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myownwholewildworld · 2 days ago

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KAT, WHERE DO I EVEN START…….

You know this made me cry, that I stopped halfway through for a smoking pit stop because my heart just kept aching. THE GOOD KIND OF ACHE 💔

Let me preface my rambling by saying that you are a WONDERFUL writer. Your way with words is unmatchable, and you had me feeling all the freaking feelings here. That’s how good you are!

The whole chapter was just SO ANGSTY. How you describe reader’s loneliness, how it eats away at her with Javi’s absence… simply astounding. I FELT every single sentence, the feeling of pure abandonment, but also the fear of going back to a life you don’t know if you fit back into. UGH, so heart breaking but so so so GOOD.

The most gut-wrenching thing was that I could completely understand where both of them were coming from. Javi, losing himself in a desperate attempt to protect the woman she loves, and then reader building herself up from nothing, but unable to accept that Javi had become the darkest version of himself out of love and desperation. You tiptoed on that line so well, I just couldn’t decide which side I was on 😭 although I will admit, I did squeal in excitement when Javi got his revenge on Mateo, I was cheering him on from the sidelines - please nobody judge lmao

If I could, I would quote the whole fic, believe me. The whole NYE celebration had me on a FUCKING CHOKEHOLD because when the countdown started, I was TREMBLING. For a second, I thought that Javi’s conscience was going to blurt it out right there and then…

And the SMUT?? HOLA?? ATENCIÓN A TODAS LAS UNIDADES, ESTO ES UN LLAMADO DE EMERGENCIA??? So angsty, so heartbreaking, so sexy, the yearning, the longing, the COUCH AND JAVI PULLING UP HIS JEANS (you know what scene was playing in my mind), the fucking everything… fuck, you did it so well. I was horny and sad and excited and heartbroken, all at once.

And personally the ending was so so realistic and in line with what we know of both characters. Even though I was crying with reader, it hurt so good. You wrote it in a way that it just flowed and felt natural. And I wholeheartedly agree with this:

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

BEAUTIFUL. MASTERPIECE. QUE LO PONGAN EN UN MUSEO.

ANYWAY… I’ll stop babbling now, sorry 🤣 OKAY BYE TE QUIERO 💖

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s about vengeance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re supposed to be dead right now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I miss you. I’ll be back soon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tú primero.” (You first)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There isn’t anything left to say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m coming back tonight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You ready?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would you still be thankful then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That he’s leaving?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ten… nine…

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

Eight… seven…

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

Six… five…

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

Four… three…

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

Two… one…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Turn over. On your stomach.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything about him is so damn addictive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His flight boards in a little over three hours.

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

Fuck.

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

He hesitates, watching as your breathing deepens again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you getting dressed?”

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

“I’m leaving.”

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

“To the airport.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long have you known?”

“Found out this afternoon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I killed him.”

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

“Mateo.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Had to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was a start—”

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

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

“Stop saying that!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Months later, you receive a letter.

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

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

You read it over and over until the words blur.

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

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

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

tag list for my works can be found here, so if you're interested— pls check it out 🖤

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

#MAY I HAVE EVERYONE'S ATTENTION PLEASE #okay: READ THIS #fic rec #javier peña x reader

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starredblood · 3 days ago

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NOWHERE GIRL

CHAPTER SIX

kang sae-byeok x fem!reader

synopsis: you confront your classmate, determined to make her ex leave you alone.

wc. 1.7k

warnings: none

(nowhere girl masterlist)

When you got kicked out of your house you only had time to bring a few sets of clothes, your toothbrush, and your school supplies. While you were getting ready this morning, you had to watch a video tutorial online on how to tie your hair up with a pencil not minding the tall short haired girl who was eating breakfast just a few feet away in their tight knit apartment.

It was easy not to talk to Sae-byeok. She was like smoke, easy to spot but can’t grasp as it’s already dissolving away. She left ten minutes earlier than you did without a single uttering to you. You try not to think about it too much because you will be gone soon.

“Noona.” you hear a voice behind you peep while you were done tying your hair back. Cheol pops up from his room, handing you his tie timidly. “I accidentally loosened my tie. Could you tie it for me again?”

You walk over to Cheol and kneel on the hardwood floor to help adjust his uniform tie.

“Did someone hurt you?” he asks, pointing at your cheek.

“No, never. I just tripped.” you lie. You feel the weight of his stare on your bruised up cheek. “Do you always go to school by yourself?” you say to advert the topic.

“Yes. Sometimes my sister takes me if she doesn’t go to work early but she usually does.” he explains, rubbing his tired little eyes with his fist. “Ji-yeong noona isn’t a morning person so I’m scared to ask her.”

“Done. You look nice.” you ruffle the top of his head and stand up. “I would be scared to wake up Ji-yeong too by the way.”

A fatigue little giggle escapes Cheol’s mouth.

“Have a good day at school, Cheol.” you say and walk over to the door to slip on your sneakers only to look over at Cheol who pokes his head out his room once more.

“Are you staying with us forever, Noona?” he asks. The confused expression you gave him startled him. “I want you to!”

“No, I know what you meant to say it’s just—“ you scratch the top of your head. You don’t think it’ll be appropriate to say that tomorrow morning you’ll be long gone to a sensitive boy like Cheol. “I don’t know actually. Maybe one day I’ll have to leave but we’ll still be friends, okay?”

“Seriously?”

“Absolutely. Maybe in the summer you can come visit me at the art gallery I work at.”

“That’ll be cool.” he says quietly. “Bye, Noona.”

You wave him goodbye and exit the apartment.

The bus ride to your campus is serene on this cloudy spring morning and you wonder when this moment of calm will end. Maybe it’ll end when you get to your first class of the day where you will confront Yoon about her ex-boyfriend’s attempted assault on you yesterday.

✿・・───・・✦・・───・・✿

One thing Sae-byeok had to get used to was having a routine. Before working at the bakery, her days of pickpocketing were irregular and her income would be inconsistent. It was strange at first and she wasn’t the best on arriving to work on time at first, but by some miracle Miss Ahn never complained about her tardiness. Sae-byeok is almost certain Ji-yeong told her about her past so Miss Ahn could take it easy on her.

Her first month working at the bakery she didn’t think she would last. She was told to memorize kneading techniques, how to spot expired flour, and go grocery shopping in the middle of a rush because they ran out of eggs. It was all too foreign. But now she can barely remember her life without this job. However, today her mind is back to the days she used to be Jang Deok-su’s little apprentice. Everyday was violence, theft, drugs, and more violence. Sae-byeok can’t believe she survived it all.

For her midday break, Sae-byeok stepped outside to the back alley of the bakery and leaned her back against the wall to ponder some more.

“Hey, Kang!” Ahn Yong-sun, Miss Ahn’s eldest grandson, calls out to her from the back door. She slowly turns her head to look at him. “Where the fuck did you put Kim Yeoreum’s cake order? I can’t fucking find it anywhere!”

“On the top shelf! Asshole.” she mutters the last word underneath her breath.

“Just because you’re two inches taller than me doesn’t mean we can all fucking reach the top shelf!”

“Yong-sun, watch your mouth child!” Miss Ahn hisses as she arrived back from her grocery errands. She fans her grandson with her hands in a shooing motion. He mumbles an apology and cowers back inside but not before throwing Sae-byeok a glare. “Don’t let that brat get into your head, dear. He’s become so spoiled—of course he has, he was raised by my own spoiled son!”

Sae-byeok reaches over to grab her bag of groceries.

“Ah, look at you always being so attentive with me.” Miss Ahn coos. “I’m telling you if I fell down the stairs my grandson wouldn’t even bat an eye.”

They enter the kitchen and the aroma of fresh bread hits their nostrils. As Sae-byeok reaches over to shut the door for some odd reason the smell makes her think of you and the croissant you offered her last night. While she unloads the bag of groceries she keeps thinking of you and the last thing you told her last night.

Sae-byeok turns to peer down at the elder lady beside her jotting down another list of groceries. “Miss.” she says out of the blue.

“Yes, dear?”

“Is the apartment above the bakery still vacant?”

Miss Ahn’s looks up past her reading glasses and raises a brow. “Why? Did you and Cheol get booted off?”

“No, it’s for a friend.”

“Ah.” she hums and continues to write her list again. “I’m in the process of having a couple of people visit the space. However, it’ll make my life easier if you got your friend to come first—just make sure she doesn’t ask too many questions. You young kids love doing that.”

“Okay. Can she come tomorrow?”

Sae-byeok could sense that the older lady is skeptical. But she remains stone faced and calm hoping that she won’t raise further questions. It’s bad enough she’s doing this for your sake.

“I don’t see why not. Tomorrow afternoon.” she pats her on the shoulder. “Now, can you help me finish icing this cake for me? The customer will arrive later today.”

Sae-byeok walks around the other side of the island counter and sneakily pulls out her phone to send Ji-yeong a message.

✿・・───・・✦・・───・・✿

You drop your belongings at your usual spot, next to the large window panes in the studio and march over to Yoon who was currently chatting with a friend. Without noticing, your jaw clenches seeing how content Yoon looks giggling with her friend while your mind is in torment over the chaos that ensued yesterday.

When she sees your rigid figure march up to her she hushedly says something to her friend that made her go silent. She avoids your eye contact the closer you approach them.

“Can I talk to you in private?” you ask her, irritated.

Yoon stiffly nods while still avoiding your intense eye contact and follows you out the classroom. When you reach the end of the hall you cross your arms and narrow your eyes at her.

“So—“

“I’m really sorry.” Yoon interrupts quickly with guilt written all over her face. “I didn’t think Yen-ho would…”

“Try to beat me up?” you scoff.

“I was just confused about this whole situation an—“

“Situation? This isn’t a situation, Yoon this is my life! I get it if you don’t want to be around me anymore. It fucking sucks that I know what you will decide but to go around and tell people…” you choke back tears. “it’s just making my life harder than it already is.”

“Fuck. I’m so deeply sorry.”

Breathless with anger you take a couple of seconds to compose yourself before continuing. “Whatever, Yoon. Could you just tell me if he’ll be here today so I know when to leave?”

“He doesn’t go to school here he just likes to wander.” she mutters. “But I’ll text him—tell him to back off.”

Before you could speak your professor appears. “Ladies, class is starting now could you head to your seats please. And can I speak to you after class about your project?” he points at you.

“Yes, I’m sorry.” you mumble, lowering you head and scurry with Yoon to the class.

“Don’t apologize.” he chuckles.

It was hard to pay attention in class when all you could do is shoot daggers at Yoon across the room. You could see the anxiousness in her behavior, how she would pick up and put down her phone, and only reply to her friends in short sentences.

At one point you heard the professor cough in your direction leaving you no choice but to try and concertante on the piece you are working on. But by the time class was finished, you barely finished what you started with.

You wait until everyone leaves before dragging your feet up to the professors desk.

He greets you by your name and folds his hands, thinking deeply. “So, you’re the only one that hasn’t shown me their piece. Could you show me and explain to me what your piece is about?”

“It’s a textile piece that will, um, resemble a fashion designers sketchbook. I’m using textile, watercolor, fashion magazines, and my own sketch designs for this piece…” you quietly explain as you show him the piece, frowning at the disapproval on his face.

“That sounds…marvelous.” he says to your surprise. “I like the use of watercolor to depict paper fading yellow.”

“Thank you, professor.” you bow.

“Is there a story behind this?”

“I’m still trying to get around it.”

“Okay.” he hums. “Recently, I’ve noticed your lack of concentration in my class however. I stated from the start that students that consistently keep lacking won’t succeed in my class. This is the first big project and you will have two bigger ones these next upcoming weeks. I don’t want you to fall behind already—especially since I can already conclude that you’ll be one of the runner ups in the Hangaram prize.”

Your heart begins to swell. This is the first good news in a while you aren’t sure how to react. So you just stare at your professor with wide eyes and a gaped mouth.

“So please, focus on this project and I am excited to see the end results next class.”

“Of course, thank you professor!”

You walk out of class in high spirits only to be crushed with the realization in knowing that a potential group of loiterers are waiting for you outside these walls.

🏷️: @monroesturnns @knfthxv @jumpedthenfell-13 @peelover25 @karli6 @kissedberries @bitchybananaflower @laurenkenss

#kang sae byeok #kang sae byeok x reader #kang sae byeok squid game #kang sae byeok x fem!reader #squid game #squid game fanfic #fanfic #wlw #wlw fanfic #angst #fluff

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presidentsdaughter · 3 days ago

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note/tags - suicide but not jimmy.. just his mom, slight gore mention, some smut?, dry humping, jimmy is like early 20s in this.. start to a fic i couldn’t bother to finish, bad writing..

Jimmy’s mom is all over the walls. It’s like someone has set off a fucking party popper. She didn’t even have the decency to get him a banner.

Welcome home Jim! Congrats on getting bailed out! I knew you could do it!

Not even that. Not a single slice of cake. Not even a candle or a party hat or a gift box or a fucking hug. Whatever people get on their birthdays.

Jimmy stands there, jaw tight, unblinking as he looks over the mess she has made of herself, the house, and his life. She’s smoked all her cigs, drained every bottle, snorted anything fine enough to suck up through a straw, and he knows Mom, she’d never leave a needle behind. So the only thing she leaves in his name is this mess and this awful smell.

He toes at what is left of her, her legs bent awkwardly at the knee like a mistreated Barbie doll. Her face is this gaping hole that looks something like her bloody cunt the day she pushed him out. For a second he wishes that it would open up like the maw of a beast and swallow him whole, take him back to where he came from, and then he goes back to feeling nothing much.

It’s no biggie. Jimmy never liked her much. She liked Curly more than she liked him, but everyone likes Curly more than him. He’s a sole-crushed peach splattered on the sidewalk, picking up grit and dirt, and Curly is a fucking prized watermelon or a silver spoon, a real nice spoon, the fancy kind you only get out for guests—He’d come and use his polished edge to scoop Jimmy right up, shape him into something nice, clean him off and serve him for dessert.

Curly bailed him out. He drove Jimmy home in his nice new car, it smelt good and had his initials on the number plate. He did this all because he needs Jimmy to feel good. So he can go and tell anyone that’ll listen about his piss-poor junkie best friend. How he put him back on his feet. Curly is modern day fucking Christ and Jimmy is a crippled leper.

