasticwitch

(2,304 l E)

Peter’s expression contorts, impressed or surprised, Stiles can't decipher, but the grin on his face proves he’s not exactly disappointed with the unexpected turn of events.

“Which bite exactly were you hoping for, hm?” The older man curls one hand around the back of Stiles’s neck, trailing his thumb along his pale, fragile throat.

Stiles tilts his head back in unyielding submission, giving the wolf no room to debate his sincerity. “I’m sure you can figure it out, Alpha.

Two Roads Converge in a Graveyard Town by @cywscross

(15,645 l T)

The Deadpool brings one more assassin to Beacon Hills. A man's gotta eat after all.

when you're going through hell (keep going for me) by cywscross

(57,022 l T)

Peter is abandoned in the aftermath of the fire, and Eichen House takes ruthless advantage. Six years later, when he's finally able to move again, he finds himself in a cell with a boy in a straitjacket.

(Kate’s biggest mistake was letting Peter live. Eichen House’s biggest mistake was letting Peter meet Stiles.)

Don't Fail Me Now by @discontentedwinter​

(36,315 l E)

Stiles goes to Derek looking for help.

He finds Peter instead.

Peter takes what he's wanted for a very long time.

Sanctuary by DiscontentedWinter

(56,525 l M)

The Hale Wolf Sanctuary isn’t just for wolves.

It turns out it’s for Stilinskis as well.

Bite Down by EclipseWing (@shadow-of-the-eclipse)

(27,586 l M)

In which Stiles is forced to survive the zombie apocalypse with a sociopathic murdering werewolf for company.

Into Eden by @graciebirdie

(12,232 l M)

Stiles deciding to bring home the stray alpha he'd hit with his jeep probably made him certifiable, if it hadn't turned out Peter was as crazy as he was.

Before you let go (and the light takes you in) by Issay

(4,032 l E)

Stiles makes one last errand - goes to leave flowers on all the other graves. Fuck, so many graves. The grief is as endless and as inescapable as the sky.

He goes home and there is a thing wearing his father's face, waiting for him in the kitchen.

Call My Name by KouriArashi ( @gingersnapwolves )

(81,370 l M)

After moving to Beacon Hills, Stiles starts having recurring dreams of a man in some kind of prison, who needs his help. Things get so bad that he ends up in Eichen House, where he finds out that the man is real.

Hide my tears in the rain. by MrsRidcully

(6,865 l M)

After  years spent successfully dodging werewolves, evil spirits and wendigos,  it was a drunk driver who stole his Dad, a drunk driver with a  suspended license and a record sheet as long as Stiles’s arm. Stiles  would have laughed at the irony if he hadn’t been so busy screaming.

In My Veins Like Disease by romanoffbarton

(1,140 l T)

He tries to leave once.

Foreshock by @twothumbsandnostakeincanon

(22,816 l E)

The day Stiles’ mom died, he almost leveled his house.

Not on purpose. Not even by mistake, really. More by instinct.

Since then he's dug his fingers into everything his has left, holding on with desperation.

Desperation never stopped an earthquake.

Your Touch is My Choice by twothumbsandnostakeincanon

(2,171 l T)

The first time John does it, Stiles is two years old and about to run into the road.

“Mieczysław!” Heart pounding, John grabbed him by the back of his neck and got a hand around his tummy, snatching him back. “No, you have to stay away from the road,” he said firmly.

Shameful Company by Whispering_Sumire (@whispering-sumire755)

(38,779 l E)

"Did I turn into a unicorn?" Peter asks dryly, and Stiles glares at him for a moment before the laughter bubbles up, unbidden, nearly unwilling, and he looks so surprised at the sound, his shock dimming it for a moment before it bursts through with even more trembling ferocity. A long, thin, willowy hand curls into a soft fist over his mouth, and he's shaking, frail, more tears falling, but the copper of his eyes are glowing, crinkling around the edges and scrunched with mirth.

"No," Stiles chokes, chuckling wetly. "No, fuck you, a unicorn? What, like, Rainbowcreep? Zombiesparkle?"

[About a year before the fated Hale fire, Peter starts having nightmares that involve a woman with red hair. The nightmares lead to a spell that brings a man back through time, and, eventually, though the time-traveler is traumatized in the most horrific ways, and Peter's never been good with or for people, in general, they develop a bond that neither of them expects.]

Would You Forgive Me If I Called You Hope, Peter Hale? (Hope, By Any Other Name) by Whispering_Sumire

(10,099 l T)

Stiles has scars. He owns that, he accepts it, he's cataloged and memorized every single one, he's hyper fucking aware of them all.

//

"What do you want, Peter?" Having the more untrustworthy of the Pack getting protective weirds him the fuck out, leaves an odd fluttering in his chest, like moths, waiting perilously and suicidally to be burned.

He doesn't like it.

"You're injured," the man says, "and whatever it is, it's put you in enough pain that I nearly fainted when I-"

"- Used your werewolf mojo on me without my permission?" Stiles smirks, and Peter gives him a black look, crossing a leg over his knee and smoothing out some invisible wrinkle on his pants.

"Tell me the truth Stiles, how bad is it?"

[Or: The one where Stiles has scars, is more than a little fucked up, and Peter notices. He helps.]

[queenoftheworldisdead]

Penthouse

Note: After events of Elevator. I love/hate this. loved starting, fucking hated finishing it. fucking nightmare. no tags, for this garbage. this hodgepodge of a story shows the weakness in my writing. ugh. 🙃 Don’t read this. i wrote this for my own entertainment. Long AF. so much preamble.

Summery: Freedom was sweet

⚠️Warning: 18+ Only content with dark themes, Kidnapping, Non Con/Dub Con, Cream-pie ⚠️

Dark Steve x Reader

🏢

You stood, back facing the multi level high rise with a banker box, filled with various items of your old life, in hand stunned. For the past few years you were held against your will by James 'Bucky' Barnes. The notorious mobster used you as his play thing, torturing, beating and occasionally starving you. Now you stood outside free.

"Hey!"

Your back tensed at the sound of the familiar right hand man of Bucky.

*It was a trap, of course.*

He wanted to see how far you would go this time, before he dragged you back to that damned penthouse.

"Never thought the day would come huh?" Steve laughed cheerfully.

You looked at him wordlessly, waiting for the shoe to drop. Instead he dug in his pocket, pulling out a fat wad of rolled up bills. Tucking it under one of the garments in the box you held.

"This should get you on your feet." Steve smiled at you. You blinked at him confused by his words. He turned from you briefly, hailing a cab to put you in.

*Was it really true? Were you really free?*

As the yellow cab pulled up an SUV parked behind it. When the back door opened the people filing out caught your eye. A beautiful woman dressed in black sequins and from what you could surmise maybe barely old enough to drink. Followed by Bucky and a few of his lackeys.

Steve lowered your head into the idling cab, careful not to hit your head on the open door. "Your replacement" comically chucking a thumb back in their direction. Closing the door he knocked on the drivers window and took out more money. Telling the cabbie to take you where ever you wanted before leaving.

Sitting in the back seat you turned and watched Bucky led the young beauty into the building. "Where to Miss?" The driver asked and it was a question you hadn't had the privilege to answer in such a long time you didn't know what to say.

🏢

It took some getting used to, but eventually you found your bearings. With the money you got a tiny apartment miles away from the penthouse. It was funny as you had always fantasized about moving to Canada or over seas if you were to ever escape Bucky, but here you were, still stuck in the same city.

Now free again you were able to live life as you wished. Eating when you wanted, going where you wanted the freedom was exhilarating. Unfortunately the time spent with Bucky you lost all the friends you had, family was scarce and thanks to him there was also a large gap in employment. Finding a job wasn't so easy, but eventually you landed on your feet.