By his mother’s open hand is his father’s handgun. She’s named Mia after the chick in Pulp Fiction. Jimmy picks her up, gives her a once over, and tucks her in his back pocket for a rainy day. He goes to take a piss because he’s been busting for one ever since Curly picked him up, but the throbbing urgency numbed when he saw his fragments of mom’s skull dotting the carpet like milk teeth.

Jimmy takes his piss and then he notices mom didn’t even leave a single sheet of toilet paper behind. He shakes himself dry, returns to the couch where she lays limp, thinks of blowing off her tits and then decides she isn’t worth another bullet. Jimmy turns the gun to himself. He wonders if mom put it to the right side of her head or the left. Probably in her stupid whore mouth. She would let anyone in there.

“You’re joining the party, huh?” You’re standing in the doorway of his trailer, lukewarm and unsmiling, snapping your gum like this is no big deal. You’ve always been that way. Unaffected. Jimmy pulls the trigger and Mia jams. She’s an old girl. He forgives her. He just wanted to see you cry.

Jimmy doesn’t really think you would cry, but he likes the thought of it. You would look so fucking ugly when you cry.

“I found her earlier, heard the shot and came to check.” You’re wearing short shorts so short the inside of your pockets hang out past the cuffs. “But I thought it’d be a nice surprise.”

“Fuck you,” Jimmy says, arm dangling by his side. Mia clatters to the ground when his fingers lose grip.

“That’s not very nice,” you tell him evenly, sidestepping clumps of clotted blood to get to him.

Jimmy flops down beside his mom’s faceless body. She talked too much so the silence is kind of nice. He spreads his legs and you drape yourself over him, pressing your tits to his chest and sucking his tongue into your warm mouth.

“I didn’t forget your present.” You’re rolling your hips into his, the old couch creaks with the weight of all two and a half of you. His mom topples sideways onto his shoulder and Jimmy shoves her dead weight back the other way. Blood smears the arm of his shirt where she fell, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“Oh, yeah?” Jimmy bites your neck, he feels the pulse of your hot cunt through those tiny shorts.

“Course I didn’t, saved the date and everything.”

He half expects you to dig into your bra and pull out a baggie of something, but you just offer him a half smile, giving a sideways glance to the stinking corpse.

#🧸.shorts #mouthwashing jimmy x reader #jimmy mouthwashing x reader #jimmy x reader #mouthwashing x you #mouthwashing smut #mouthwashing x reader #mouthwashing jimmy smut #jimmy smut

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jaredpadonlyyyy · 1 day ago

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𝙂𝙀𝙏𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙉𝘼𝙆𝙀𝘿 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙎𝙈𝙊𝙆𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙒𝙀𝙀𝘿

• 𝙉𝙊 𝙎𝙈𝙐𝙏

• 𝙈𝙄𝙉𝙊𝙍𝙎 𝘿𝙉𝙄 𝙄 𝙒𝙄𝙇𝙇 𝘽𝙇𝙊𝘾𝙆 𝙔𝙊𝙐

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝙂𝙀𝙏𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙃𝙄𝙂𝙃, 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝘽𝙀𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙉𝘼𝙆𝙀𝘿

You and JJ were hanging out at the chateau, it was one of those days were you wanted to leave home because your dad was drunk and you knew what was coming, you couldn’t handle seeing how he would treat your mother, and how after she would get so drugged out, that he would continue onto your little brother, but you would always take his place. So before it could happen, you packed a bag for him and yourself and took him to your grandparents house and left him there with them. Told him that you will be back in a few days as he still didn’t understand what was going on. Since he was four years old still.

John B was at work, so the chateau was alone at the moment. John B always lets you stay and his dad had even given you your own room from when you wanted to escape your home. Currently you and JJ were passing a joint between the two of you both of your with your legs up on the walls as you laid on the bed, looking up at the ceiling as the light of the day shines inside the room. “You okay?” JJ asked after a while. Since you didn’t talk at all since you had gotten to the chateau. You sigh as your eyes got watery and you looked over at the blonde boy you’ve been in love with since the fourth grade, it was when you met him

You shook your head but you looked away trying to hold back your tears. “Honestly, I’ll never be okay.” You told him. JJ always understood her home situation as he’s gone through it with his own father as well. So they both had found comfort in each other. It was either between smoking weed and have sex, or just have sex or just smoke weed. You knew he didn’t like you that way, but as long as you felt what it’s like to be loved by him, touched by him, you didn’t mind. Love wasn’t in your mind as all you were worried about, was what were you and your baby brother were going to eat that day. The money that your father makes, always goes onto drugs and a lot of alcohol. You were in charge of paying the rent on time, the bills weren’t sometimes paid because it was not enough money. So you would shower at either the chateau or at your grandparents house or at Kie’s

“Yeah, I get it.” He said as you both looked at each other. He passed you the joint as you sat up and you took off your cropped top letting your breast come out. “What are you doing?” JJ asked you as you took a hit of the joint. His blue eyes falling onto your pink hard nipples. “Let’s get naked.” You told him as you stood up on the bed and wiggled out of your sleeping shorts, leaving you completely naked in front of JJ.

You’ve both have seen each other naked. Since it wasn’t the first time having sex with each other. JJ’s eyes wonder lower to your pussy and he felt himself twitching inside his swim trunks. Since you worked out, you had the perfect tight little body, fit, small. “Come on, it feels good being naked.” You told him as you sat back down on the bed, bringing your legs up to your chest as you passed him back the joint.

He stood up taking off his shirt along with his swim trunks and his boxer shorts. Your eyes falling onto his soft dick. Even it being soft, it looked long and you loved it. Both of you laid back down on the bed in the same position you were initially and passed a joint after another. By the time you were both done. You were both giggling as JJ had said something funny.

Both of you stayed quiet as you both enjoy the peaceful moment together, enjoying your high you felt happy at the moment, it was always your favorite place to be with JJ, in moments you needed him, he was always there to console you in any way you want.

Whether it was just sex, or hanging out. He was just always there. No one but him understood you.

“You know what we should do?” You said as you turn your body towards JJ’s. “Have sex?” He said as you giggled. “No! I mean, I wouldn’t mind, but that’s not the point. The point is, that when we turn 30 and we haven’t gotten married, we should just marry each other and have like 20 kids.” She said making JJ smile as she said that. “20 kids?” He asked her as he turned his body towards hers as well. “Yeah, I mean, why not.” She shrugged as his hands reached over and placed his hand on her hip, giving it a light squeeze. “I mean, I’m down, but 20 kids?” He said.

“Okay, fine, 30.” She said making the blonde boy laugh, making her giggle.

“You want to know something?” JJ asked her as she calmed down and looked at him. “What’s that?” You asked him. His ocean blue eyes on yours as he softly smiled. “I love you.” He said making you smile fade as he said that. It didn’t sound like the I love you’s he will tell you all the time. That one sounded different.

“W-What?” You nervously laughed as he moved his naked body closer to yours. “I’ve been in love with you, since. I don’t know. A long time.” He said to you. “JJ.” You said his name softly as he inched closer to you. “If you don’t feel the same. It’s okay.” He said.

But as you were about to answer, the door to the room opened. “Hey— oh god!!” John B yelled as his eyes widen. “John B!!” You quickly grabbed your pillow covering your naked body from his view. JJ just laughed at how red your face has gotten from being caught. “Don’t you know how to knock!” You yelled. “Sorry!” John B yelled from the other side of the door. “Next time fucking knock!” You yell at him.

“We’re not done talking.” You told JJ as you stood up and got dressed, really hoping there was some kind of news about the gold they have been looking for.

This was supposed to be a smut! But I got lazy in doing it, and I don’t want to write smut all the damn time anymore. It feels like I’m a sex addict of something lmao. Anyways ENJOY! Next one will be a smut! ✌🏻🙂💋🫶🏻🤍🤍🤍

PS, PS!

If you see she and you ignored it! I was used to writing she that I sometimes do it!

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fuckyeahilike · 1 day ago

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During the filming of Mad Max Tom Hardy would consistently show up late, sometimes as much as three hours every day. When his co-star Charlize Theron understandably started to get upset he physically threatened her with violence. She had to get security guards to protect herself from him because he's the kind of guy who thinks it's cute to beat up women.

People forget, but I remember very well that around this time rumours in the media started to circulate about Charlize being supposedly "difficult" - that's Hollywood code for a woman who just isn't as subservient as men want her to be.

These days audiences are a little bit more sophisticated and they're starting to see through these things, like when Kanye West flooded social media with accusations against Taylor Swift that she was a "snake" who had tried to seduce him (when it was quite the other way around); or Johnny Depp staging a huge defamation campaign against his ex Amber Heard; or more recently Blake Lively being persecuted by Justin Baldoni, who even used the same PR company as Johnny Depp to ruin her career and reputation.

So it's pretty clear who it was that started rumours about Charlize Theron being "difficult" for being the only professional actor on the Mad Max set.

Tom Hardy looks like this these days, btw. He used to look like a model, now I couldn't even recognize him. He looks like he could be his won grandfather. This is the result of decades of smoking, drinking and drugs.

i just think that the photos tom hardy took of austin butler during filming for the bikeriders

#tom hardy #charlize theron #misogyny #feminism #movies

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soleilpinto · 2 days ago

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Huracán de Barcelona (Carlos Sainz) ♱ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🍷

“You’re not as different from me as you think,” 𐙚—🪽

Synopsis: Carlos Sainz, a devout church member destined for sainthood, finds his faith tested when he meets Y/N, a bold and beautiful woman known as Huracán de Barcelona or The Hurricane of Barcelona. Drawn into her world of defiance and temptation, Carlos faces a battle between his vows and his desires, questioning everything he once believed. Their forbidden connection will change both their lives forever.

Genre: Slowburn, Angst

AU: 1960s!au

Pairing: Priest!Carlos x Rebel!Reader

Warnings: Reader isn't exactly a good person, she's misunderstood. This fic is lowkey rooted in my religious trauma but we don't talk about that.

Note: I've been geeking out over Hilda Furacão for the longest time and decided to take my own spin on it because I thought, why not? I've tried convincing my friends to watch it so I'm no longer alone, and I hope you guys like it! Don't forget to + reblog if you enjoyed reading.

The warm glow of Barcelona’s neon lights cast vivid reflections on the rain-slicked streets of the red-light district. Carlos Sainz walked with quiet purpose, his simple black cassock stark against the gaudy opulence surrounding him.

In his hands, a worn Bible—the anchor of his resolve, the symbol of his mission. He moved through the chaos of the night, determined to bring solace to those lost in the shadows of the city.

Inside La Rosa Negra, the district’s most infamous club, decadence thrived.

Music thumped, laughter rang out, and a haze of cigarette smoke curled lazily in the air. Among the revelers, you reclined on a velvet chaise, draped in a crimson gown that shimmered like liquid fire.

A glass of champagne rested in her hand, its fizz catching the dim lights as your piercing eyes scanned the room. You were at home in this chaos, thriving in it, yet tonight her gaze landed on something—someone—who didn’t belong.

At first, you almost laugh. The man standing at the entrance, his black cassock and steady gaze, is a jarring contrast to the vivid world around him.

He clutches his Bible tightly, a solitary island of purpose in an ocean of indulgence. The faintest smirk pulls at your lips as you watch him step further into the club.

He begins to speak, his voice cutting through the din. It’s calm and firm, a steady current against the tide of indifference. But you can see it’s futile. Patrons glance his way with vague curiosity before returning to their drinks and conversations. Yet, he doesn’t falter.

His presence commands attention in a way that stirs something in you—curiosity, amusement, and perhaps a touch of challenge.

You lean back, taking a sip of champagne as an idea forms. The game practically writes itself. You set your glass aside and rise, your heels clicking against the polished floor as you move through the crowd. The familiar sound feels like a prelude to a performance, and the patrons part for you instinctively.

When you stop in front of him, you tilt your head slightly, letting your lips curl into a slow, knowing smile.

“You’re either very brave or very foolish, Padre,” you say, your voice laced with playful mockery.

His eyes meet yours for the first time, steady and unwavering. Up close, you notice the sharpness of his features, handsome in a way that doesn’t fit with his role—or this place. But it’s the strength in his gaze that holds you, a calmness that both intrigues and unnerves you.

“I come where I’m needed,” he replies simply, his voice measured.

You arch an eyebrow, amused by his composure. “And you think we need you?” you ask, feigning curiosity. A soft laugh escapes you as you shake your head.

“How noble. But tell me, Padre, do you even know what it is we’re looking for?”

His expression doesn’t waver. “I think you’re looking for more than this,” he says, gesturing subtly to the room around you.

You chuckle, the sound carrying a faint edge. “More than this? What makes you so sure?” You take a step closer, your voice dropping just enough to make it personal.

“You don’t know me, Padre. You don’t know what I want, what I need.”

For a moment, the distance between you feels like a thread pulled taut. His calm resolve remains, but you notice a flicker of doubt, so faint it’s almost imperceptible.

You lean in, catching the faint scent of incense on him, and let your voice drop further, almost conspiratorial.

“You think you’re different,” you murmur. “That you’re here to save me, to show me the error of my ways.” You pause, watching the tension build in his silence. Then, with a sly smile, you add, “But tell me, Padre—who’s going to save you?”

The weight of your words lingers, and his silence is an answer enough. Satisfied, you step back, your confidence surging as you give him one last knowing look.

“Careful, Father,” you say, your voice light but tinged with something darker. “You might find yourself in need of saving after all.”

As you walk away, you feel his eyes on you, lingering longer than they should. A thrill courses through you, though you’re not quite sure why. Whether it’s the game itself or the strange pull of his presence, you can’t tell.

One thing is certain, though: this is far from over.

After your first encounter, Carlos couldn’t escape you. Even in the quiet solitude of his small, sparsely furnished room at the parish, your laughter lingered in his mind, like the faint echo of a song that refused to fade.

He knelt in prayer each night, clutching his rosary tightly, seeking clarity and strength. He told himself that you were a test—an obstacle placed in his path by God to challenge and refine his faith.

But the memory of you was relentless.