🏢

The diner was quick to snap you up for their evening to graveyard shifts. It didn't pay well, but it was fine and you loved it for what it was. Free food, the occasional good tip, the money was enough to live off of and it was far away from Bucky's syndicate.

It took a bump from a passing waitress to bring you back to earth. A booth in your section filled to the brim with your nightmare. Looking to the door you contemplated walking straight out and never looking back. A high pitched whistle caught your attention. The table across from theirs signaled for a check.

Panicked you looked for a fellow waitress to help you out of the bind, but no one was in sight. There wasn't a point in running. If they were here, then they were going to get you.

Holding your head low you walked over, hugging the laminated menus tightly to your chest.

Quickly you handed them their receipt and tried to make your fast escape. A familiar voice cleared his throat making you jump. You stood with your backs to them for longer than would be normal and the table in front of you didn't appreciate your company.

Of course this was it. The nightmare would continue. Turning to the table you greeted them robotic-ally. As if they didn't all know your name already. While you passed them the menus it was if you didn't exist. Your eyes darted back and forth between each of them, barely a glance as they received the menu.

Your heart ached for the girl that was now your replacement. You could see from her face that she was running on fumes. You wondered how long Bucky had kept her up, breaking her in, if she tried to escape like you had.

A day out for you was normally a reward for good behavior, so she must be a 'Good Doll', you shuttered at the recollection.

"Long time no see!" Steve perked up when he finally turned his head to notice you. You had to ignore the prickles, control your nerves like you used to when you went out with Bucky, but he didn't look your way.

"I will be your server today. Is there anything I can start you off to drink with today?" Your voice came out as even as you could get it. Digging out your pen and pad, almost dropping it as you trembled.

"This is what you've been up to huh" Steve asked, his volume louder than others around him would like. He was the only one who seemed to care about your presence, the others just ignored you, going over the menus.

Your heart wanted to break through your chest as you tried to hold it together. When no one else seemed to care still, you could finally try to breathe properly. Bucky was too focused on his phone and from the subtle movements of his arm under the table, the girl fidgeting next to him.

* Just stick to the script don't engage in anything else.*

"I will give you folks a few minutes then come back to take your order."  you said ignoring him. Steve frowned at that, but you knew he wouldn’t move without Bucky’s order. Walking back you felt stiff and you were sure that sweat was seeping through your uniform.

🏢

You were a nerves wreck once you finally ducked into the little waitress nook by the kitchen. Scrubbing your face with your hands you took several deep breaths, the action not really taking the effect you wanted.

"Excuse me" her voice was barely above a whisper and though you never heard it you knew who it belonged to.

"Go back to your table Miss." you refused to look at her.

"Please you don't understand" her soft voice shook. You knew that if you looked, her face would be filled with tears. When she touched your shoulder you fell away tripping over your own feet as you rushed away. Finally you were face to face with her.

"I need your help, please" you were right she was crying.

"Get the hell away from me!" You pressed your back flat against the wall. Huddled in the corner as guilt and self preservation fought a battle inside of you.

"Everything alright back here?" Steve popped his head through the doorway.

"Y-yep.......just fine she needed to uhhh p-pee and I was just showing her the way" you felt your heart bash inside your chest once again. Steve wasn't stupid, but you prayed that he believed you.

With her back to Steve you knew that look and a part of you felt guilty for doing nothing. The young girl walked past you  to the restroom while Steve lingered in the hall. Lowering your gaze you peel yourself off the wall and slunk into the kitchen.

Steve followed, leaning in the archway of the kitchen. You tried to look busy and you were surprised that the cooks didn't ask him to leave. Even this far out their reach stretched you guessed.

"Can't speak to old an old friend?" Steve inquired.

"Steve, please..."

Steve may have looked sweet, but he was never one for sympathy.

"You're not in trouble I just came to say 'hi'."

*Bull shit*

He turned his head to see the young beauty leaving the restroom and you were glad. You didn't want to see him dragging her out if it came down to it.

*She must've run before.*

"Whelp it was nice talking to you again" he said as he followed arms length behind the girl.

🏢

"You folks ready to order" you forced another smile as you talked. It was almost eerie how they acted like any other customer. It was as if you hadn't known these men for the past five years. Each gave you their order. You served without any further incident.

When they finally left they even gave you a sizable tip. It seemed now that you were truly just a faded memory to Bucky.

🏢

Heading home on the train you couldn't wait to feed the alley cat friend you were trying to earn the trust of. Another day bringing him left over food from work.

"Here puss, puss" you called out to the darkened alleyway. Pinching off pieces of meat and tossing it about.

Your name was called out so you instinctively turned to find the sound. When your eyes found Steve you dropped everything you had and ran. You didn't know where you were going, shoving through various people as you booked it down the avenue.

The lights of a tea house caught your eye in the far distance. Dashing inside you try and calm down and walk to the bathroom hurriedly. Ducking into and locking one of the stalls you stood on the toilet seat and waited.

Hoping he didn't see which way you had gone.

The door to the restroom opened slowly, the sound of foot steps crept closer to your stall. Holding your hands over your mouth you tried to hold in your sobs. It was hard to control your breathing, you were panting heavily from the run. Even with your eyes squeezed shut you knew he was standing right in front of the stall you hid in.

"I know it's been a while...but you should know better than to run from me." His dark chuckle filled you with dread.

"You had fun right?"

🏢

The numbers ticked up in the metal lift slowly. The whole way up you looked down at your feet. Unable to bare the cocky look on Steve's face.

Stepping out of the elevator, the hall that led to the penthouse was long, but not enough. Steve moved from behind you and opened the door. The familiar cold chill of the penthouse hit you. Taking your shoes off at the door you walked over to the living room area.

"I'm really quite surprised. I thought you would've skipped town... Thought you would make me chase you half way around the world." Steve chuckled, that was the straw that broke the damn. Your face felt drenched, you had tried so hard not to cry in front of him, but once again you failed.

The past few months felt like a dream, in the back of your mind you knew it was a lie.

"You should probably get undressed." Steve ordered. You heard him shimmy out of his jacket, hanging it on the door as you sobbed.

Steve was just parroting orders from Bucky you were sure. It didn't matter that Steve was in the room, Bucky was what you were more worried about. He had let you go and for some reason he got his dog to drag you back. Steve's presence only added to the humiliation, defeat and soon further shame.

🏢

You stripped yourself of your clothes, folding them neatly and placing them on a pile next to the couch. The room felt colder, your skin and nipples prickled while you walked over to Bucky's chair.

Bucky had a favorite chair in the living room. A seat that was solely reserved for him and that is were you stood, naked while you waited for him to appear.

He normally was already sitting waiting. Not seeing him there didn't help stop the tears from flowing. Had you pissed him off at the diner? Had something happened to the girl? Did she tell him that she talked to you?

Behind the chair you were able to gaze at the city as you thought through each possible slight. Steve walked up from behind, placing a hand on your shoulder causing you to jump.

"Calm down he isn't here." Steve told you as he held up his hands in surrender, flopping down on the seat before you.

There had been many an occasion that you witnessed unknowing souls sit in Bucky's chair. The action seen by him as an unforgivable level of disrespect that made your stomach turn as he would rectify the slight.

The chair was Bucky's throne and only to be christened by him and him alone.

Steve's legs spread wide in defiance as he made himself comfortable as you tried to understand the sight of Bucky's most loyal man before you.

"Bucky won't like you in his chair." You warned.  His eye's went wide almost surprised by the sound of your voice.

"Hah... Bucks got you trained good" Steve lightly laughed. "Come have a seat."

You blinked at him as he craned his neck to admire the look of distress. Bucky was not one for sharing and you doubted he would be thrilled to see you naked and straddling Steve in his favorite chair.  

When you didn’t move Steve’s warm hands pulled you down, your knees folded at his sides. On the descent you gasped, your eyes wide with panic and confusion. His playful grin fueled by your dismay. The chair wined at the added weight and you were sure it would break from the way you struggled to escape it.

Steve's arms wrapped and rested around your hips, pulling you close, making your movements hard. Your legs were tucked and  pinned at his side, your frantic movements rousing something that made you shutter when you felt it. With what little space you could manage, your arms moved up to wrap around your chest in an effort to cover yourself and make a buffer.

🏢

"You know you were always my favorite." He spoke calmly while your whole body shook in fear. It was a nerves shake that Steve had witnessed many a times and from the glint in his eyes you knew he enjoyed it.

"So creative in your escapes, but just too sloppy at covering your tracks" he t'sked while the hiccups and tears intensified. Steve rocked you back and forth gently in his lap. The fabric of Steve's pants rubbed against your mound, the length of his cock pressed desperately against his zipper and he made sure you felt every inch.

"Remember that time you set the penthouse on fire. Good trick getting the firemen to get you out". He chuckled completely unbothered by your distress. Smiling up at you brightly as if he were talking to an old friend. His walk down memory lane was not as fondly remembered as yours.

"At the diner I was sure he would've flipped out when he saw you, but I guess he was just to preoccupied to notice." Steve gave you a playful wiggle of his brow. As he talked you bit back shame. The incessant movement stimulated your clit, you could feel a wetness growing at it was only a matter of time before he noticed it too.

"The new girl learned her lesson far too quickly for me. I let her take off once just for fun... Then she never did it again."

"He has someone new right? He doesn't need me." Your were a sniffling mess. You knew Steve long enough that your tears meant nothing to him, but that didn't stop you from pleading.

"Oh sweetie if you didn't know by now he didn't let you go."

Your mind was swirling. Steve orchestrated it all just to have 'fun'.

🏢

"I want you to look up." He requested and you looked at him confused. "Over there in the left corner." He nudged his head and your eyes looked in the direction.

Your heart sank to the floor. There was a camera, one you never noticed before. You felt sick. Was Bucky watching you? The optics of this situation you could only imagine.

As far as Bucky was concerned you had ran out on him and Steve was just doing his job bringing you back.

From that angle it would look like you walked in, stripped and got on top of him. That you were fucking him in Bucky's chair. Steve's eyes lit up as you put all the pieces together.

"I fucking hate you" You said softly. Your chin fell to your chest as you continued to bawl.

"Oh Sweetie I don't care. I can only imagine the look on his face right now." Steve ducked his head down to look you in the eye, confirming Bucky was indeed watching.

Taking your wrist he moved them behind your back, bonding them effortlessly with one hand. Steve was hell bent on making your bad situation worse. You needed to get free and get out.

Steve's head moved to nestle your breast, you tried to lift off your knees, but his thighs kept you trapped in the chair. You attempted to jerk your wrists free of his hold, but Steve only held tighter.

Steve wasn't afraid of reprisals from his boss. They had been friends from childhood, at most he would get a slap on the back if the head. While you shuddered to think of what he would do to you.

"Don’t worry we have time to play" he teased. You felt Steve's hot breath on your breast as he talked. When he licked and sucked at your nipple, taking it in-between his teeth, flicking his tongue on it you felt your arousal grow.

"Please Steve..stop" you panted out as heat rose throughout your neck. You felt his mouth smirk swirled around your nipple, his face nuzzled in your chest, inhaling deeply on yours skin as you rocked in his lap.

The chair groaning protests increased and you prayed that it would break, giving you a chance to be free. When your hands were suddenly released you pushed at his chest hard, surprisingly he fell back with a chuckle.

"Why can't you just let me go?" You slapped at his chest as Steve rose to his feet. The weight of your ass rested in his palms as you tried to force yourself down and out of his hold. You yelped when Steve pinched your ass hard, the sting a warning to stop. Though your movements didn't cause his hold to waver, it was as if you weighed nothing.

🏢

Steve liked you. He was normally indifferent to the women that Bucky would bring home, but you were different. He loved the way you cried for mercy then begged to cum. The shame in your eyes when he watched you submit.

Bucky had a habit of replacing his toys. So Steve waited patiently for Bucky to tire of you, but a man could only wait so long.

"How many times had you wished it were me?" He changed the subject. Gone was his playful smile, his face stoic and unreadable just like Bucky's.

"I saw how you looked at me... wanting my cock inside of you... What would Bucky think if he knew"  Steve purred.

You hadn't wanted Steve or any of this. It was just that his eyes were just that inescapable. Bucky's second set of eyes. Always through a cracked door, from the corner of a room, reflecting back at you from a mirror. His eyes haunted your sleep just as much as Bucky's did.

He turned slightly to open the door behind you. Once it opened you knew the room you were in, Bucky's bedroom. You had shared it with him, but nothing in it belonged to you. You were nothing more than a dog that was made to come happily whenever he called.

When Steve tossed you on the bed you bounced. You watched, frozen while he stripped at the foot of the bed.

🏢

His mouth moved, but if he was speaking you couldn't hear it. The pounding of your heart was so loud in your ears that you couldn't make out whatever he was saying.

Each step he took you pushed back on your hands, scooting backwards on the bed to get away. Your elbow hit the head board as he unhooked his belt and unfastened his pants.

The bed dipped as he placed a hand on it, you watched and time seemed to slow when he stretched out to snag your ankle. You took the bed covering with you when you clutched it as you twisted and turned to pull yourself out of his grip.

With one hard yank you laid flat out on your stomach. Steve couldn't help licking his lips at the sight of your ass jiggling as he played with you. When he let go you stumbled over yourself, pressing your back flush once again to the head board.

🏢

Bending over he dug something out of his discarded clothes. Standing straight you watched as he played with his phone. Steve tossed the device to you and you blinked at it wildly. "Bucky’s across town with his new girl. It would take a few hours to get here." You picked it up as he talked. You knew the spot on the map, the red indicator blinking Bucky's location.

"Tell you what. I will let you go. If you give me what I want and I won't come after you again." He offered. Flopping on the bed Steve's back faced you. It was a trap you knew it, but some semblance of hope still lived in you, so you sat quietly and listened.

"Or I can take what I want and then stand by when Bucky comes back." He laid out on top of the bed with his hands laced behind his head. Gripping the phone you contemplated quickly dialing the police, but you were sure they would never make it in time. And if they did by some miracle come, you couldn't guarantee they wouldn't be dirty anyway.

Swallowing thickly you placed the phone faced down on the mattress. Steve tilted his head and observed you, smiling at you expectantly when you started to move.

You tried to reason with yourself as you approached him. You prayed that he would indeed keep his side of the deal.

Steve unlaced his fingers as you rounded him and you felt your skin prickle all over again. The bed didn't make a sound as you haltingly swung your leg over his waist.

Your hands shook as you placed them on his bear chest. Despite the heat coming from Steve your shaking remained. Your stomach tensed when Steve's fingers trailed up your thigh and rested on your hips.

Holding you, Steve lowered you down, flicking his cock back and forth with one hand to align himself to your entrance. His tip played with your folds, the prodding brought a slickness from your core.

🏢

Steve loved the way you cried. The sight of your puffy face whenever you begged and pleaded.  He loved that despite all the fear there was a fire that wouldn't die no matter how hard his buddy tried to stomp it out.

"You mad things fun around here." Steve's tone lowered to a husky growl. His eyes turned their focus from your face to your breast as the feeling of utter defeat washed over you.

His cock pressed threateningly against your lips as your palms rested on his bare chest. Steve kept you paused in position, your thighs burned while you hovered in place. the trembling not unnoticed by Steve. Moving from his cock the one hand traveled upward, gently ghosting over your hip as it crept up your frame.