It wasn’t just your beauty, though that alone was enough to unsettle him. It was the way you moved, the way you spoke with such confidence and defiance, as though the rules of the world—and of God—were mere suggestions to you.

You had looked at him not with guilt or shame, as so many others in your world did, but with amusement, as though you held some secret he could never comprehend.

Carlos found himself questioning his resolve. Why had he been so affected by you? Why did your words, your presence, continue to haunt him? Every moment he spent thinking about her felt like a betrayal of his calling, a crack in the foundation of his devotion. But no matter how fervently he prayed, no matter how many scriptures he recited, your image remained.

For you, your encounter was less about faith and more about curiosity. Men like Carlos didn’t belong in your world—men with unwavering principles, who spoke with conviction about things like salvation and redemption.

It fascinated you.

He wasn’t like the others who passed through La Rosa Negra, indulging in its offerings while wearing masks of denial.

Carlos was genuine, and that made him an enigma you couldn’t ignore.

You found herself replaying the moment he had looked into your eyes, unwavering even as you pushed and prodded at his composure. There was strength in him, a quiet kind of power that she didn’t often encounter. Most men were easy to read and easy to manipulate. But Carlos was different. His devotion wasn’t a facade—it was real, and it intrigued you.

At first, you told yourself it was a game. He was a puzzle to be solved, a challenge to be conquered.

What would it take, you wondered, to make him falter? Could you pull him from his pedestal of piety, or would he prove as unshakable as he seemed? The thought thrilled you, and yet, there was something deeper, something you weren’t ready to acknowledge.

For both of you, your encounter had created a ripple you couldn’t ignore.

Carlos returned to the district more frequently, under the pretense of his mission to save souls. But every time he stepped into the shadows of Barcelona’s neon glow, he found himself scanning the crowds, searching for you. And you, in turn, began to linger in places you knew he might appear, your interest growing with each passing day.

Carlos saw you as a test—a trial meant to strengthen his faith and reaffirm his commitment to his calling. But he couldn’t deny the unease you stirred in him, the questions you raised about his own humanity.

You saw him as a challenge, a man who had built his life on principles you had long since abandoned. But as the days passed, you found yourself less interested in breaking him and more curious about understanding him.

Your worlds, so starkly different, began to orbit each other in a way that neither could fully control. And though neither would admit it, you were drawn to one another—not just by curiosity, but by the faint, undeniable pull of something neither of you fully understood.

Carlos found himself returning to La Rosa Negra more often than he would admit, even to himself.

He justified it as part of his mission—his duty to save those who had strayed farthest from grace. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t the smoky haze or the disillusioned patrons that drew him back. It was you.

Tonight, you were waiting for him, lounging at the same velvet chaise as though you’d expected his arrival. Your ruby-colored gown clung to you in all the right places, and your eyes sparkled with mischief as he approached.

“Back again, Padre?” You asked, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Starting to think you like it here more than you’d care to admit.”

Carlos stood tall, his expression calm despite the heat rising to his face.

“I will continue to go where I’m needed,” he replied firmly, clutching his Bible as though it were a lifeline.

“Needed,” you repeated, leaning forward slightly, your voice dripping with mockery. “And here I thought priests only stuck to the safety of their churches. But no, here you are, in the lion’s den once again. How noble.”

He ignored your tone, instead meeting your gaze with quiet resolve. “I’m here for you, Y/N,” he said simply.

Your laugh was soft and melodic, tinged with incredulity. “For me? Padre, you don’t even know me.” You gestured to the room around you.

“What makes you think I’m any different from the others? Just another lost little soul for you to save?”

“You are different,” he said without hesitation, his voice steady. “You’re not like the others.”

You raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious now. “And what makes you so sure of that?”

“Because you’re not indifferent,” he replied, his words measured. “You challenge me. You question me. That tells me there’s a part of you that still cares—about truth, about meaning. Even if you hide it behind mockery.”

For a moment, your smirk faltered. The way he looked at you, with such earnestness, was disarming. But you quickly recovered, crossing your legs and leaning back with an air of practiced ease.

“Maybe I just like watching you squirm,” you say, your tone light but eyes probing. “After all, you’re so sure of yourself, so convinced you have all the answers. It’s fascinating, really.”

Carlos hesitated, unsure if you were taunting him or speaking honestly.

“I don’t have all the answers,” he admitted quietly. “But I believe in something greater than this—greater than what you’ve settled for.”

“Settled?” You echoed, voice sharper now. “You think I’ve settled for this? Let me tell you something, Padre—I chose this life. I’m not some poor, helpless creature waiting for you to swoop in and save me.”

“I don’t believe anyone chooses this,” he said gently, his gaze softening. “Not truly. You’ve been hurt, abandoned, lied to—”

“Don’t,” you interrupted, your tone icy. “Don’t you dare act like you know me. You hide behind your faith, Carlos. You’ve built your whole life around it because it’s easier than facing the real world. You sit on your little moral high ground, judging the rest of us for living in the mess you’re too afraid to touch.”

Your words hit him like a physical blow, but he didn’t back down. “And you?” he countered, his voice rising slightly.

“You hide behind this life, this persona you’ve created. You pretend it doesn’t matter, that you don’t care, but I see it in your eyes. You’re lost, Y/N. You’re searching for something, and you think you’ll find it here, in the validation of strangers.”

Your jaw tightened, and for the first time, you didn’t have a quick retort. The silence between the two of you was heavy, charged with tension that neither could fully articulate.

Finally, you stood up, your movements deliberate as you closed the small distance between you and Carlos.

“Maybe I am lost,” you say softly, your voice carrying an edge of vulnerability. “But at least I’m not lying to myself about who I am.”

Carlos met your gaze, his expression a mix of frustration and something else—something he couldn’t name. “You’re not as different from me as you think,” he said quietly.

You tilted her head, studying him. “Maybe not,” you admitted, a ghost of a smile crossing your lips. “But I think you’re more lost than I am.”

With that, you turned and walked away, leaving him standing alone once again, his grip on the Bible tightening as he watched you disappear into the crowd.

Carlos had always believed himself steadfast, unshakable in his faith.

His life had been one of service, guided by the tenets of scripture and the quiet assurance that he was walking the path of righteousness. But you had become a thorn in his conscience, a contradiction that burrowed deeper with each passing day.

He told himself that his feelings were not desire but pity, not longing but righteous concern. He prayed fervently, his whispered words to God growing increasingly desperate.

“Lord, grant me strength. Let me see her as you do—a soul in need of salvation, nothing more.” Yet, no matter how many hours he spent in prayer, your image returned to him unbidden: the curve of your smile, the defiance in your eyes, the way you looked at him as though you could see the thoughts he tried so hard to suppress.

When he sought you out again, he told himself it was for your sake. You needed guidance, and he was obligated to provide it. This was his calling, his purpose. But when he saw you, lounging in your usual spot at La Rosa Negra, his heart betrayed him.

“Back for another sermon, Padre?” You teased as he approached, your white dress catching the dim light and making you seem almost otherworldly. Devil in disguise.

Carlos hesitated, gripping his Bible tightly. “I’m here because I care about your soul, Y/N. I can’t stand to see you waste your life like this.”

You laughed softly, a sound that sent an unwelcome shiver down his spine.

“My soul? You’ve got quite the fixation on it, don’t you? But tell me, Carlos—” you leaned forward, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper, “—is it really my soul you’re worried about?”

His breath caught, and for a moment, he was struck silent. He forced himself to look away, focusing on the floor rather than her piercing gaze. “You’re trying to distract me,” he said, his voice strained.

“Distract you?” You tilted her head, smirk widening. “From what, exactly?”

He didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Instead, he turned on his heel and left, his chest tight and his thoughts a whirlwind.

But he couldn’t stay away.

The next time the two of you met, it was outside the club, late at night when the streets were quieter. Carlos had been walking, lost in thought when he saw you leaning against a lamppost, smoking a cigarette.

“Carlos,” you greeted him casually, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Didn’t think I’d see you out here. Shouldn’t you be in a church somewhere, praying for all our souls?”

“I pray for you,” he admitted, his voice low. “Every day.”

Your expression softened, but only for a moment. “You shouldn’t waste your prayers on me.”

“They’re not wasted,” he insisted, stepping closer. “I believe you can change, Y/N. I believe God has a plan for you if you’d only let Him in.”

“And what about you?” You asked, tone sharper now. “What’s God’s plan for you, Carlos? To spend your whole life saving all these sinners while pretending you’re not just as human as the rest of us?”

“I don’t pretend,” he shot back, his voice rising. “I’ve dedicated my life to something greater, something sacred.”

“And yet here you are,�� you say, stepping closer, your gaze unwavering. “Standing here with me. Tell me, Padre, is this sacred?”

Carlos felt his resolve crumble as you closed the distance between you. He could feel the warmth of your presence, and smell the faint scent of your perfume. His heart raced, every instinct screaming at him to leave, to run back to the safety of his church and his prayers. But he didn’t move.

“You’re testing me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m not,” you replied, your voice soft now, almost tender. “I’m just being honest. Maybe it’s time you were, too.”

At that moment, the weight of his denial came crashing down. He didn’t just care for you as a priest cared for a wayward soul. He wanted you, desired you in a way that defied everything he had vowed to uphold.

“I can’t—” he began, but the words caught in his throat as you reached up, your fingers lightly grazing his cheek.

“You can,” you say, voice steady, almost daring.

And then, against every vow he had ever made, every principle he had sworn to uphold, he gave in.

His lips met yours in a kiss that was both desperate and restrained, as though some part of him still tried to cling to the man he was supposed to be. But the floodgates had opened, and there was no going back.

When you broke apart, the silence between them was deafening. Carlos stepped back, his chest heaving, his hands trembling.

“What have I done?” he whispered, his voice laced with anguish.

You looked at him, your expression unreadable. “You did what you’ve been wanting to do since the moment you saw me,” you said simply.

He stared at you, torn between shame and something he couldn’t name. “I… I need to go,” he said, turning and walking away before you could respond, the weight of his actions threatening to crush him with every step.

Carlos shut himself away in the small, dimly lit chapel that had become both his sanctuary and his prison.

The once comforting scent of incense now seemed suffocating, the flickering candles casting shadows that danced mockingly across the walls. He knelt before the altar, his hands clasped so tightly in prayer that his knuckles turned white.

"Forgive me, Father," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I have failed You. I have strayed from the path You set for me. I let her pull me into darkness... I let myself be weak."

The memory of your touch, your voice, your eyes—everything about you—played on an unending loop in his mind.

Each moment felt like a dagger, twisting deeper into his soul. He had succumbed to temptation, and now the weight of his sin felt unbearable. He had been called to be a servant of God, to lead others to salvation, and yet he had fallen, allowing her to taint him.

"No, not her," he muttered aloud, his voice trembling. "She is not to blame. It’s me. I allowed it. I let her in."

But even as he tried to take responsibility, a darker thought lingered in the corners of his mind. Had you been sent to test him, or to ruin him? Had you been a temptation laid in his path by the devil himself?

Meanwhile, you stood outside the chapel, your arms crossed tightly over her chest. You had waited for days, hoping Carlos would come to you, that he would at least confront the feelings you both knew existed. But instead, he had disappeared into this sanctuary, avoiding you like you were some kind of plague.

Finally, your patience snapped. You pushed open the heavy wooden door, the sound echoing through the stillness of the chapel. Carlos flinched at the noise, his head snapping up to see you silhouetted against the light.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice hoarse and strained.

“What am I doing here?” You repeated, your tone sharp and incredulous. You stepped closer, your heels clicking on the stone floor. “What are you doing here, hiding like a coward?”

Carlos rose to his feet, his expression torn between anger and despair. “I am seeking forgiveness,” he said, his voice trembling. “For what I’ve done—for letting you... letting this happen.”

Your eyes narrowed, and you took another step toward him. “Letting me? Is that what you think this is? That I’m some kind of devil sent to tempt you?”

“You don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head. “This... this isn’t who I am. This isn’t who I’m supposed to be. I had a purpose, a calling. And now it’s gone.”

“Gone?” You snapped, your voice rising. “You think you’ve lost your purpose because of me? Because you kissed me? Don’t you dare put this on me, Carlos.”

“I’m not putting it on you!” he shot back, though his voice lacked conviction. “But you—” He paused, searching for the right words, but they escaped him.

“But what?” You pressed, your tone laced with hurt. “Say it. You think I ruined you, don’t you? That I’ve tainted you and ruined your chance at sainthood.”

Carlos looked away, his silence speaking volumes.

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound cutting through the heavy air. “You know what your problem is, Carlos? You’re so busy trying to be a saint that you’ve forgotten how to be human.”

He turned back to you, his face a mask of anguish.

“I gave up being human a long time ago. I chose this life because I wanted to rise above it, to serve something greater than myself. And now—” His voice cracked, and he looked away again.

“And now you’re realizing that you’re just as flawed as everyone else,” you finished for him, your voice softening slightly.

“Welcome to the real world, Carlos. It’s messy and complicated and full of mistakes. But that doesn’t make you any less of a person.”

He clenched his fists, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “You don’t understand what this means to me. I’ve dedicated my entire life to this path. To fail now—it’s unforgivable.”

“Unforgivable?” You stepped closer, your voice firm but not unkind. “Do you really think God is up there keeping a tally of every mistake you make? Do you think He’s going to damn you for being human, for feeling something real?”

Your words struck a chord, but Carlos shook his head, unwilling to let go of his guilt. “I don’t know what to think anymore,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reached out, your hand lightly touching his arm. He flinched at the contact but didn’t pull away.

“Carlos,” you say, your voice gentle now, “I’m not your enemy. I never was. But you need to stop using me as an excuse to avoid your own doubts. You’re questioning things because you’re human, not because of me.”

He looked at you then, his eyes filled with conflict. “I don’t know how to move forward,” he confessed.

“Then stop trying to figure it all out at once,” you state simply. “Start with the truth. What do you want, Carlos? Not what you think you’re supposed to want. What do you want?”

The silence that followed was heavy, but for the first time, it wasn’t suffocating. It was a space for honesty, for something real to take root. And in that moment, Carlos realized that the answer he’d been running from was standing right in front of him.

The sting of rejection lingers longer than you expected. For days after Carlos turned his back on you, his absence felt like a void in the chaotic rhythm of your life.