Bucky despite his distance stayed at the edge of your mind. You looked around the empty room, jumping at every odd noise. The paranoia in your eyes made Steve painfully hard, but he controlled himself as he explored you.

Steve's large hand encompassed your breast as he palmed it. Gliding his thumb over your hard nipple the soft fatty flesh bounced in his hand when you inhales sharply.

A very sensitive area he noted. He wanted to know every inch of you, what made you squirm, but that would have to wait until another time.

It made his cock twitch just thinking about it.

🏢

With one quick motion he forced you down. The plunge sent jolts deep. Your cervix ached with fullness as your stomach tensed and strained to adjust to him. Mewling through gritted teeth you sheathed him completely.

"Did Bucky fill you up this good?" He growled. Steve felt your cunt hug him tightly, the feel made him twitch inside of you. You grunted when Steve bucked his hips at your lack of reply. His cock strained against your core, you hadn't noticed your nails had dug into his chest. When he bucked again he let out a long drawn out his as your nails dragged against his flesh. The thin lines on his skin leaving a stinging reminder of you.

"No!" you sputtered out much to Steve's pleasure.

"Good girl" Steve praised.

You gasped out when he finally allowed you to rise up, but before you could relax he forced you back down again. Steve muscles flexed under your hands. His deep grunts growing in volume as he resisted the urge to flip you over and rail into you deeper.

"That's it, that's a good girl" he grunted. Steve controlled the momentum. Every downward motion sending jolts to your core. You rocked into him, his voice humming as your pussy clenched around him. "Who do you belong to?" He demanded, making sure to throw his hips hard with each syllable.

"Steve Fuck!" You let out a sharp gasp at the feel of the head of his cock hitting your ceiling. Steve sucked in his bottom lip slowly letting it drag out again, the way you grabbed made him groan with delight. The feel and sound of you struggling made him almost come right there.

Unlike Bucky, Steve was different. You could never read Bucky, every wrong move you made in his game was met with swift reprisals. While Steve read of an unabashed wild eagerness.

"Such a dirty whore just for me" He beamed as you bounced atop of him. His blonde tresses stuck messily to his glistening forehead. Your shamed dissolved into pleasure as your ass slapped against Steve.

The feel of him overwhelmed your senses. Your pussy squeezed, your climax barreling through you like a freight train.

"You know better than that." Steve swatted hard on your side. The sting still there as you forced back your need.

You choked down what was left of your shame and begged him. You needed to cum, the tight coil in your core threatened to burst.  

"Please.." You rasped out, looking away unable to face him. Steve reveled in your pathetic attempted to hide away from him. He felt you, there was no denying what you hungered for.

"please. ..Steve.. " you panted out. The sound of your sloppy sex and punishing manipulation was splintering in your womb.

"I need to come" You mewled.

Steve shot up, his massive arms wrapped around you, clutching your shoulders he shoved himself deep inside.

"Come on my cock" he commanded. Holding you down tight as he pumped his seed into you.

Your cunt milking out ever last drop as you both breathed heavily.

"Hey Buck... welcome home." Over your shoulder he stared deep into the eyes of Bucky as he coated your walls.

🏢

<<< Elevator

[danniburgh]

Rushingly Bittersweet (Javier Peña x f!reader) part 20

Pairing: Javier Peña x ofc//f!reader with name.

Summary: After the fall of Escobar everything starts happening way too fast for Javier; his raise, his new office, his new team, the Cali cartel’s operation, the sudden arrival of a new agent that was transferred to his team for no apparent reason, the way he was falling in love with her almost unintentionally.

And he couldn’t seem to stop any of that.

Word count: +4.3k

Chapter warnings: more feelings, the whole truth, brief mention of drugs, a lot of tears lmao

A/N: This chapter is set after season three, episode nine. // I AM SO FUCKING SORRY in advance, i think this and the next 2 are gonna be heavy for me and you so... yeah, WE ARE ALMOST DONE GUYS KEEP YOUR CHINS UP THIS IS GONNA END WELL!!!!

ao3 // fic index // Masterlist // fic playlist

comments and reblogs are eternally appreciated 💓 let me know if you wanna be tagged

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gif: @bestintheparsec​

If Javier hadn’t seen you cry like you were crying in front of him, he would have thought it was a joke.

A bad, sick, horrible joke.

But there you were, shaking and crying and bracing yourself and standing in front of him telling him you knew things he didn’t know and your name wasn’t your name and he wasn’t even your boss as if he not only needed to know he was being used but he deserved it. As if he could avoid to think everything you had told him before wasn’t a complete lie. Bullshit.

He stood up straight and took his eyes off you. He couldn’t bear to look at you shaking like a small puppy trapped in the cold rain, he couldn’t bear to look at you like that because he was fighting with himself and the need to rush and hold you and tell you everything was going to be fine when he knew and you knew and he knew you knew nothing would be the same. As if he wasn’t angry, furious, infuriated.

You let out a sob, because you knew he was about to avoid looking at you at all costs.

“Well,” Javier let out, “I’m sorry if I don’t say it’s nice to meet you,” and then he laughed bitterly, shaking his head, “who the fuck are you?” his face quirked in something you, between tears, could recognize as anger and pain.

“I–” you mumbled, but he cut you off.

“I’m giving you one chance to explain everything to me,” he hardened his voice and you couldn’t seem to stop yourself from crying, he lifted a finger in front you, “just one, take it,”

“Javier,” you whispered, and he shook his head.

“Are you even DEA?” he scoffed and crossed his arms on his chest, “since you knew things I didn’t and your name isn’t your name, are you even an agent?” you only got to nod “so why,” he breathed in before continuing “why are there CIA reports with your signature?” he turned with a scowl on his face and with one hand he skimmed through all the pages on that file, “you kept tabs on me,” he said, purposefully not looking at you “fuck,” he tapped several times on the last one “you did fool me.”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” you sighed out, it was really hard for you to breathe.

“What wasn’t supposed to happen?” he chewed out “you telling me? or you with me? or you in my bed? or me fucking you? what?”

“Stop,” you pleaded, not having the energy anymore to chase his eyes “let me explain,”

“No,” he shook his head and flared his nose in anger “you’re not worth listening to, get out,”

“At least let me tell you the truth,” you pleaded again.

“I have it here!” he smacked his hand on the files and you jumped out, startled at the way he raised his voice out of the sudden. 

But you didn’t blame him, you only blamed yourself, but that self-preservation instinct inside of you was forcing you to keep on pushing him to listen to you and your reasons. It was forcing you to keep pushing him, even when you knew he was already at his limit.

“Please, let me explain everything,” you pleaded again. Javier shook his head and fought himself harder to stop from looking at you and reach for you and hold you because you just sounded so broken. But you were breaking him.

“Get out,” he whispered, half a plea and half a demand, you shook your head.

“Read them,” you sniffed and cleared your throat “read the last few reports, please,” you were hating how much you were shaking and he glanced at you for less than a second, and you cried at how short it felt. Javier took you in with that glance and as if it wasn’t enough, his chest tugged at the sight of your puffy eyes and the tears that dampened your cheeks. He indulged and skimmed through them “see how they get shorter? see how they get briefer? how they get–”

“Shittier? he cut you off “so you did a bad job, what about it?”

You bit your lip and breathed in and out twice.

“That was the point!” you let out, “fuck, Javier,” you finally found your voice inside your chest and you went off “I’ve been wanting to tell you everything for the longest fucking time, I just couldn’t, I swear I wanted to tell you ever–”

“Since when,” he cut you off again. You looked at him and tried to get him to look at you but he didn't. 