You’ve always thrived on your ability to stay in control and to hold the upper hand in any interaction. But now, for the first time in a long while, you’re left grappling with an uncomfortable truth—you’re not as unaffected as you thought you were.

You pace the length of your apartment, the sounds of the city filtering through the windows—honking cars, muffled laughter, the occasional shout. Normally, the chaos outside feels like an extension of you, a reminder that life never stops moving. But tonight, it feels distant, irrelevant.

In the silence, memories creep in. The way Carlos looked at you—not with lust, like so many others, but with something deeper, something raw.

The way his voice wavered when he spoke your name as if he were afraid of the power it held. You think about the way he walked away, his shoulders heavy with guilt, his words cutting sharper than they should have.

It’s not your fault, but I can’t be near you.

You scoff aloud at the memory, though the sound is bitter. “Coward,” you mutter, but the word rings hollow.

Deep down, you know his rejection wasn’t just about you. It was about him, his faith, his struggle to reconcile who he wanted to be with who he actually was. Still, knowing that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

The truth is, Carlos made you feel something you hadn’t felt in a long time—seen.

Not for your beauty, not for your confidence, not for the role you play in a world that thrives on appearances, but for something deeper, something more vulnerable. And now that he’s gone, that vulnerability feels like an exposed wound.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, and for a moment, you barely recognize the woman staring back.

The black gown, the perfectly painted lips, the sharpness in your eyes—they all feel like a mask, a costume you’ve worn so long that you’ve forgotten what’s underneath.

“Who are you?” you whisper to your reflection, the question hanging heavy in the air.

The answer doesn’t come easily. You think about the choices you’ve made, the life you’ve built—a life of freedom, of defiance, of never letting anyone hold power over you. But now, for the first time, you wonder if that freedom has come at a cost.

Have you been running all this time? And if so, from what?

Your thoughts drift back to Carlos, to the fire in his eyes when he spoke of his faith, of purpose, of something greater than himself. You didn’t agree with him—you still don’t—but you can’t deny the pull of his conviction.

It made you wonder if you’d been wrong to dismiss the idea of something more.

And yet, his faith had crumbled in the face of his desire for you. That should feel like a victory, but it doesn’t. Instead, it feels hollow, like you’ve won a battle you never wanted to fight.

You sit down on the edge of your bed, your head in your hands. The question lingers in your mind, persistent and unrelenting. What do you want, Y/N?

Not the fleeting thrill of the game, not the power you wield over others, not the endless nights of laughter that fade by morning. What do you truly want?

The thought scares you more than you’d like to admit because, for the first time, you’re not sure you know the answer.

The church is silent, save for the soft flicker of candlelight casting long shadows across the stone walls. It’s the same place where Carlos once knelt in devotion, where he first took his vows and pledged his life to God. But tonight, the sanctuary feels different—less holy, more human.

Carlos stands at the altar, his hands clasped in front of him, though not in prayer. His cassock hangs loosely on his frame, as if it no longer fits the man he has become. The weight of his inner turmoil is etched into his face, and for the first time, he looks like someone searching for answers rather than providing them.

The echo of footsteps draws his attention, and he turns to see you stepping into the church.

Your presence feels out of place here, yet oddly fitting, like a storm finding its way into a serene landscape. You're dressed simply, without the usual glamour that used to envelop you, but it only makes you seem more striking.

Neither of you speak at first. The distance between you feels vast, a chasm of misunderstandings, pain, and the undeniable connection that brought you here.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Carlos finally says, his voice quiet, almost reverent.

You walk closer, your heels clicking softly against the stone floor.

“I wasn’t sure I would,” you admit. Your gaze sweeps over the church, the stained glass windows filtering muted colors into the dim light. “But I needed to see you one last time.”

Carlos nods, his eyes fixed on you as if he’s afraid you might disappear. “I’ve been… thinking,” he begins, his words careful, measured. “About everything. About you. About me.”

He looks down, his voice faltering. “You changed everything, Y/N.”

Your lips curl into a faint, bittersweet smile. “I wasn’t trying to,” you say softly.

“I know,” he replies, meeting your gaze again. “But you did. I thought I understood faith. What it meant to be a man of God. I thought I knew who I was. But after you… I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

You step closer, the distance between the two of you shrinking. “And is that my fault, Carlos? Or is it because you were too afraid to question it before?”

He exhales sharply, the question cutting through him. “Maybe both,” he admits. “I convinced myself that my path was clear, that I was untouchable. But you showed me the cracks, the places I didn’t want to see.”

“And now?” You ask, your voice quieter, almost fragile.

Carlos looks around the church, his expression pained. “Now, I don’t know if I can call myself a man of God. I broke my vows. I doubted everything I believed in. And I—” His voice catches, but he forces himself to continue. “And I wanted you in ways I never should have. That’s not the man I was supposed to be.”

Your eyes soften, and you step even closer, close enough to touch him but holding back. “You’re not a saint, Carlos,” you say gently. “You never were. You’re just a man. And maybe that’s what you were running from all along.”

He stares at you, the truth of your words sinking in. For a long moment, neither of you speak, the silence filled only by the flicker of candlelight.

“What about you?” Carlos asks finally, his voice tentative. “What do you want now, Y/N? After everything?”

You look down, a faint tremor in your voice as you answer. “I want to stop running, too. I’ve spent so long living to defy everyone else, proving that I don’t need their approval. But I’m tired, Carlos. Tired of fighting battles that don’t even matter to me anymore.”

Your gaze lifts, meeting his, and for the first time, there’s no mockery or defiance in your expression—only vulnerability.

“I want something real,” you say. “Even if it’s not with you.”

Carlos flinches, your words hitting him harder than he expected. But he nods slowly, understanding. “I can’t give you what you need,” he says quietly. “I’m not even sure who I am anymore. But I hope… I hope you find it.”

You step forward, reaching out to touch his face lightly, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “And I hope you find yourself, Carlos,” you say softly. “Because whoever that man is, I think he’s worth knowing.”

You let your hand fall, and you both stand there for a moment longer, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you. Then, with a faint, bittersweet smile, you turn and walk away, your footsteps echoing through the empty church.

Carlos watches you go, his heart heavy but strangely lighter than before. As the doors close behind you, he turns back to the altar, unsure of what lies ahead but knowing one thing for certain—his life will never be the same.

Carlos left the church quietly, slipping away from the place that had been his refuge, his calling, and, ultimately, his prison. He carried little more than a small suitcase, the cassock folded inside as though packing away an old skin.

For days, the road stretched before him, unfamiliar and daunting, each step taking him further from the life he thought he was destined to lead.

In the beginning, his prayers were desperate, pleading whispers in the night. “God, forgive me. Show me the way,” he’d mutter, clutching his rosary as though it could anchor him. But the words felt empty, bouncing back from a silence he couldn’t ignore.

His faith, once unshakable, now felt fragile, brittle under the weight of his doubts.

He soon found himself in a coastal town far from Barcelona, where the salty breeze mingled with the scent of fresh bread from the local bakery.

The town was simple, quiet, and unremarkable, but its stillness offered a balm to his restless spirit. He took a job at the bakery, learning to knead dough and shape loaves with hands that once held a Bible.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was grounding.

For the first time in years, his work felt tangible, the ache in his muscles at the end of the day a comforting reminder of his efforts.

Carlos thought of you often, though the memories came with less pain over time. He recalled your sharp wit, the way your laughter could cut through the most solemn of moments, and the way your piercing eyes seemed to see through him.

You had challenged everything he believed, not out of malice, but because you saw the cracks in the foundation he’d built his life on.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold, Carlos sat on a bench overlooking the sea.

A journal rested on his lap, its pages filled with reflections and unanswered questions. He thought of the arguments you’d shared, your voice sharp yet earnest as you tore into his defenses.

“You hide behind the church because it’s easier than facing the real world,” you’d said during one of your heated exchanges. “You call it faith, but it’s fear, Carlos. Fear of failure, fear of imperfection, fear of being human.”

At the time, your words had infuriated him, striking too close to the truth. Now, they lingered in his mind like an undeniable echo.

“You were right,” he murmured aloud, the waves crashing softly below. “I was hiding. I thought I was above the chaos, but I wasn’t. I never was.”

He closed his eyes, letting the breeze carry away his confession. For the first time, the weight of guilt seemed to lift, replaced by a fragile acceptance. He wasn’t the man he used to be, but perhaps that was the point.

In Barcelona, you wandered the city’s labyrinthine streets, your heels clicking against the cobblestones. The vibrant energy of the city felt muted now, a backdrop to your growing introspection.

After Carlos left, you’d thrown yourself back into the familiar rhythms of your life—late nights, endless parties, and the intoxicating game of holding the world at arm’s length.

But it wasn’t the same.

One afternoon, you passed a small, unassuming church tucked between two old buildings. Something about its modesty drew you in. The air inside was cool and quiet, the faint scent of candles and incense lingering.

You sat in the back pew, letting the stillness envelop you. It was the first time you’d stepped into a church without an agenda, without a performance to put on.

Carlos’ voice came back to you, unbidden, from one of your arguments.

“You think rebellion makes you free, but it’s just another kind of prison,” he’d said, his gaze intense, his words cutting through your bravado.

At the time, you’d dismissed him with a laugh, but now, sitting in the quiet, you couldn’t shake the truth of his words. You weren’t free. You were running, hiding, masking the emptiness you were too afraid to face.

“Carlos,” you whispered, his name lingering on your lips like a prayer. You didn’t know where he was or if he ever thought of you, but you hoped he had found peace.

Months passed, and Carlos settled into his new life. The townspeople had accepted him as one of their own, though they never pried into his past.

His days were simple—early mornings at the bakery, evenings watching the waves, and nights spent reflecting.

One evening, after closing the bakery, Carlos sat at his small kitchen table with a pen and paper. He began writing a letter, not intending to send it, but needing to put his thoughts into words.

“Dear Y/N,

I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing, but I hope you’ve found what you’re looking for. I used to think meeting you was a test, something I had to endure to prove my faith. But now, I see it differently. You weren’t my downfall. You were the mirror that forced me to see myself clearly for the first time.

I’m still figuring out who I am without the church, but I think I’m starting to like this version of me. It’s messy and uncertain, but it’s real. Thank you for teaching me that, even if it was painful.

Take care, Carlos”

He folded the letter and tucked it away in a drawer, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Life wasn’t perfect, but it felt honest, and for now, that was enough.

Though your paths had diverged, you and Carlos carried pieces of each other forward.

His voice remained in your thoughts, not as a haunting, but as a reminder of the lessons you’d learned. You no longer lived solely to defy expectations, nor did he cling to the rigid ideals of his past.

In your separate journeys, you found something precious: the courage to face yourselves. And though you would likely never meet again, the bond you shared—tempestuous, transformative, and unforgettable—would remain a part of you both, a testament to the way two flawed souls could change each other forever.

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27spoons · 2 days ago

Text

CRUSH | NATALIE'S INTERLUDE ONE

pairing: natalie scatorccio/fem!reader

summary: Natalie just convinced you to attend a party. She honestly didn't expect you to say yes. She mentions it to a friend at practice.

wc: 920

warnings: none

a/n: pre/no-crash lottie was an awkward loner but everyone knew who she was. u arent changing my mind sorry its canon now (sorry for repost forgot to add like a chunk)

ao3 / masterlist

PREVIOUS - ACT ONE: DO I WANNA KNOW?

NEXT - ACT TWO: RIBS (WIP)

NATALIE

"Hell yeah, you will. Maybe I'll even convince you to crack a beer or two. Smoke a cigarette. Real delinquent shit." Nat laughs at that as she begins walking off toward the gym, "See you tonight, Princess!" She calls from over her shoulder, "I'll text you the address!"

In her most calm and collected saunter, she walks out of your view before vanishing behind a wall and immediately letting a tiny, satisfied grin appear on her face.

I didn't think she'd actually say yes. Nat thinks to herself as she walks a familiar path to the locker rooms. I didn't think she did anything besides stuff her nose inside a textbook for fun…

The blonde grins wider at her inner dialogue—because she'll be damned if she's not constantly the funniest person (aside from Van) in the room.

It's only when she's opening her gym locker that she realises she's still smiling, which draws a specific teammate's attention, one with a mess of wavy black hair and a narrowed glare, "Why are you smiling?" Comes the voice of a certain Charlotte Matthews—Wisaykok's High School resident "popular loner".

"Not allowed to smile?" Nat quips back, slightly flustered. She was caught grinning like a dumbass. "Or am I only allowed to smile when drugs are involved?" She cringes to herself at the sharp comment because she doesn't even know what the hell possessed her to say that. She knows Lottie didn't mean it like that.

And Lottie knows Nat knows that. "That wasn't what I meant." A slight frown graces the taller girl's features, and she gives a barely perceptible shrug, "Just don't see you smiling like that often."

Now Nat feels terrible. "No…" She sighs, running a thumb over her eyebrow, "It's… I know you didn't mean it like that. It's…" The girl sighs and returns the shrug, clearly her way of an apology. "Didn't mean to snap at you. Not used to people being actually curious."

"Yeah, I know what you mean." Lottie murmurs back, having seen her own share of cruel comments over the years about her behaviour.

An awkward silence passes over the pair as Natalie grabs her cleats and shin guards from her locker before the blonde finally decides to break the tense atmosphere, "Just… invited someone to the party tonight." She shrugs, trying to act like her face didn't begin burning at the admission.

Lottie notices it, unfortunately for Nat. "Seriously? Someone other than your usual crowd?" She pushes herself off the locker, "Who? Anyone I—"

"Nope!" Nat cuts her off, closing the locker too loud to play it off as anything other than her being flustered. "No one you know."

"Does he go to another school?" Lottie rolls her eyes, "Come on. Give me something."

"She," Nat clarifies, "goes to this school."

The olive-skinned girl's eyes widen in slight shock, "She? I thought you said—"

"I know what I said." Nat snaps as she sits down on a bench with a huff, "I dunno. There's just…" A frown appears, then vanishes just as quickly as it came, "Something about her. I wouldn't say she's… cool…" The blonde waves one hand as the other slides her shin guard on, "But she's… different."

"Different, how?"