“There were so many nights where I just wanted to tell you everything, but it just wasn’t safe for either of us! I swear I did planned to te–”

“Since when?” Javier raised his voice again and you sighed.

You closed your eyes for a few seconds, feeling more tears sliding down your cheeks.

Javier allowed himself to glance at you in those few seconds that you closed your yes, and tightened his jaw. How the fuck he had allowed all that shit to happen? He had asked you a question he wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer off, but then you opened your eyes and he painfully unglued his gaze from you.

“Since the first time you kissed me,” you muttered out. Javier shook his head several times and turned around to stop seeing you.

“Get out,” he pointed to the door.

“Javier, please,” your voice broke again and you saw his shoulders raise and drop several times.

“I don’t want to listen to you,” his voice was low and deep and hurt and you bit your lip again to stop your sobs from coming out. You threw your head back and looked at the ceiling, fisting and releasing your hands at the impotence you felt because he just didn’t want to listen to you.

And you knew this would happen, you knew it. How could you’ve been so stupid to think that if you explained everything to Javier, he would just take it as the historical truth and just… forgive you? How could you’ve been such an idiot to believe so little of him?

Since the first time you had seen him you knew he was a man of straights and grays, you knew he hated lies; you knew he hated liars. Hell, he hated himself for being one. But somehow, deep in your chest, in your… heart, you thought, you imagined, you hoped he would make an exception for you.

But he wasn’t, not for you, not for anybody, not even for himself. 

He just wasn’t.

Javier closed his eyes once he had you out of his sight, he had so much in his head, the thoughts were pouring down like the restless stream of an overflowing river cascading to a bottomless drowning lake; so much to think about, so much to say, but nothing was coming out.

He was hurt, he recognized that one emotion. Pure, deep, raw hurt, he could feel it burning his insides and turning his guts into ashes. Fuck. He didn’t like the pain, he had spent years and years of his life running away from the pain. How could he had been so stupid to allow himself to get to that point? How could he had been such a fucking idiot to let you do that to him? How? When he had become an expert at running away from his own emotions? Why?

He brushed a hand through his hair and tried to regain his composure, but it was nearly impossible. The pain inside him started to feel physical, it was as if someone had shot him directly on the chest over his kevlar; the air knocked out of his lungs. He was struggling to breathe properly. He was about to burst.

He felt a foreign sting inside his throat that he knew exactly what meant. He wasn’t about to cry. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of showing you how much he cared.

Even if you already knew.

“Javier,” you called him.

“Get out,”

“I will, I promise I’ll go,” you sobbed out and Javier felt disgusted by himself for being so weak at the sound of your sobs, he rolled his hands into fists and forced his body to stay put in place “I just want you to understand why I did it.” Javier rolled his eyes and raised a hand to press his eyes shut.

“Get the fuck out, please just get out,” his voice sounded like a plea and a beg and a demand altogether and you snapped at the way he was just trying to escape from an explanation that you were more than willing to give him. An explanation he deserved.

“No!” you raised your own voice, “you dragged me into this! now you have to listen to me!” you accused. Javier turned around, his face quirked in confusion and bewilderment and pain and anger.

“Me?” he raised his voice as well, his finger landing on his chest several times “I dragged you into this? you’re not a child! you made a choice!” he let out, shaking his head.

“I tried to grab onto any excuse to not start this, Javier, you know that!” you reminded him, and he let his hands rest on his waist “Javier, it was never my intention to hurt you.” 

Javier barked out a laugh.

A stinging, humourless, deep hurting laugh that landed inside the crevices of your chest and hung from every nerve of your being. 

“Well, I’m hurt,” he said, finally facing you “you lied to me,” his face was a mess of emotions you couldn’t read “you lied to me on my fucking face.” he gritted out, walking towards you.

“I know, and I’m sorry” you said under your breath, his face was inches away from yours and he frowned and shook his head. You closed your eyes because out of the sudden his cologne invaded your nostrils and you cried harder at the thought of never getting to smell him again.

“And you know what’s even worse?” he rhetored, you opened your eyes and quickly his eyes were on yours, but that time, his brown, soft eyes were hardened, as if fossils had taken over his orbs and his face was a mean scowl and his hands were so far away from your body rolled into fists that it ached deep in your chest how much you were hurting him, “that I fell for it, for all of it, and I fell for you.”

Javier didn’t seem to realize what he had said, but you did and as he put distance between him and you, your eyes filled with thick tears once again, and you didn’t try to stop them from falling and falling and falling.

He fell. He fell for you.

How? How could you let everything go to that point? You knew you knew it, you fool.

Crash, crash, crash, crash.

Ugly, messy, bloody, heart wrenching.

“Was it worth it?” he asked, putting his hands on his waist once again, looking at you, expectant. You shook your head. “then why did you do it?”

His eyes on you were heavy, you remembered that time he looked at you in a crowded elevator and made you forget everything about yourself, and that time you wondered if he was ever going to look at you like that. And there, with him expecting the explanation you were offering, you had your answer.

And you saw him, standing before you, hands on hips, his thinking stance, waiting for you to finally deliver the so-called explanation you wanted and pleaded to give him. But your throat was closed, your voice was nowhere to be found, and you wanted to crawl into a ball and just rock yourself to a deep, all-forgetting sleep.

God, you were so tired.

It took you an entire minute to find your voice from the deep confines of your voided, pained chest.

“Re–remember what I told you the first time we mad–the first time we were… together?” you sobbed out. He closed his eyes and nodded.

How he could fucking forget? It had elated him, that entire fucking day, everything seemed so hopeful, he remembered thinking that he didn’t want to do what he did to you with anyone else. Before you could continue, he allowed himself to grieve that moment and you saw him raise a hand to his chest.

“That was true, most of it,” you assured him. Javier didn’t look at you once he opened his eyes and you, yet again, tried to search for his eyes. Fuck the hour you had let them become your comfort. “after what happened in México, I did get suspended and, fuck,” you brushed away your tears, freeing the way for new ones to fall “I really liked this job,” you chuckled sorely to yourself “but the drugs, and… everything else, I just knew I was screwed,” you sniffed. Javier bit the inside of his cheek and sighed.

Yet another fucking thing you two were more than alike.

He was hating it, loathing it; the way he wanted to brush every single goddamned tear that was falling down your face, the way he just wanted to reach to you, to let you feel him, the way he fucking needed to touch you and then wake up for whatever new fucking nightmare he was having.

“I was marked,” you choked down another sob and sniffed again, you hated being this vulnerable, this exposed, you were dropping your mask and the process of peeling it was so wretchedly painful. You hated that your vision was so flooded with tears you weren’t able to read Javier and just get a glance, a tiny peak at what he was feeling, “marked not only for being a woman, but by every single shitty thing I did up there,” he sighed “so, the CIA approached me, and took advantage of my situation.”

Javier wanted to scream, wanted to punch something, break anything, he wanted so much to stop relating to you and your reasons. It was as if he was looking at himself in the mirror and he didn’t like it. It was as if some all mighty God had already realized what he had done in the past and just started to punish him. And he was so angry that you were that punishment, that you, of all things, of everything he thought good, were the one chosen to deliver his punishment. 

You, oh so perfect you, so beautiful, so smart, so good, so strong you. You were the one chosen to break him. He wanted to stop seeing the undeniable parallel between you and him being forced to do things by the pure nature of your jobs, by leverage and advantage and just be angry, he just wanted to feel his anger and allow himself to hate you, but he just couldn’t. Not when you were there, standing in front of him, bawling out everything for him, undressing yourself to him, yet again, passing him the control of things. Ironic. He thought, he always had the impression he already had it.

“A precarious situation,” you explained, wetting your lips and taking a deep breath “they assured my job back if I took a six-month assignment for them, they wanted me to ke–”

“Keep an eye on me,” Javier cut you, looking at you with hardened, glistening eyes. You had to drop your gaze to the floor. What the fuck were you doing to him?