Nat shrugs as she puts her other guard on, "I don't think she gives a fuck about what the rumours say, for starters." This is obviously something that weighs heavily on her, based on how her tone quiets at the words. "I mean, yeah, she's mentioned it a few times, but it'd honestly be weird if she didn't, y'know? It'd be like…" Nat hesitates, thinking of a good analogy that would describe the situation best, "Meeting Al Capone and not asking about all the shit he did during Prohibition."

A beat.

"Did you seriously just compare yourself to Al Capone, Natalie?"

The groan that's pulled from Natalie's throat might be the most grouchy sound she's made in her life thus far. "That was not what I meant, and you know it."

She finishes tying her cleats and stands up, walking out to the field alongside Lottie, "I just meant… I'd probably ask questions about me, too. Ninety-nine percent of the population only knows the fucking rumours."

Nat huffs and crosses her arms, then forms a deep scowl when she sees some kid with a camera walking out to talk with Coach Martinez. "And now we need to take fucking team photos. Are you shitting me? They couldn't wait until soccer season starts? Had to do it when we're just running practices?"

Lottie rolls her eyes and grins faintly at Nat's annoyance, "You know you'd complain about it if it was during the regular season, right?"

A sharp elbow to Lottie's side, earning a choked laugh from the taller girl as Nat mutters a curse under her breath, "Not the point."

When Lottie recovers, she gives Nat's shoulder a short push and nods her head towards where the team has started gathering, "For the record, we'll be talking about this later."

"No, we won't." Nat immediately replies in an irritable mutter, "We will never talk about this again."

"Mhm, whatever you say, Crash."

"And I told you to stop calling me that. It was one time!" Nat shoves at Lottie, but it's hard to fight the way her mood has shifted for the better at the teasing. This, at least, is familiar territory.

"One time too many, Crash."

"I hate you."

"Sure. You're standing next to me, by the way."

"...fine."

a/n: by the end of this fic i promise i'll learn something about soccer

#natalie scatorccio #nat scatorccio #natalie scatorccio x reader #natalie scatorccio x you #nat scatorccio x reader #nat scatorccio x you #yellowjackets #yellowjackets showtime #yellowjackets x you #yellowjackets x reader #lottie matthews #charlotte matthews #spoons (fics/blurbs)#butter knives (sfw)#crush #from the cutlery drawer

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toxicbrothel · 2 days ago

Note

Hiya!

🍆, for the Brothel Sleepover, please!

Could NW please write a Slasher piece?

This is such a fun idea, thank you for hosting this! I'm so excited to see all the asks!

bad girl shit (18+)

Slasher Joel x f!reader, by Night Walks 🍆

Not now, Daddy. Kitten's smoking a j with her best friend Pumpkin.

Slasher reads the text message and scoffs. The two of you must be hoing around together.... or maybe even with each other. Hell yeah. Kitten's hot as hell and Pumpkin's hot too, but Slasher would never make a move on Pumpkin knowing she would reject him. Yeah, Pumpkin, Kitten, and Jailbird are three of the hottest, baddest bitches out there. Slasher turns himself on thinking about y'all dressed up all slutty doing bad girl shit. He gets so horny that he's gotta see this for himself. He doesn't jack off first because it's so much trouble to take his uniform half way down to let his dick out. Shoulda worn something more comfortable and accessible.

On the way to kitten's house, slasher calls and says, "put me on speaker." So she does, and he asks, "Y'all havin' fun?"

"yeah," you both answer, laughing.

"I'm comin' over."

"just you?" Kitten asks.

"That a problem, sweetheart? Am i interruptin' somethin'?"

The girls giggle and there are kissing sounds.

"shit, that's hot as fuck," slasher says. "Lemme walk ya through it, pumpkin. Give her what she likes."

First, slasher tells pumpkin to get kitten really wet, then put her back with her knees up.

"mm-hmm," pumpkin confirms. "Alright, What now?"

"now stick two fingers in her cunt, kinda fuck'er with'm, use your thumb on her clit."

Kitten moans in the background and there's a slurping sound.

"Fuck yeah," slasher says. "Now add another finger," he says.

"oh was I still supposed to have just two?" Pumpkin asks.

"Shit, that's hot. Damn, you're good at this." Slurping sounds continue in the background. "Yeah, keep workin' her open. Fourth finger when ya can."

Kitten moans in the background then begs, "more,"

"give it to her, pumpkin. Kitten, how ya doin, sweetheart?" slasher asks as he turns into the neighborhood.

"More," kitten repeats.

"God damn," pumpkin says. "Ready for my thumb?"

Joel groans in arousal. "Yeah, give it to her."

There's some squishing and panting and then kitten moans, and pumpkin says, " I've got my whole hand in."

Slasher parks. "Alright, don't you dare take it out til I say. Just wiggle it a lil. I'm almost there."

Slasher approaches the house rubbing his erection through his coveralls, and he's puzzled by what he sees in kitten's living room. The two girls, fully dressed, laughing their asses off, with kitten passing a joint to pumpkin. Then kitten brings her mouth to the phone and makes the slurping sound again, then holds it away from herself and moans.

"y'all playin' with me?" Slasher asks.

They giggle.

"Alright get pumpkin outta there, cause now I gotta set ya straight."

Oh, she is in for it.

---------

Ty for playing, bubbles! Lots of love 💕

#slasher!joel x f!reader #written by character #brothel sleepover 💕#toxicanonymity ☠️#dark!joel miller x ofc

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sassenach77yle · 2 days ago

Text

Outlander 7x16 "A Hundred Thousand Angels"

I COULDN’T GO to sleep. I’d given Fanny her tea, provided her with suitable cloths—not at all to my surprise, she already knew how to use them—and talked gently to her, careful not to raise any more of her personal ghosts. When Fanny had come to us, Jamie and I had agreed that we wouldn’t try to question her about any of the bits of memory she dropped aloud—like the bad men on the ship and what had happened to Spotty the dog—unless she seemed to want to talk about them. I thought she would, sooner or later. Bree and Roger had agreed as well, though I could see how curious Brianna was. Fanny had mentioned Jane now and then, offhandedly, but in a way designed—I thought—to keep a sense of her sister alive. Seeing her distress tonight, though … Jane was much closer to her than I’d thought. And now that I’d seen Jane’s face … I couldn’t forget it. Knowing only what I did know about the girls’ lives in the brothel in Philadelphia was upsetting; I really hadn’t wanted to find out how they’d come there. I still didn’t … but I couldn’t keep the worm of speculation at bay; it had burrowed into my brain and was squirming busily through my thoughts, killing sleep. Bad men on a ship. A dog thrown into the sea. A pet dog? A family—if Fanny and Jane had been with their parents on a ship that encountered pirates … or even a wicked captain, like Stephen Bonnet

… I felt the hairs rise on my forearms at thought of him, but with remembered anger, not fear. Someone like him could easily have taken a look at the two lovely young girls and decided that their parents could be dispensed with. Faith. Our mother, Fanny had said. I’d looked more than once at the miniature in the locket—but it was too small to show anything more than a young woman with dark hair, maybe naturally curly, maybe curled and dressed in the fashion of the times. No. It can’t be. I rolled over for the dozenth time, settling on my stomach and burying my face in the pillow, in hopes of losing myself in the scent of clean linen and goose down. “It can’t be what, Sassenach?” Jamie’s voice spoke in my ear, sleepily resigned. “And if it can’t, can it not wait ’til dawn?” I rolled onto my side in a rustle of bedding, facing him. “I’m sorry,” I said, and touched him apologetically. His hand took mine automatically, warm and firm.

“I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud. I was … just thinking about Fanny’s locket.” Faith. “Ach,” he said, and stretched himself a little, groaning. “Ye mean the name. Faith?” “Well … yes. I mean—it can’t possibly … have anything to do with …” “It’s no an uncommon name, Sassenach.”

His thumb rubbed gently over my knuckles. “Of course ye’d … feel it. I did, too.” “Did you?” I said softly. I cleared my throat a little. “I—I don’t really do it anymore, but for a time, just—just every now and then—I’d think of her, of our Faith—out of nowhere. I’d imagine I could feel her near me.” “Imagine what she might look like—grown?” His voice was soft, too. “I did that, sometimes. In prison, mostly; too much time to think, in the nights. Alone.” I made a small sound and hitched closer, laying my head in the curve of his shoulder, and his arm came round me. We lay still, silent, listening to the night and the house around us. Full of our family—but with one small angel hovering in the calm sweet air, peaceful as rising smoke. “The locket,” I said at last. “It can’t possibly have anything whatever to do with—” “No, it can’t,” he said, a cautious note in his voice. “But what are ye thinking, Sassenach? Because ye’re no thinking what ye just said, and I ken that fine.” That was true, and a spasm of guilt at being found out tightened my body. “It can’t be,” I said, and swallowed. “It’s only …” My words died away and his hand rubbed between my shoulder blades.

“Well, ye’d best tell me, Sassenach,” he said. “Nay matter how foolish it is, neither one of us will sleep until ye do.” “Well … you know what Roger told me, about the doctor he met in the Highlands, and the blue light?” “I do. What—” “Roger asked me if I’d ever seen blue light like that—when I was healing people.” The hand on my back stilled. “Have ye?” He sounded guarded, though I didn’t know whether he was afraid of finding out something he didn’t want to know, or just finding out that I was losing my mind. “No,” I said. “Or not—well, no. But … I have seen it. Felt it. Twice. Just a flash, when Malva’s baby died.” Died in my hands, covered with his mother’s blood. “But when Faith was born, when I was so ill. I was dying—really dying, I felt it—and Master Raymond came.” “Ye told me that much,” he said. “Is there more?” “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But this is what I thought happened.” And I told him, about seeing my bones glow blue through the flesh of my arms, the feeling of the light spreading through my body and the infection dying, leaving me limp, but whole and healing. “So … um … I know this is nothing but pure fantasy, the sort of thing you think in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep …” He made a low noise, indicating that I should stop apologizing and get on with it. So I took a deep breath and did, whispering the words into his chest. “Master Raymond was there. What if—if he found … Faith … and was able to … somehow bring her … back?” Dead silence. I swallowed and went on. “People … aren’t always dead, even though it looks like it. Look at old Mrs. Wilson! Every doctor knows—or has heard—about people who’ve been declared dead and wake up later in the morgue.” “Or in a coffin.” He sounded grim, and a shudder went over me. “Aye, I’ve heard stories like that. But—a wee babe and one born too soon—how—” “I don’t know how!” I burst out. “I said it’s complete fantasy, it can’t be true! But—but—” My throat thickened and my voice squeaked. “But ye wish it were?” His hand cupped the back of my head and his voice was quiet again. “Aye. But … if it was, mo chridhe, why would he not have told ye? Ye saw him again, no? After he’d healed ye, I mean.” “Yes.” I shuddered, momentarily feeling the King of France’s Star Chamber close around me, the smell of the King’s perfume, of dragon’s blood and wine in the air—and two men before me, awaiting my sentence of death.

“Yes, I know. But—when the Comte died, Raymond was banished, and they took him away. He couldn’t have told me then, and he might not have been able to come back before we left Paris.” It sounded insane, even to me. But I could—just—see it: Master Raymond, stealing out of L’Hôpital des Anges after leaving me, perhaps ducking aside to avoid notice, hiding in the place where the nuns had, perhaps, laid Faith on a shelf, wrapped in her swaddling clothes. He would have known her, as he’d known me … Everyone has a color about them, he said simply. All around them, like a cloud. Yours is blue, madonna. Like the Virgin’s cloak. Like my own. One of his. The thought came out of nowhere, and I stiffened. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.” What if—all right, I was insane, but too late for that to make a difference. “What if he—if I, we—what if Master Raymond is—was—somehow related to me?” Jamie said nothing, but I felt his hand move, under my hair. His middle finger folded down and the outer ones stood up straight, making the sign of the horns, against evil. “And what if he’s not?” he said dryly. He rolled me off him and turned toward me so we were face-to-face. The darkness was slowly fading and I could see his face, drawn with tiredness, touched with sorrow and tenderness, but still determined. “Even if everything ye’ve made yourself think was somehow true—and it’s not, Sassenach; ye ken it’s not—but if it were somehow true, it wouldna make any difference. The woman in Frances’s locket is dead now, and so is our Faith.” His words touched the raw place in my heart, and I nodded, tears welling. “I know,” I whispered. “I know, too,” he whispered, and held me while I wept.

24 Alarms by Night~GO TELL THE BEES THAT I AM GONE

#the frasers #outlander #outlander series #outlander starz #outlander fanart #outlanderedit #samheughan #jamie fraser #jamie and claire #jamie&claire #claire beauchamp #dr claire randall #claire fraser #caitrionabalfe #fanny pocock #outlander book #outlander books #outlander season 7b #outlander 7x16

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w1w2 · 3 days ago

Text

From Shadows to Sunlight

Hwang Yeji x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 9k

Synopsis: As Y/N’s world begins to fall apart, she forced herself to make hard decisions while struggling to navigate life’s challenges.

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The kitchen was alive with chaos. Pots clanged, utensils cluttered, and the aroma of something distinctly burnt wafted through the air. Yeji stood at the stove, furiously waving a towel at the smoke detector that blared overhead. Her apron was speckled with flour, and a determined pout pressed her lips together. Y/N leaned against the counter, her arms crossed and a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Yeji, I think the pasta is supposed to boil, not incinerate," Y/N teased, her voice lilting with laughter.

"Hey! I’ve got this," Yeji shot back, glancing over her shoulder with mock indignation. Her eyes flashed with determination, but the blackened edges of the pan told a different story.

Y/N picked up her phone and snapped a quick photo of Yeji’s disaster zone. "This is going straight to the group chat. ‘Yeji’s Kitchen Nightmares.’"

Yeji turned, waving a sauce-covered wooden spoon at Y/N. "Delete that! Or else no burnt pasta for you."

Laughing, Y/N dodged out of reach, her bright smile lighting up the room. "Oh no, how will I survive without your gourmet creations?"

Despite the teasing, Y/N moved to help. She grabbed the nearly scorched pan and dumped its contents into the sink, turning on the faucet to quell the smoke. Yeji groaned, leaning against the counter and smearing flour across her forehead as she wiped away sweat.

"Why am I like this?" Yeji muttered, her tone half-joking but tinged with genuine frustration.

Y/N placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Because you’re passionate and refuse to give up. Even when the universe tells you to just order takeout."

Yeji’s pout softened into a sheepish smile. "Takeout it is, then."

They ended up sprawled on the living room floor, surrounded by takeout containers and soda cans. The TV flickered with the glow of a rom-com they half-watched, both too engrossed in their playful banter to follow the plot. Y/N reached over and stole a bite from Yeji’s noodles, earning a dramatic gasp of betrayal.

"Y/N! That was my favorite piece!"

"It all tastes the same," Y/N replied, smirking. "Besides, you owe me for that near-death experience in the kitchen."

Yeji leaned in, her eyes narrowing mischievously. "Oh, it’s war now."

She lunged, chopsticks aimed to snatch a dumpling from Y/N’s plate, but Y/N was quicker. The two dissolved into laughter, their playful tussle spilling soy sauce onto the rug. It didn’t matter. In that moment, nothing could overshadow the joy they felt in each other’s company.

The evening ebbed into quiet comfort. Y/N’s head rested on Yeji’s shoulder as they sat together on the couch. Yeji’s fingers absentmindedly traced patterns on Y/N’s arm, their unspoken bond evident in the way they fit together. Neither had said “I love you” yet, but their actions spoke louder than words. The television droned on in the background, but neither paid attention, too caught up in the quiet peace of being together.

Y/N let her eyes close for a moment, soaking in the warmth of Yeji’s presence. She felt safe, as if nothing in the world could touch her as long as Yeji was by her side. Yeji turned her head slightly, her lips brushing Y/N’s hair as she murmured softly, “You know, I could stay like this forever.”

Before Y/N could respond, her phone buzzed on the coffee table, jolting her from the moment. She glanced at the screen and saw her mother’s name.

“I’ll be right back,” she murmured, gently untangling herself from Yeji and placing a light kiss on her forehead. Yeji nodded, watching her leave with a curious tilt of her head.

In the bedroom, Y/N shut the door and answered the call. Her mother’s voice came through immediately, strained and trembling. "Y/N, we… we need help. The bank… they’re threatening to take the house if we don’t pay soon."

Y/N’s heart sank. "What? Mom, what happened?"

Her mother explained in rushed, panicked tones. A failed business venture had drained their savings, and mounting debts had spiraled out of control. Collectors were calling daily, and the family’s financial future hung by a thread. Each word cut deeper, the enormity of the situation hitting Y/N like a wave.

"I’ll figure something out," Y/N said firmly, though her voice wavered. She gripped the phone tightly, as if the physical act could keep her mother from hearing the fear creeping into her tone. "Don’t worry, Mom. I’ve got this."

When the call ended, Y/N remained still, leaning against the wall. Her cheerful facade crumbled as she clutched her phone to her chest. The weight of her family’s crisis pressed down on her, suffocating and inescapable. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, willing herself to stay strong. She couldn’t fall apart. Not now.

After a few moments, she squared her shoulders and forced a smile back onto her face. Rejoining Yeji in the living room, she sank onto the couch beside her.

“Everything okay?” Yeji asked, her almond eyes filled with concern. She tucked a strand of Y/N’s hair behind her ear, her touch gentle.

Y/N plastered on a smile. "Yeah, just my mom checking in. Nothing serious."

Yeji studied her for a moment longer, her gaze searching, but she didn’t press. She simply rested her hand on Y/N’s, squeezing lightly. The gesture should have brought Y/N comfort, but it only deepened the ache in her chest.

That night, as Yeji drifted off to sleep beside her, Y/N stared at the ceiling. For Yeji’s sake, she had to pretend everything was fine, even if it tore her apart inside.

The days that followed were different. Y/N’s usual bubbly energy gave way to quiet distraction, like a light dimming slowly over time. The spark in her eyes that once shone so brightly seemed muted, her laughter more subdued. It wasn’t obvious to anyone who didn’t know her well, but Yeji noticed. She always noticed.

Y/N started spacing out during conversations, her gaze fixed somewhere far away, as if the weight of unseen worries had pulled her into another world. When Yeji tried to engage her, the replies came slower, her words peppered with half-hearted chuckles and vague reassurances.

One evening, they sat on the couch, sharing what was meant to be a peaceful moment. The TV murmured in the background, but neither was watching. Yeji glanced at Y/N, her almond eyes scanning the face she adored. There was a tightness in Y/N’s jaw, a faint crease between her brows as though she was carrying something too heavy to let go of.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Yeji asked softly, her voice laced with gentle concern. She turned toward Y/N, folding one leg beneath her and giving her full attention.

“I’m fine,” Y/N replied quickly, too quickly. Her tone was light, but the edges of her smile trembled. “Just work stuff. You know how it is.” She waved a hand dismissively, avoiding Yeji’s gaze.

Yeji studied her, her expression thoughtful and searching. She wasn’t convinced, but she didn’t want to push too hard, not yet. Instead, she reached over and squeezed Y/N’s hand, offering quiet support. “You can talk to me, you know. About anything.”

Y/N’s heart squeezed painfully in her chest. She wanted nothing more than to pour everything out, every fear, every sleepless night, but the words stayed locked inside. She forced another smile, the gratitude genuine even if her expression didn’t fully reach her eyes. “I know. Thank you.”

But Yeji’s worry lingered, settling in her chest like a stone.

Over the next few days, Yeji began noticing the little things. Y/N’s playful teasing, the way she used to nudge Yeji’s shoulder or steal a bite of her food, had grown rarer. Her bright, affectionate energy felt muted, like the sun hidden behind clouds. Even her hugs, once warm and full of life, seemed restrained, as though she was holding something back.

At first, Yeji chalked it up to stress, but it became harder to ignore the growing distance between them. One evening, as they sat eating dinner together, Y/N barely touched her food, pushing it around her plate with a fork.

“Y/N,” Yeji started, her voice hesitant, “you’re not yourself lately. You’re… quieter. Distant. Did I do something wrong?”

Y/N’s eyes widened, panic flashing across her face. She reached for Yeji’s hand, shaking her head emphatically. “No! Yeji, of course not. You’re perfect. It’s just… life, you know? Things are a little overwhelming right now. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

The sincerity in her voice was real, but Yeji couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the story. She held Y/N’s gaze for a moment longer before nodding, though her unease lingered.

That night, as they lay in bed, Yeji noticed Y/N’s breathing was uneven. She turned over to see Y/N staring at the ceiling, her expression tense.

“Can’t sleep?” Yeji whispered, brushing her hand gently along Y/N’s arm.

Y/N startled slightly but quickly composed herself. “Just thinking,” she murmured.

“About what?” Yeji asked, her tone soft and inviting.

“Nothing important,” Y/N replied after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper. She turned toward Yeji and kissed her forehead. “Go to sleep, Yeji. I’m okay.”

Yeji wanted to believe her, but as she drifted off, she couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that something was slipping away between them.

Meanwhile, Y/N sat up, pulling the blanket around herself as the weight of her family’s financial troubles pressed down like an iron cage. Tears pricked her eyes, but she wiped them away quickly. For Yeji’s sake, she couldn’t break. Not yet.

Few days later Y/N paced the length of her small apartment, her footsteps echoing faintly against the hardwood floor. Her mind raced, thoughts colliding like crashing waves. She couldn’t unhear her parents’ voices from the earlier phone call, the tremble in her mother’s tone as she begged for time they didn’t have.

“The bank isn’t waiting anymore, Y/N. If we don’t pay by next month, they’ll take everything. I don’t know what to do,” her mother had said, her words heavy with despair.

Her father’s voice had been quieter but no less desperate. “We hate asking you for help, but we don’t have anyone else.”

The weight of their words pressed down on her now, suffocating and inescapable. Her chest tightened as she replayed the conversation, the enormity of their situation looming over her like a storm cloud.

There was no relief in sight. No miracle solution. She’d gone over the numbers a hundred times, scoured job boards, researched financial assistance programs, but it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

Her heart clenched painfully as her thoughts drifted to Yeji. Sweet, wonderful Yeji, who had been nothing but supportive and loving. Yeji, who deserved someone who could give her everything, not someone drowning in personal burdens.

Y/N’s stomach churned as she thought about what she was about to do. She pressed a hand to her chest, as if trying to hold herself together, as if willing her heart to stop breaking. But it was no use.

She glanced toward the couch, where Yeji had sat just the night before, her eyes filled with concern as she asked, “Are you happy?” The memory twisted the knife in Y/N’s chest.

How could she ever make Yeji understand? That this wasn’t about love, it was about protecting her.

Y/N crossed the room and sat down at her small desk, pulling out an old notebook. The pages were filled with doodles and random notes, remnants of brighter days. She flipped to a blank page and stared at it for a long moment, the pen in her hand trembling.

She started writing, the words jagged and uneven as they poured out of her.

She needs to hate me. It’s the only way.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she forced herself to keep going, jotting down half-formed ideas. She couldn’t simply ghost Yeji, that would only hurt her more. It had to be clean. Final. No room for reconciliation, no lingering doubts.

But how? How could she push away the one person who had always been her light, her safe haven? The thought of Yeji’s smile fading, of her warmth turning cold, made Y/N’s chest ache. She paused, the pen hovering over the page, and buried her face in her hands.

“You can do this,” she whispered to herself, her voice breaking. “You have to.”

Hours passed as she agonized over her plan. She scribbled ideas and crossed them out, each one feeling crueler than the last. Insults? Too transparent. A fake betrayal? Too complicated. No, this had to be simple and believable.

Finally, she decided. A clean break. She would tell Yeji she couldn’t love her. That she’d tried, but her heart simply wouldn’t allow it.

Y/N’s stomach churned as she wrote down the words she would say, each one slicing through her like a blade. When she was done, she stared at the page, her vision blurry with tears.

“I can’t love you. I’ve tried, Yeji, but I can’t.”

The lie sat heavy on the paper, stark and final. She hated it. Hated herself for even thinking about it. But she knew it was the only way.

She sat back in her chair, her head falling into her hands. Her shoulders shook as silent sobs wracked her body. She cried for the love she was about to lose, for the future she had dreamed of but could no longer have.

When the tears finally stopped, she wiped her face and squared her shoulders. She had no choice. Yeji deserved to be free, to find someone who could love her fully without reservation.

Standing up, Y/N glanced at her reflection in the window. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed, but there was a steely resolve in her gaze.

“This is the right thing to do,” she whispered, as if saying it out loud would make it hurt less.

But as she turned off the lights and climbed into bed, her chest felt hollow. She lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing with what-ifs and maybes.

Morning came too soon, and with it, the unbearable reality of what she had to do.

Y/N invited Yeji over the following evening, texting her with a simple, “Can we talk?” The message was short, neutral on the surface, but her hands trembled as she typed it. Her heart felt heavy, every beat a painful reminder of what she was about to do.

She stared at the screen for a moment after sending it, wondering if she could still take it all back. But the knot in her chest tightened, and she reminded herself why this was necessary. This was for Yeji.

When Yeji arrived, she was dressed in a loose sweater and jeans, her casual outfit doing little to hide her natural beauty. Her eyes lit up the moment she saw Y/N, a warm smile spreading across her face.

“Hey,” Yeji greeted, her voice full of affection as she leaned in for a hug.

Y/N stepped back, avoiding Yeji’s embrace. The small gesture was enough to make Yeji pause, her smile faltering slightly.

“Hey,” Y/N replied, her voice tight, the word catching in her throat. “Come in.”

Yeji frowned slightly but didn’t comment. She stepped inside, taking a moment to glance around the apartment. It was unusually tidy, too tidy. The cushions on the couch were perfectly arranged, the countertops wiped clean, and the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air.

“Everything okay?” Yeji asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and concern. She turned back to Y/N, her eyes searching for answers. “You sounded a bit off earlier.”

Y/N couldn’t meet her gaze. Instead, she busied herself with small, pointless tasks, adjusting a picture frame on the counter, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles on her shirt. She felt Yeji’s gaze on her, steady and patient, as if waiting for her to gather the courage to speak.

Finally, Y/N turned to face her, forcing herself to keep her expression blank. “Yeji, we need to talk.”

Yeji tilted her head slightly, her smile dimming. “What’s going on?”

Y/N took a deep breath, steeling herself. She could feel her heart pounding against her ribcage, each beat a desperate plea to stop, to rethink. But it was too late now.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about us,” she began, her voice steady but cold. “And I realized… this isn’t working for me anymore.”

The words felt foreign, like they didn’t belong to her. They tasted bitter on her tongue, and she had to clench her fists to keep from trembling.

Yeji’s smile vanished completely, replaced by a look of confusion. “What?” she asked softly, her voice barely audible.

“I’ve tried, Yeji,” Y/N continued, forcing herself to hold Yeji’s gaze. Her chest ached with every word, but she didn’t let it show. “I’ve tried to love you. But I can’t.”

Yeji stepped closer, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for Y/N. “What are you talking about? Everything’s been fine… hasn’t it? Did I do something wrong?”

Y/N flinched at the raw vulnerability in Yeji’s voice. She wanted so badly to close the distance between them, to take Yeji’s hands in hers and tell her the truth. But she couldn’t. Not if she wanted Yeji to move on.

“No,” Y/N said, shaking her head. “It’s not about you, Yeji. It’s me. I just… I don’t think I can give you what you deserve.”

“You’re lying,” Yeji said, her voice trembling. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and she stepped closer again, refusing to back down. “I know you, Y/N. I know something’s been bothering you. Just tell me what it is. We can work through it together.”

Y/N’s resolve wavered, cracks forming in the icy wall she’d built around herself. She wanted to crumble, to let Yeji’s warmth melt away the pain. But she reminded herself why she was doing this.

“There’s nothing to work through,” Y/N said, her voice colder than she thought possible. “We’re just not right for each other. You’ll see that eventually.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Yeji stared at her, the confusion on her face slowly giving way to pain.

“Y/N,” Yeji said again, her voice breaking. She reached for Y/N’s hand, but Y/N pulled away, the motion sharp and final.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N said, her gaze dropping to the floor. She couldn’t look at Yeji, not when she knew she’d see her heart breaking.