Fool, you fool, you stupid, horrible fool. Don’t you see you’re hurting him? Just leave him alone!

“Yeah,” you sighed out, sniffing again, seeing how your tears dropped straight to the floor, “and report all your movements back to them to… shit.”

“To what?”

You shook your head, not being able to lift your gaze from the floor, Javier looked at you and studied what he thought he knew about you. Which at that point he thought it was nothing but your actual name and the way your body quirked and spasmed under his touch. But maybe that was fake too. He saw the way you were hunched under yourself and an amazing yet brief moment of clarity struck him and he knew what you were going to say, fuck he knew, and he let himself smile at the expectation of your answer. For once having a little bit of a leverage.

“To avoid another Los Pepes scenario.” you whispered.

He laughed bitterly. And your chest shrunk at the sound.

Of fucking course.

That’s how you knew, that why you asked him about that the same fucking day you had told him about why you were in Colombia, the day you lied to him, to his face, on his bed, in his arms, after he had let you fuck him, after he had devoured you for the first time

Fucking shit, how he wanted to scream.

His smile became a snarl as soon as the memory of your body pressed against his came back to his head.

“Fuck me,” he shook his head and tightened his jaw.

“I didn’t understand at first why they looked at you like such a menace,” you said, not daring to look at him, and Javier hated it, he hated how you had hung your head low and looked at the carpeted floor, he hated it because he had seen you in your most confident self so many times, he had engraved in his mind the way you would handle yourself as if you were the owner of every building you ever stepped on, but then? right there? you just looked like a selfless child, like a hurt, abandoned girl. Fuck him. How could he keep thinking about you like that when while you looked like it you were destroying everything he had ever thought of you and whatever the fuck it was you two had? “then I met you.”

“So I’m a menace?” he snarked.

“For people like them? of course you are, Javier,” you let out a sigh and shook your head “they painted you as this… monster, that didn’t care about anything but getting shit done in any way you could,” you shrugged and lifted your head to look at him “but you do care, you care a lot.”

He didn’t say anything at the last statement you blurted out.

A thick, foggy silence fell upon you, you could feel it prickling around your face, eating your tears, you were sure that if you pulled out your tongue you could taste it, you could feel it, sneaking inside your ears and screaming at you. You never thought a silence could be so loud. But it was, a deafening silence.

Javier turned and walked to the desk, sitting on the edge and skimming through the other files that you had handed him, some of them were just more information about the corrupt politicians and some more about the cartel in itself. He didn’t say a word about the obvious and illicit origin of the files and for that you were grateful.

“I really thought,” your voice broke the silence again, and he seemed to ignore you “I thought I was doing good,” you closed your eyes, he wasn’t looking at you, yet again, “and then I got to see how things really were down here and… I knew instantly everything was just bullshit, just a fucking game,” Javier kept looking at the files and reading them and you wanted to beg him to look at you, you wanted to rush at him and grab his face and make him look at you in the eyes and tell you something, anything, to yell at you, to scream at you, because at the way his silence felt you were sure his screams would hurt less, “they played you, and they played me, and… I’m sorry.” 

“Why a DEA agent?” he questioned, closing the file he had just finished reading his hand resting on his thigh and the other on his hip, you frowned “why did they send down someone from the DEA instead of one of their own spies?”

You bit your lip, looking at the way his eyes were empty, void of any display of emotion, looking at the way he turned his face sterner, just as it was the first day you’d met him.

“Uh–because it was cheaper, to just create some sub-identity and I already knew the protocols.” you explained slowly, more for it to sink in to you than to him.

Javier hummed and returned his eyes to the next file, the one with your file. The real one.

You stood there while he read it. Trying to figure out what was going through his head, but as you were so emotionally spent you really couldn’t for the life of you read him anymore.

Javier felt his breath hitch as he read your real name, where you went to school, the fact that you had a master and the amount of time you had spent in México.

And then he chuckled. Under the name of your DEA adjacent’s name and your assigned partner there was your callsign: Flor.

He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and pointer and took a deep breath.

“What about your partner?” he cleared his throat “the one that sent you all that intel.”

Your chest dropped again and you felt your eyes fill with tears. Pure guilt and sadness.

“No one in México knew I got suspended, they just thought I got transferred, y’know?” you brushed the few tears that escaped your eyes “so I really did ask them for help, to give us anything on the narcos as we were aware of the connection,” Javier then saw you cover your mouth and sob “I fucking got Marcos fired.” your voice was muffled by your mouth and Javier had to, once again, fight the urge to grab you and pull you flush against his chest and comfort you.

“What else did you lie about?” he asked, not waiting for your sobs to die down, you shook your head.

“No–nothing, I sw–swear,” you sobbed out.

“Okay,” Javier stood from the desk and walked towards you. And for a second, a brief second, you allowed yourself to imagine that he wasn’t going to ask you what he did, and instead, he would brush your tears away, hold you or tell you that he forgave you. What a stupid little thought. “I think we’re done here.”

“Javi,” you called him and he flinched at how high pitched your voice became from the sobbing, he wasn’t looking at you, not really. His eyes were looking past you, “can you look at me?” you begged.

Fuck the hour you had let his eyes become your comfort.

“Get out,” he said, serious faced, lookin at nothing and everything but you.

“Jus–just, look at me? please?”

Javier closed his eyes, bit his lip and shook his head.

And pointed at the door.

“Right,” you tried to control the incoming sobs that were inundating your chest and throat and stood up straight, lining your shoulders and closing your eyes at how hard it was to leave, it was as if you had him glued to you and then you had to peel him off you, you looked at him one last time before turning around and walking towards the door, grabbing your bag in the way.

You didn’t even reach the door to the hallway when you exploded; you had to cover your mouth as you turned away from the entrance and propped yourself on the wall.

You felt like your heart might have actually stopped and you could only imagine how Javier felt.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you mumbled out, as if he had been still in front of you, as if he could listen.

You had to force yourself to walk into the open elevator and press the lobby button, because you knew that if you didn’t, you would’ve run back to his office and begged Javier to hold you, beg him to forgive you, even when you knew you didn’t deserve it.

Javier saw you walk out and watched your figure shrink at the office door, he had to close his eyes to stop from seeing the way you broke after everything you had told him. He had to turn around and grip the edge of the desk to physically stop himself from running to you, anchor himself to you and tell you he needed you.

Fuck the hour he had let your body become his comfort.

Once he was sure you weren’t there anymore, he opened his eyes, the files you had handed him were in front of him, one last file left to open.

Reluctantly, he took it and opened it.

“Shit,” he whispered. Feeling his breath hitch and his heart stop beating for half a second.

It was your resignation letter.

Just then, and only then, Javier let himself drown in his pain.

“Shit,” he spat through gritted teeth.

God how he wanted to hate you, he really wanted to hate you. But he couldn’t bring himself to turn all the love he had for you into hate. He couldn’t even when he really wanted to.

The guard at the front door didn’t even glance at you when you walked through the embassy doors, and for that you were grateful. When you realized you had driven with Javier to work, you had to cover your mouth again to muffle another sob.

You weren’t even outside the building yet and you were already missing him like crazy.

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[minor-solemnity]

To Be a Seer pt.5

Tag List: @jinxqsu @naps-and-lemons @riddles-wifey @mainlynonsense @cakesarecute @crumpets-are-better-with-jam @empath-bunny

You’re not naive enough to believe that Tom doesn’t have his own motivations, that he isn’t pulling the strings of public opinion for his own ends, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re interested. The mystery he presents, the truth of who and what he is… And maybe this is naive of you, but everything you’ve Seen has related to him and you refuse to believe that that doesn’t matter. Your finely honed instincts for self-preservation have well and truly flown out of the window when it comes to Tom.