Yeji took a shaky breath, her shoulders trembling as she fought to keep her composure. “I love you, Y/N,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if you want me to leave… I will. I just hope you know that this hurts more than anything.”

The words were a dagger to Y/N’s heart. She bit her lip, willing herself not to cry. Not yet.

Yeji waited for a moment, as if hoping Y/N would stop her, would say something to take it all back. But when Y/N remained silent, her expression unreadable, Yeji nodded. Her face crumpled as she turned and walked toward the door.

Each step Yeji took felt like another crack in Y/N’s resolve, another piece of her heart breaking. When the door clicked shut behind her, Y/N collapsed onto the floor, the sobs she’d been holding back finally breaking free.

Tears streamed down her face as she clutched her knees to her chest, her entire body shaking with the force of her grief.

“I love you,” she whispered into the empty apartment, the words finally escaping her lips. “I love you too much to drag you down with me.”

The days after the breakup blurred into a relentless haze for Y/N. Her once-vivid world had dulled, the colors of her life now muted by an oppressive gray. Her apartment, once filled with warmth and laughter, now felt suffocatingly quiet. It was the kind of silence that didn’t comfort but weighed down on her, pressing into her chest like an unbearable weight.

Every corner of the space was a reminder of Yeji. The faint scent of her perfume still lingered on the couch cushions, a cruel ghost of her presence. The half empty bottle of soda Yeji had left in the fridge mocked Y/N every time she opened the door, its bright logo a jarring contrast to the void inside her. Even the mismatched mugs on the counter brought back memories, Yeji had always insisted on using the chipped one because she thought it had "character."

Y/N buried herself in work, throwing every ounce of energy she had into taking on as many shifts and freelance gigs as she could find. She told herself it was for her family, that every sleepless night, every skipped meal, was a step closer to fixing the financial mess they were in.

But deep down, she knew she was running. Running from the memories that clung to her like shadows. Running from the ache in her chest that never seemed to lessen, no matter how much she distracted herself. And running from the sound of Yeji’s voice that echoed in her mind, the words she could never forget.

“I love you, Y/N. I don’t know what’s going on, but if you want me to leave… I will.”

Those words haunted her. They played on an endless loop in her head, a cruel reminder of what she had lost. She had wanted to scream at Yeji that night, to beg her to stay, but instead, she’d let her walk away.

The mirror in the bathroom startled her one morning. She’d been so lost in thought, so accustomed to moving through life like a ghost, that she hardly recognized the person staring back at her.

Her eyes, once bright and expressive, were hollow, rimmed with dark circles that spoke of too many sleepless nights. Her skin, once glowing with life, was pale and dull, her cheeks sunken from skipping meals. Her hair hung limply around her face, unstyled and unkempt.

She leaned forward, gripping the edges of the sink as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.

“This is fine,” she whispered to herself, her voice cracking. “I’m fine.”

But the hollow echo of her words in the empty bathroom only made her feel worse.

She forced herself to leave the mirror and shuffle into the kitchen, where the countertops were cluttered with empty takeout containers, coffee-stained mugs, and unopened letters. Somewhere under the mess was her phone, buzzing incessantly.

She found it wedged under a stack of overdue notices, the screen lighting up with a message from Ryujin “Haven’t heard from you in weeks. You okay?”

Y/N stared at the text for a long moment, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. She could almost hear Ryujin’s voice, firm, no-nonsense, but tinged with the quiet worry of someone who cared.

She wanted to tell the truth, to pour out everything she’d been holding in. But the thought of admitting how far she’d fallen felt unbearable.

Finally, she typed back, “Just busy. Everything’s fine.”

She hit send and set the phone down, ignoring the knot of guilt twisting in her stomach. It wasn’t fine. She wasn’t fine. But admitting that felt like a defeat she couldn’t afford.

As the hours blurred into days, Y/N continued her descent. Her world became a monotonous cycle of work and exhaustion, her once vibrant personality fading into something barely recognizable.

Her apartment grew more cluttered, the piles of laundry and empty wrappers a physical manifestation of the chaos she felt inside. The scent of Yeji’s perfume had faded now, but Y/N swore she could still feel her presence sometimes, a phantom warmth on the couch, a ghostly echo of her laughter in the quiet nights.

Every so often, Y/N caught herself reaching for her phone, her thumb hovering over Yeji’s contact. She wanted to check in, to make sure Yeji was okay. But she always stopped herself. What could she say?

“I miss you.” “I lied, and I’m sorry.”

None of those were options. So instead, she buried herself deeper into work, into the cycle of distraction that kept her from falling apart completely. But no matter how hard she tried to run, she couldn’t escape the truth.

She was a shadow of herself, and the weight of everything, her family’s struggles, the breakup, the loneliness, was dragging her down, piece by piece.

It was only a matter of time before Ryujin and Yuna showed up at her door. Y/N hadn’t expected it to be that Saturday afternoon, when she was hunched over her laptop at the kitchen table, trying to stay awake. The screen displayed a spreadsheet of her finances, neatly organized columns of expenses and income. Despite her meticulous budgeting, the numbers never seemed to stretch far enough.

She had just finished transferring most of her paycheck to her parents. Rent, utilities, and her phone bill were covered, but the little that remained was hardly enough for groceries. She had grown used to eating less, instant noodles and black coffee had become her staples. It wasn’t ideal, but it was a small price to pay to keep her parents afloat.

The knock at the door startled her, pulling her from her thoughts. She froze, her heart racing as she debated pretending she wasn’t home.

“Y/N, we know you’re in there,” Ryujin’s voice called through the door, firm but tinged with concern.

“Open up,” Yuna added, softer but no less insistent. “We just want to check on you.”

Y/N sighed, closing her laptop and letting it sit among the clutter on the table. There was no point in pretending.

Dragging herself to the door, she unlocked it without bothering to tidy up. She barely had the energy to stand, let alone put up a front.

Ryujin and Yuna stepped inside, their worried expressions immediately shifting to shock as they took in the state of the apartment. The cozy space was unrecognizable, empty coffee cups and crumpled wrappers littered the table and counters. A few unopened letters sat neatly on the counter, but the rest of the apartment felt lifeless, almost as if no one lived there.

But it was Y/N herself that alarmed them the most. Her clothes hung loosely on her frame, her posture slouched with exhaustion. Her cheeks were hollow, her complexion pale, and her eyes were dull and rimmed with dark circles.

“Y/N…” Yuna began, her voice trailing off as she struggled to find the right words. Her hand covered her mouth, as though she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

Ryujin, less inclined to mince words, didn’t hesitate. “What the hell is going on?” she demanded, crossing her arms. Her tone was sharp, but her eyes betrayed her worry. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”

“I’m fine,” Y/N replied flatly, her voice devoid of emotion. She sank onto the couch, the motion slow and heavy, like her body was weighed down by invisible chains. She waved a hand dismissively, her gaze fixed on the floor. “Just busy. Nothing to worry about.”

“Don’t give us that,” Ryujin snapped, stepping closer. She gestured around the room, her frustration growing. “You’ve been avoiding everyone. Your apartment looks like this, and you look like… like you haven’t slept in weeks. This isn’t fine, Y/N. Not even close.”

Y/N looked away, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. She wanted to tell them to leave, to insist again that she was fine, but the words caught in her throat.

Instead, she muttered, “How’s Yeji?”

The question hung in the air, the room falling silent. Her voice had broken slightly as she said the name, betraying the emotions she had tried so hard to bury.

Ryujin and Yuna exchanged a glance, their concern deepening.

Yuna moved closer, kneeling beside Y/N. She placed a gentle hand on Y/N’s arm, her voice soft and understanding. “Y/N, what’s really going on? Is this about Yeji?”

Y/N’s carefully constructed walls crumbled in an instant. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she shook her head, her words tumbling out in broken sobs. “I didn’t have a choice. I had to let her go. She deserves better, someone who isn’t constantly… constantly stretched thin, someone who can give her everything.”

Her voice cracked as she continued. “I send almost everything I make to my parents. They’re drowning, and this is the only way I can help them. I barely even buy groceries anymore, I can’t justify spending the money when they need it more.”

Ryujin’s expression softened as she exchanged a glance with Yuna. “Y/N, why didn’t you tell us? We could’ve helped.”

“I couldn’t,” Y/N whispered. “I didn’t want anyone to know. And I couldn’t let her know. She was so happy, and I didn’t want to ruin that. I thought… I thought if I made her hate me, it would be easier for her to move on.”

Yuna wrapped her arms around Y/N, pulling her into a tight hug as she cried. Y/N clung to her like a lifeline, her body shaking with the force of her sobs.

Ryujin sat down on the couch beside them, her jaw tight with frustration but her eyes filled with sympathy. She reached over and placed a hand on Y/N’s shoulder.

“Y/N,” Ryujin said, her tone softer now. “Why didn’t you ask for help? You didn’t have to do this alone. You didn’t have to push her away.”

Y/N pulled back slightly, her voice a whisper. “I couldn’t. She deserves someone who can take care of her. Someone who isn’t like this.”

Ryujin frowned, her gaze hardening. “You don’t get to decide that for her. Or for us. You’re tearing yourself apart, and for what? To protect her? To protect us? You think we don’t care about you, too?”

Y/N shook her head, unable to respond. The weight of her choices pressed down on her, suffocating and relentless.

Yuna brushed a strand of hair from Y/N’s face, her voice gentle. “You love her, don’t you?”

Y/N’s breath hitched, and she nodded, fresh tears streaming down her face. “More than anything,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “But it doesn’t matter. She deserves more than I can give her.”

Yuna tightened her embrace, her heart breaking for her friend. Ryujin leaned back against the couch, exhaling deeply as she tried to rein in her emotions.

“We need to do something,” Ryujin muttered, her tone resolute. “This can’t go on.”

Yuna nodded, her hand still resting on Y/N’s arm. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

For the first time in weeks, Y/N didn’t feel completely alone.

When they left Y/N’s apartment later that evening, the weight of what they had seen lingered heavily in the air. Yuna turned to Ryujin as they walked down the dimly lit street, her steps purposeful.

“We need to tell Yeji,” she said firmly, her voice cutting through the quiet.

Ryujin hesitated, her brow furrowing in thought. “Are you sure?” she asked, her tone cautious. “She’s still hurt. What if she doesn’t want to hear it? What if it just makes things worse?”

“She deserves to know the truth,” Yuna replied, determination in her voice. “Y/N’s falling apart, and it’s clear she still loves her. If we don’t do something, they’ll both keep hurting. And I’m not just going to stand by and watch that happen.”

Ryujin sighed, running a hand through her hair as she considered Yuna’s words. She hated the idea of reopening the wounds, but she couldn’t ignore the reality of Y/N’s condition. After a few moments of deliberation, she nodded.

“All right,” she said.

That night, they texted Yeji, asking to meet up. The reply came quickly, a simple “Okay. Where and when?” but the tension behind it was palpable.

The next day, the three of them sat at a small table in a quiet café. The atmosphere was subdued, the faint hum of conversation and the clinking of coffee cups filling the space.

Yeji arrived last, her entrance marked by the soft jingle of the doorbell. She looked striking as always, but there was a guardedness to her expression that hadn’t been there before. Her eyes were sharp, her shoulders set in a posture that said she was ready to protect herself.

She slid into the seat across from Ryujin and Yuna without a word, her gaze flicking between them. “What’s this about?” she asked, her tone clipped, though it lacked the bite it might have carried weeks ago.

Ryujin and Yuna exchanged a glance before Ryujin took the lead. “It’s about Y/N,” she said, her voice steady but serious. “She’s not okay.”

Yeji’s eyes flickered with something, concern, maybe, but she quickly masked it, her jaw tightening. “She pushed me away,” she said, her voice sharp with lingering hurt. “What do you expect me to do? She didn’t care about me anymore.”

“She didn’t push you away because she stopped caring,” Yuna interjected gently, leaning forward. “She did it because she thought she had to. Her family’s in serious financial trouble, Yeji. She’s been working herself into the ground trying to help them.”

Yeji’s eyes narrowed slightly, her posture stiffening. “Why didn’t she just tell me?” she asked, her voice tinged with frustration.

“She thought she couldn’t give you what you deserved,” Ryujin said. “She thought you’d be better off without her, so she lied. She said she couldn’t love you because she thought it would make things easier for you.”

Yeji froze, the weight of their words sinking in. Her hands clenched into fists on the table as she looked down, her jaw tight. She had suspected there was more to Y/N’s behavior, but hearing the truth laid bare felt like a punch to the gut.

Yuna’s voice softened as she continued. “She’s killing herself trying to fix everything on her own. She barely eats because she’s sending most of her money to her parents. Her apartment’s a mess, and she looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks.” Yuna paused, her eyes searching Yeji’s. “But she still cares about you. The moment we walked into her apartment, she asked about you.”

For a long moment, Yeji said nothing. Her emotions warred within her, anger at Y/N for lying, guilt for not seeing through it sooner, and a deep, aching love that she had tried to bury but couldn’t.

Finally, she spoke, her voice trembling. “Why didn’t she just tell me?” she repeated, her tone quieter now. “We could’ve… we could’ve figured it out together.”

Ryujin sighed, her gaze steady. “She thought she was protecting you.”

Yeji let out a shaky breath, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She blinked them away quickly, as though refusing to let herself fall apart. “I don’t know if I can forgive her for lying to me like that,” she admitted. “But… I need to see her.”

Yuna reached across the table, her hand covering Yeji’s. “Just talk to her,” she said gently. “If nothing else, you both need closure. And maybe… maybe she needs to hear that you still care, even if it doesn’t fix everything right away.”

Yeji hesitated, her eyes flicking to the table. Her fingers tapped nervously against her mug.

“I don’t even know what I’d say,” she murmured. “I’m still so… angry. But I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Ryujin leaned forward, her voice firm. “Say whatever’s on your mind. Be angry if you need to. Just go. She needs you, Yeji, even if she doesn’t realize it yet.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Yeji nodded, her resolve hardening.

“I’ll go,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions brewing within her.

Ryujin and Yuna exchanged a look of relief, but neither said anything.