He is, quite literally, your dream boy. Of course, you’re going to throw caution to the wind

There have been no new petrifications in the three weeks since you ran into Riddle outside the Prefects’ bathroom. You would have hoped that the lack of new attacks would do something to calm the student populace down a little, but it seems the opposite is true. The atmosphere in the corridors and the Great Hall is tense and uncomfortable. It’s as though everyone is waiting on tenterhooks for something to happen. Even the professors, who are all trying to put on a brave facade, are concerned. Your Heads of Houses have taken to sitting in on prefect meetings, reminding you all that it’s your job to make sure the rest of the students are safe. Despite the vastness of the castle and grounds, Hogwarts feels claustrophobic.

It’s at one of these meetings, on an otherwise nondescript Monday evening, that Dumbledore asks you to stay behind. You can’t quite hide the mix of surprise and reluctance that crosses your face at his request, though Dumbledore just continues to smile in that slightly unsettling way of his. You think of the way he’s looked at you in the past, as though he can see through all your defences and knows that you’re hiding something. He looks at you as though he doesn’t trust you. You’ve never liked being looked at like that, especially by someone for who you’ve never given any reason to doubt your integrity.

Next to you, Riddle stiffens slightly in his chair and you don’t like that either. Because this is real. Everything up until this point, you could minimise and justify. You’ve been tricking yourself into complacency for weeks, months even, why both telling the professors your suspicions about Tom when you don’t have proof?

You nod mutely and stay behind whilst everyone else files out of the room. Once you’re alone, Dumbledore smiles. “Please, take a seat, I wouldn’t want you to get sore feet, heaven knows that is an ailment that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.” You sit down and he stays standing, and, whilst his posture is casual, hands clasped in front of him, the height difference makes you feel anxious, like a small child about to be chastised. “Now, I imagine you’re wondering why I wanted to talk with you?” You nod and he smiles, “An easy question to answer, I’m glad to say. I’m wondering how you’ve been since the day we found poor Miss Wheatley. I apologise for not checking in on you sooner, though I daresay, young Mr Riddle has been making his shoulder available to cry on, should you need it.” You don’t miss the way his gaze sharpens at the mention of Riddle’s name.

Whatever he might say, you’re certain that Dumbledore doesn’t care about how you’re holding up. He suspects something, and his mention of Riddle makes you worry that he suspects that the two of you are in cahoots. The thought would be laughable except… Well, you’ve been keeping his secret for him, haven’t you? You could have gone to Dumbledore at any point and told him what you know. He’d believe you. He’s probably the only member of staff that isn’t fooled by the act that Riddle puts on.

This is your chance. Your chance to come clean and stop all this madness.

“Tom’s been very helpful,” Is what you end up saying. You don’t meet his gaze but your voice doesn’t waver either. “He’s, ahh, really made me feel quite looked after.” And the thing is, you’re not lying. Even if his motivations are suspicious, he has looked after you and made you feel oddly safe. You’re not sure what to think of it. Judging by the darkness that flashes ever so briefly across Dumbledore’s expression, he isn’t either.

There’s something about the way that he watches you - congenial and sympathetic - that you neither like nor trust. “Trust is a wonderful and strange thing - it can help build even the most difficult of bridges. You two have grown quite close, haven’t you?” You frown at the question and have half a mind to tell him that it is entirely inappropriate to ask about one’s students’ dating habits. More than that, it feels like he’s speaking in innuendo, every word out of his mouth has a double meaning and whilst you can’t figure out what he’s trying to tell you, you’re fairly certain that it’s nothing good.

“I guess you could say that, Professor.” You try to keep your answer as vague as possible because you know what people are saying, you know that the rumour mill has gone into overdrive regarding you and Riddle. There are plenty of girls in Hogwarts who would try anything to snag a date with him but until now, Riddle has shown little interest in anyone. The fact that he is displaying such outward devotion to you speaks volumes to anyone paying attention. You’d be lying if you said that it didn’t make your pulse quicken, didn’t send a fission of fire - too fierce and feral to be considered innocent, down your spine. You’d be lying if you said that there isn’t a part of you that enjoys the attention, enjoys the way he looks at you like he doesn’t quite understand you but wants to.

You’re not naive enough to believe that Tom doesn’t have his own motivations, that he isn’t pulling the strings of public opinion for his own ends, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re interested. The mystery he presents, the truth of who and what he is… And maybe this is naive of you, but everything you’ve Seen has related to him and you refuse to believe that that doesn’t matter. Your finely honed instincts for self-preservation have well and truly flown out of the window when it comes to Tom.

He is, quite literally, your dream boy. Of course, you’re going to throw caution to the wind.

Your brevity doesn’t seem to bother him and you’re unsure if that’s a good thing or not. You don’t have time to overthink the issue though, because Dumbledore asks, “Before I bid you goodnight, is there anything else you wish to talk with me about?” He lowers his head slightly as he talks like he’s trying to catch your gaze, and you’re not sure why but you feel goosebumps prick your skin and the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. You keep your eyes averted, directed just beyond his left shoulder, counting the cracks in the stone walls as you attempt to keep your nerves in check.

You push yourself up from your chair and turn to walk towards the door. “No, Professor. Like I said, I’ve been doing alright and Tom is just looking out for me.” It feels foreign and strange, though not necessarily unwelcome, to refer to him by his first name. It feels like another one of your carefully erected barriers, designed to keep you safe, is in the process of being demolished with all the grace of a mountain troll on a rampage.

You’re half expecting Tom to be waiting for you, but he’s isn’t and relief wells in your chest. You have some soul-searching to do and you’re not sure if you’d be able to face him right now. It’s only once you’re back in the safety of your dorm that you finally allow yourself to fully comprehend what has just happened. Students are being attacked and you’re fairly certain you’ve just aligned yourself with their attacker.

***

Three days later, at seven o’clock in the evening, you enter the entrance hall in a hurry. You’d been caught up in a lengthy conversation with Lucas about whether or not he should ask Deliah Bowers on a date and now you’re running slightly late for your prefect rounds. As you skid into the entrance hall, you see that Tom is already waiting for you. He’s sitting on one of the benches by the entrance to the dungeons, head bowed over a small book which he’s writing in, his legs are stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles and you take a moment to admire the lean line of his body, the elegant curve of his neck, the way he taps the end of his fountain pen in thought when he pauses in his writing. You’re reminded of why he has the reputation that he does; sitting there he looks like the embodiment of a perfect student: smart, quiet and, dedicated.

If only they all knew.

He looks up sharply at the sound of your approaching footsteps and snaps the book shut. “Evening,” You say and promptly flush at the way your voice comes out a little higher than usual, a little uncertain. It’s ridiculous, Tom has treated you the same since your impromptu meeting with Dumbledore, hasn’t asked you about it at all, but you still feel nervous around him, as though you’ve given him a reason to distrust you, as though you’ve let him down somehow. You offer him a small smile, your gaze sliding to his hands and his slender fingers which are capping his pen with deft precision. It’s really quite unfair that he can make even the most mundane of actions look so refined. “What were you writing?” His expression shifts slightly, becomes perfectly clear and smooth and you wonder if you’ve overstepped a boundary when he shakes his head and raises the book to the light.

It’s a small, thin diary, bound in black leather with his name monogrammed on the cover. It looks well-used but cared for, much like the rest of his belongings you realise. Now that you think of it, his robes and textbooks all share the same tell-tale traits of hand-me-downs, but he hasn’t any siblings. For the first time since you’ve known him, you begin to wonder who Tom is exactly, who his parents are, what his history is. You’ve been so focused on uncovering his future that you’ve quite forgotten to pay attention to his past.