The knock on Y/N’s door came late in the afternoon, shattering the eerie stillness that had wrapped itself around the apartment like a suffocating blanket. Inside, Y/N was barely conscious, slumped on the couch with her head resting on a pile of disorganized papers. Her laptop, still glowing faintly, hummed on the cluttered coffee table, its screen frozen on an unfinished document.

Yeji knocked again, this time with more force. Her voice, sharp with worry, cut through the silence. “Y/N! Are you in there?”

The sound registered faintly in Y/N’s fever clouded mind. She stirred weakly at the sound of her name, her eyelids fluttering but too heavy to fully open. Her head pounded relentlessly, and her limbs felt like they were made of lead. The fever that had been simmering for days had finally overtaken her, sapping what little strength she had left.

Yeji’s heart pounded in her chest when no answer came. Her worry deepened, her mind racing through worst case scenarios. She dug through her bag, her fingers trembling as she found the spare key Y/N had given her months ago, back when they were inseparable and such gestures were effortless.

Sliding the key into the lock, Yeji opened the door and stepped inside, bracing herself for whatever she might find.

The sight that greeted her knocked the air from her lungs.

The apartment was in complete disarray. Empty coffee cups and crumpled containers were scattered across the table and counters. A jacket was draped carelessly over the back of a chair, and a mountain of unopened mail had spilled onto the floor near the door. The faint smell of stale food hung in the air, mixing with the faintly metallic tang of fever sweat.

And there, on the couch, was Y/N.

She looked impossibly small and fragile, a pale shadow of the person Yeji remembered. Her skin, usually glowing with vitality, was ashen and glistening with sweat. Her hair clung to her damp forehead in messy strands. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, and her face, slack with exhaustion, was framed by dark shadows under her closed eyes.

“Y/N!” Yeji’s voice cracked as she rushed to her side, her heart racing in panic. Kneeling beside her, she pressed the back of her hand to Y/N’s forehead and immediately winced at the searing heat.

“God, you’re burning up,” Yeji muttered, her voice breaking.

She didn’t waste a second. Dropping her bag to the floor, she hurried to the kitchen. Her movements were frantic as she filled a bowl with cool water, her shaking hands splashing it onto the counter. Grabbing a clean cloth from a drawer, she returned to Y/N’s side, her stomach twisting at the sight of her still form.

Kneeling again, Yeji folded the damp cloth and placed it gently on Y/N’s forehead. She smoothed Y/N’s damp hair away from her face, her fingers trembling.

“Y/N…” Yeji whispered, her voice heavy with emotions she didn’t have the strength to untangle.

Y/N stirred at the cool touch, her lips parting as she croaked weakly, “Yeji…?”

The sound of her name on Y/N’s lips was both a relief and a dagger. Yeji leaned closer, her voice steady but firm. “Shh, don’t talk. You’re sick, Y/N. Just rest.”

Y/N’s eyes fluttered closed again, her head lolling to the side. Yeji stayed beside her for a long moment, her chest aching as she took in every detail of Y/N’s fragile state.

“How long have you been like this?” Yeji murmured, her throat tightening. The thought of Y/N struggling like this, alone, pushing herself to the brink, made her chest swell with a mix of anger and heartbreak.

She forced herself to her feet, looking around the apartment. The disarray was overwhelming, but it was nothing she couldn’t fix. Rolling up her sleeves, Yeji got to work.

She cleared the clutter from the table, tossing out the trash and empty containers. She stacked the unopened mail neatly on the counter, her eyes scanning the envelopes for anything urgent. She folded the jacket draped over the chair and straightened the cushions on the couch.

Her movements were quick and purposeful, but every action was fueled by a swirl of emotions, frustration at Y/N for letting things get this bad, anger at herself for not seeing the signs sooner, and a deep, aching love that made her want to take all of Y/N’s burdens onto her own shoulders.

As night fell, Yeji stayed by Y/N’s side, checking her fever and swapping out the cloth on her forehead. Forcing Y/N to take medicine, her voice gentle but insistent.

“You need to drink this, Y/N,” she murmured, holding the glass to Y/N’s lips. When Y/N managed a few sips, Yeji set the glass down and tucked the blanket more securely around her shivering frame.

Sitting back, Yeji brushed a hand over her face, exhaustion creeping in. But she refused to let herself rest. Not when Y/N needed her.

Her eyes softened as she watched Y/N’s sleeping form. “You’re not doing this alone anymore,” Yeji whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. “I won’t let you.”

The words hung in the still air, a promise she intended to keep.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting warm streaks of light across the living room. The golden rays fell on Y/N’s face, coaxing her from a restless sleep. She stirred groggily, blinking against the brightness, her head pounding less than it had the night before but her body still heavy with weakness.

Her surroundings were unfamiliar, not in the way of being somewhere new, but in how they felt transformed. The cluttered mess she had grown used to was gone. Papers that once spilled over the coffee table were neatly stacked, and the floor was now spotless.

Y/N sat up slowly, her movements sluggish. Her blanket slipped to the floor as she swung her legs off the couch, her bare feet brushing against the cool floor. Confusion settled in her chest, her groggy mind struggling to process the change.

Then she heard it, the faint sound of clanging pots and soft muttering coming from the kitchen.

Her heart skipped a beat as recognition hit her like a jolt. She would have known that voice anywhere.

“Why is this pan sticking? I swear it’s supposed to be nonstick…”

Y/N pushed herself to her feet, her body protesting the movement, but she didn’t care. She padded slowly toward the kitchen, her breaths shallow, her pulse racing.

When she reached the doorway, she stopped, her breath catching in her throat.

Yeji stood at the stove, her back to Y/N. Her hair was tied back in a loose, messy bun, and she wore one of Y/N’s oversized sweatshirts, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. The sight was achingly familiar, yet it made Y/N’s chest ache with a mix of disbelief and longing.

“Yeji…?” Y/N’s voice was hoarse, weak from days of fever and exhaustion, but it carried a note of wonder, as if she couldn’t believe her own eyes.

Yeji froze for a moment before turning slowly, the spatula in her hand forgotten as her eyes met Y/N’s.

“You’re awake,” Yeji said softly, her expression shifting from surprise to relief. She set the spatula down on the counter and crossed the room in a few quick strides, her hands reaching out to steady Y/N. “You should be resting.”

Y/N let herself be guided to a chair at the small kitchen table, her mind spinning as Yeji helped her sit. “Why are you here?” she asked, her voice trembling with confusion and vulnerability.

Yeji’s jaw tightened slightly, her expression flickering with something unreadable. “Because someone had to be,” she said simply, her voice steady but tinged with frustration. “You scared me, Y/N. Do you even realize how bad things have gotten for you?”

Y/N looked away, shame pooling in her chest. She fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, avoiding Yeji’s gaze. “I was fine,” she murmured weakly.

“Fine?” Yeji repeated, her voice rising slightly, incredulous. “You call this fine? You’re sick, your apartment was a disaster, and you’ve been running yourself into the ground! This isn’t fine, Y/N! It’s self destruction!”

The sharpness in Yeji’s voice was like a slap, and Y/N flinched. She opened her mouth to respond, but Yeji didn’t give her the chance.

“You didn’t fall out of love with me, did you?” Yeji asked, her voice breaking as she stepped closer, her eyes locked on Y/N’s. “That’s what you said when you broke up with me. That you couldn’t love me. But it wasn’t true, was it?”

Y/N’s breath hitched, her chest tightening as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. “Yeji, please…” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“No,” Yeji said firmly, her voice trembling with emotion. “I need to know, Y/N. I need to hear the truth. Did you ever stop loving me?”

Y/N’s carefully constructed walls crumbled under the weight of Yeji’s words. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking as sobs tore through her. “Do you think I wanted to?” she cried, her voice raw with anguish. “I love you, Yeji. I love you with my whole heart.”

Yeji froze, her own eyes filling with tears as she watched Y/N fall apart in front of her.

“I didn’t want to let you go,” Y/N continued, her words tumbling out between sobs. “But my family… they’re drowning, Yeji. I’m the only one who can help them. I didn’t want you to be dragged into my mess. I thought if I pushed you away, it would be easier for you. Easier to move on.”

Yeji stepped closer, kneeling in front of Y/N as she gently pulled her hands away from her tear-streaked face. “You didn’t have to do this alone,” she said softly, her voice shaking with emotion. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me, Y/N. I love you. We could’ve faced this together.”

Y/N shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “You deserve better. Someone who isn’t struggling like me, who can treat you right, who can spoil you. Not someone who sends almost every penny away.”

Yeji’s expression softened, but there was a fierceness in her eyes, shining with unshed tears as she reached for Y/N’s hands. She held them tightly, her voice steady but filled with emotion. “Stop. You think I care about being spoiled? I don’t need perfect dates or expensive gifts. I need you. You’re not broken, and you’re not less because you’re helping your family. You’re human. And I love you for all of it, for who you are, for the way you care so much, even when it hurts you. So stop pushing me away. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

The words hung in the air, a fragile but unyielding promise. Y/N stared at Yeji, her breath catching as the weight of her guilt and loneliness began to lift.

“You… you shouldn’t have come,” Y/N whispered, her voice trembling.

“But I did,” Yeji said, her voice steady now. “And I’m staying. You don’t have to do this alone anymore, Y/N. Let me help you.”

For the first time in weeks, Y/N allowed herself to believe in the possibility of something brighter. She leaned forward, her forehead resting against Yeji’s as fresh tears fell silently down her cheeks.

“I’m so sorry,” she choked out. “For lying, for pushing you away. I thought it was the only way—”

“Shh,” Yeji soothed, pulling back just enough to cup Y/N’s face in her hands. “It’s okay. I understand. But you don’t have to protect me from your struggles. I want to be there for you, just like you’ve always been there for me.”

Y/N’s chest tightened, but this time, it wasn’t from guilt or sadness, it was from the overwhelming warmth of being truly seen and loved.

They stayed like that for a while, holding each other as the morning sunlight filtered through the room. It was a quiet, unspoken promise between them, to be each other’s strength, to share the burdens and joys of life together.

Over the following weeks, things began to change. Slowly at first, small, hesitant steps but with Yeji by her side, Y/N started finding her footing again. It was like the heavy fog that had clouded her life was gradually lifting, letting in rays of light and warmth she hadn’t felt in months.

Yeji approached Y/N’s struggles with quiet determination. She wasn’t overbearing, she was patient and steady, offering her support in a way that felt natural and unforced. Together, they tackled the chaos one piece at a time.

The unopened mail was their first challenge. Yeji sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through stacks of envelopes while Y/N, still hesitant, hovered nearby.

“Bill,” Yeji said, holding up one envelope. “Bill. Junk mail. Ooh, a coupon for a free coffee, score!” She grinned, and Y/N couldn’t help but smile faintly in return.

Bit by bit, they made progress. They created a detailed budget that balanced Y/N’s own expenses with the money she sent to her parents. Yeji even joined Y/N on a call to her family, offering gentle but firm suggestions for ways to ease the financial strain. Y/N’s parents were initially hesitant, but Yeji’s calm reassurance helped them see the bigger picture.

“It won’t solve everything overnight,” Yeji had said after the call, her hand resting on Y/N’s shoulder, “but it’s a start. And that’s enough for now.”

The weight that had once seemed unbearable felt lighter now that Y/N wasn’t carrying it alone.

One evening, as they finished tidying up the apartment, Yeji surveyed their work with satisfaction. The chaos was gone, replaced by an airy, comfortable space that felt like a fresh start.

“I’m proud of you,” Yeji said, turning to Y/N with a warm smile. “You’re doing amazing.”

Y/N blinked, surprised by the compliment. She hadn’t felt proud of herself in a long time. But looking around the apartment and feeling the steadiness in Yeji’s gaze, she allowed herself to believe it.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Y/N said, her smile growing into the first genuine, carefree expression Yeji had seen in weeks.

They worked as a team, their combined strength shining in every step they took. Y/N started eating regularly again, encouraged by Yeji’s gentle persistence.

“Two meals a day,” Yeji insisted one afternoon as they browsed the grocery store aisles. “Three if I can sneak in breakfast.”

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully but relented. “Fine, but only if you don’t burn everything we buy.”

“I make no promises,” Yeji replied, grinning.

Cooking together became a new routine. Y/N stuck to simple meals, while Yeji attempted to assist, often with mixed results. Once, while trying to stir a pot of soup, Yeji accidentally splashed tomato broth onto the counter.

“Is it supposed to look like this?” Yeji asked, staring dubiously at the lumpy consistency of her attempt at mashed potatoes.

Y/N snorted, shaking her head. “No, but it’s fine. You’re charming enough to distract me from the disaster.”

Their laughter filled the kitchen, a sound that had been missing for far too long.

Y/N slept better, too. The nights, once filled with restless thoughts and self-doubt, became moments of peace. Some evenings, Yeji would sit beside her, running her fingers through Y/N’s hair until her breathing evened out.

Together, they also found small moments of joy amid the challenges. They spent lazy afternoons cuddling on the couch, watching movies neither of them paid much attention to because they were too busy whispering to each other.

Evening walks became another ritual. They wandered the quiet streets, hands brushing together until Yeji finally linked their fingers. They talked about everything and nothing, about their dreams, their fears, and the silly, inconsequential things that made them laugh.

“You know,” Yeji said during one such walk, her voice teasing, “if this whole cooking thing doesn’t work out, I could always become a professional pancake flipper. I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

Y/N burst out laughing, leaning into Yeji’s shoulder. “If by ‘getting the hang of it,’ you mean traumatizing every pan in my kitchen, then sure. You’re practically a chef.”

Their mornings were filled with similar laughter. Yeji insisted on trying her hand at breakfast, and Y/N often sat at the table, nursing a cup of tea and watching the chaos unfold.

“Why does this toaster hate me?” Yeji grumbled one morning, glaring at the device as it stubbornly refused to toast evenly.

“It’s probably afraid you’ll set it on fire,” Y/N teased, grinning over the rim of her mug.

Yeji shot her a mock glare, but her smile betrayed her.

Every small moment, every shared laugh and quiet embrace, brought them closer. They weren’t perfect, there were still challenges to face, and Y/N’s family’s financial situation remained an ongoing concern but they were stronger together.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Y/N felt like she wasn’t just surviving. She was living.

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