The diary looks fairly expensive though and you wonder if it was a gift or if he had saved up to buy himself something he could be proud of owning. “My diary,” He says at last, his voice shaking you from your train of thought. “I bought it over the summer and have grown rather fond of it.” He pauses and then adds, “I suppose you could say it’s the only thing I’ve ever bared my soul to.”

Something in the way he smiles suggests he’s thought of something rather amusing, but you’re stuck on his choice of words. Without knowing why dread coils tight in your stomach. You shake the feeling off as the pair of you begin patrolling the corridors. For twenty minutes or so, you make idle chit-chat, discussing the lessons you share and the finer points on an ongoing debate between two Ancient Runes academics.

“Why the fountain pen?” You’re honestly surprised to see him use one. Quills are standard practice in the wizarding world, and whilst you have your own thoughts on their practicality, you’re shocked that Tom might feel the same way. Given his feelings towards muggleborns, you’re a little confused that he would willingly use something so muggle.

He hums in response to the question and casts you a sideways glance, amusement writ clear on his features. You get the distinct impression that he knows what you’re thinking and finds the whole thing rather droll. “Do you take issue with my using one?”

“What? No, of course not. I’m just surprised.”

“That I would prefer to use an instrument far more practical than a quill simply because the person who invented it was a muggle? I wouldn’t have taken you for a blood purist.” You bristle at his words and he raises an eyebrow, evidently having fun toying with you.

“I’m not.” You snap, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. Honestly, the nerve of him to accuse you of being a blood purist when he’s the one attacking muggle-borns. (You carefully don’t think about the fact that you are essentially condoning his behaviour by not stepping in when you have been given every opportunity to do so.) “I’m surprised that you’d see it that way because you’re the one who’s—”

“The one who has been what?” He cuts you off, and though his tone remains friendly, there’s a sharpness in his gaze and a tightness around the corners of his mouth that immediately puts you on edge. You swallow roughly, and the sudden desire to run away is almost overwhelming. When you don’t say anything, he stops walking and turns to face you fully. In the dim light, shadows dance along the dagger’s edge of his jawline. He is beautiful and terrifying and you can see the cracks in his visage where the boy becomes a man and the man becomes a monster. It probably says something about you that in this light, you find him all the more alluring.

He takes a single step towards you, graceful and predacious and you find yourself tensing as some primordial instinct overtakes you. Fight or flight except for the part of you that wants to run is diminishing by the second and the reckless desire to hook your fingers into the hollows of his collarbones and crack him open until you can see every part of him grows.

One thing is for certain: Tom is bad for your health.

“Don’t you think it’s time we stop this charade?” You lift your head to meet his impossibly dark eyes. You’re afraid but you’re past caring. “We both know what you’ve been up to. Why pretend that we don’t?” Something twists in his eyes, heat and anger and maybe a little bit of fear, but there’s also something else… Something bright and curious and pleased. You find that the most unsettling thing of all.

“You haven’t told Dumbledore.” It’s not a question, just a statement of fact and one that he obviously enjoys saying out loud. He stares down at you, smiling in a way that is not at all friendly. You’re reminded of the way Dumbledore had tried so hard to catch your gaze, though unlike with your transfiguration professor, you don’t look away from Tom. “Why is that I wonder? And, more importantly, how did you figure it out?” He’s so close that you can feel the warmth of breath fan across your cheeks, sending a bright spark of… something down your spine.

You don’t particularly want to answer either of his questions, but you know that he won’t let it go. He’s been being patient with you, you realise, waiting until a moment like this, when you’re alone and unguarded to interrogate you. The question is why? Actually, the question is how do you avoid answering him? It’s a little hard to think clearly with him so close to you and, judging by the small smirk that plays on his lips, you’re fairly certain he knows it too. “I didn’t like the way he was looking at me.” Which is the truth. It’s just not the whole truth. “As for your other question, well, I guess you’re not as difficult to read as you think you are.” Again, it’s not technically a lie, though how likely Tom is to agree with you is up for debate.

Tom’s stance grows stiff, a long line of barely contained anger and his eyes narrow. You wonder if it’s because you won’t tell him everything, or if it’s because the thought of being known and seen scares him. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s neither. Regardless, you feel as though you’re breathing water with how thick and heavy the air has grown around the two of you. “You don’t know anything,” He whispers, his voice is soft and low and you might describe it as sensuous if it weren’t for the way that he’s looking at you. Anger and fear coalescing and colliding in the dark pits of his pupils.

Something inside of you breaks. Tom is bad for your health. He makes you reckless and brave and that is sure to spell disaster. You laugh, and it’s not friendly. You’re not happy. You laugh and the sound is a bell toll, a chime of hysteria and disbelief. “Trust me, I wish I didn’t know anything.” And that… That is a lie. The more you find out about Tom the more you want to uncover. It’s a feral kind of hunger that overtakes and consumes you without you wanting it to. Just as he had ten minutes earlier, you take a step towards him and you’re so close that you can practically feel the tension that is rolling off of him. Your eyes trace the taught tendons in his neck, and clench of his fists, the pinched line of his lips. Something that could be glee flares deep inside you when his expression cracks, just a little, just enough for you to see surprise flit through his eyes.

He takes a step back. It feels like a victory. He looks wrong-footed, as though he is entirely unprepared for you to turn aggressor in this situation and you realise that Tom is probably aware of the effect that he has on people, has probably learnt how to wield his beauty and his intimidating personality in equal measure to get what he wants. You’re pretty sure that no one has ever called him on his bluff before. Because he was bluffing, you’re certain of that now. You can see the way nervousness plays in the barely-there shifting of his weight and in the way he’s leaning back ever so slightly. It makes you feel powerful. It makes you want to reach out and take and hold until you’re imprinted on his skin.

You don’t do any of those things. You let the tension simmer and you smile, something bitter and cynical and maybe a little taunting and then you push past him. You still have half a castle to patrol but you’re not sure you can stand to be near him right now, not until you’ve calmed down enough to sort your thoughts out. “I’ll meet you at the library,” You call over your shoulder and you’re only a little disappointed when he doesn’t follow.

***

Outside, the night air is cool against your flushed skin and you feel calmer before you’ve even lit your cigarette. You sit at the top of the steps that lead up to the castle and thumb your lighter impatiently, breathing in tobacco and nicotine and smoke. You’re not expecting to See anything in the smoke tonight - the inner eye doesn’t do well with an agitated mind and you’re too worked up to meditate. Which is why it’s all the more surprising when the smoke hangs in the air, unnaturally thick and still.

Tom is bad for your health. But you already knew that.

The phantom boy emerges from the smoke and this time, he’s clearer, more defined, a smokey apparition of bad omens to come. You watch in a trancelike state as the familiar scene plays out and the boy grows gaunt and haunted, breaking into seven until all that remains is a shade of a man, more ghoul than human. Each of the seven splinters begins to shake and you imagine that if smoke could make noise you’d hear screaming.

You’re startled from your reverie by Tom, who sits down next to you. The smoke collapses and you blink yourself back into reality. When you finally drag your gaze towards him you’re unsurprised to find that the full weight of his attention is focussed on you. He watches you with an intensity that makes the back of your neck prickle and your stomach drop to your knees. You see the instant that he puts it all together, you have a feeling he’s suspected for a while. And isn’t that a funny thing? You’ve been so focused on Seeing him, that you didn’t notice that he’s been seeing you the whole time too.

When he touches you though, his hands are tentative, like he’s unsure if he should, if he can, if he’s allowed. His fingers barely graze your skin, skittish and hesitant. But his touch is warm and human and you want him like this always. Whatever his future might be, you want him warm and human and whole.

“What did you See?”

(part1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5)