#tumblr fucked up my first post like three times so let’s try this again.

[sorakingdomhearts]

BEHOLD, A FATEMAKER

Kit & their lil guy Wybie!!

[indefiniteavatar]

So basically, in a case about him shoving money at someone so they shut up about him. . .he can’t shut the fuck up himself. I would say something clever and funny here, except the sad part is that this is just so normal in current politics that it’s just. . .not hilariously absurd behavior anymore? Not to say that it’s not absurd - it is beyond such, but it is just. . . predictable, I suppose.

I guess this is how I feel about politics lately? Either I get mad at everything or I try to laugh at everything and normally that works because politicians usually aren’t so tragically stupid so very often, but now I just kinda have to chuckle at the particularly eyeroll worthy things like this, and try to ignore everything else or my brain will explode.

[velvetvexations]

I’m. So baffled by that one dude saying that trans men being able to pretend to be women is a privilege, because in his tags he says that it’s a thing specific to transmascs. Does he mean pretending to be cis as a means of safety is a transmasc specific thing?? Because uh, I’m… pretty sure that’s something that can be done regardless of a trans person’s gender? There are transfems and nonbinary people who can also pretend to be cis [whatever their agab was], too?

Its also not a privilege. Having to hide what you are out of fear isn’t a fucking privilege lmao

strangely people understand that when it's about trans women

just saw a post on my dash saying "'infighting' is a dogwhistle which frames transfems as aggressors". i really hope the tide is turning like you said, bc this shit is getting exhausting and im still seeing it from random people i follow who otherwise gave no indication that they drank the koolaid.

they make me out to be the aggressor all the time!

Nazi imagery anon here

These are the pics I was referring to.

As you can see it’s posted on the verified border security account and you can see two different nazi symbols on him :(

yeah it looks like standards for what they allow soldiers to adorn themselves with are low and the person taking and posting the pics aren't paying good enough attention because that guy also straight up has a naked anime bitch on his knife sheath

as I said this is an individual thing and they need to start knocking their heads together like the Three Stooges and sending them into trenches first

You know who saying that th**fab is actually a storied term that trans fems have been using to identify transmisogonists is fucking insane like girl that's such obvious lie give us nothing

they aren't even trying

It’s crazy how almost every other day on this site I see a new post with like 50k notes talking about how absolutely NOBODY deserves to be harassed, sent death threats or be put on blast yet once again I’m seeing people trying to justify the harassment of another transmasc teenager. Honestly people should just start openly admitting Tumblr is becoming increasingly hostile towards trans masculine individuals, I don’t see clownery on this level on any other platform-

Tumblr...is really bad.

I think the reason why this whole headcanons discourse bothers me so much is that is really is just fuelled by petty spite. Like all these characters are cisgender in canon. We make headcanons because it’s FUN to expand on characters in ways that reflect our different life experiences in whatever form that may take. Intentionally going after transmascs, especially young transmascs, for doing this with characters like they like and accusing them of all these different things genuinely does just feel like bigotry. Who cares if a head canon may not make the most amount of sense? It’s a cisgender fictional character we’re playing around with! Why does it have to be some grand act of activism to say blorbo number 3 is transmasc? We have much bigger fish to fry here.

exactly it's such dedication to not letting anyone else have anything

So sick of people acting like trans men are the same as cis men under the patriarchy and moreso im really sick of the "you're privileged to not be surrounded by men". Like, for lack of better phrasing, saying that about a group of people that is generally perceived as "failure women" pre transition (and sometimes during and post) is a little tone deaf. All about acknowledging how women and people perceived as women are harmed by misogyny until the ones perceived are men. Gender essentialism is ugly and tasteless and nonsensical. Please feel free to delete this im just rambling without a point

rambling is okay anon <3

„wow ur so privileged to not fear men”

i fear the fucking everyone asshole, i just realized that isnt everyone elses fault so i should still treat them with respect !!!!!

that woman called me a "self-hating doll" and I hate the second part a lot more than the first

[melanieph321]

Hi lovely,

I’m actually kind of new to Tumblr so I don’t know how this works but you were actually one of the first bloggers that popped up on my feed with your post about Kenan Yildiz 😭and I really enjoyed reading it so much. And then I clicked on your feed and noticed that you take request I don’t know if you do that anymore but I wanted to give it a try. I was thinking that maybe the reader and Kenan are dating but keeping it private since she’s the sister of one of his best friends on the team (maybe Vlahović) So when Juventus celebrated their win ,against another club, they went to a restaurant to celebrate and the waiter was constantly hitting on the reader which made Kenan very jealous so he made sure the waiter knows who you belong with(maybe giving the reader a hickey) and he made sure that the waiter saw how Kenan followed you to the bathroom.

I don’t know if that makes sense to you but anyways just wanted to get that of my chest 💕🎀

Love this! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️🔥🔥🔥🔥

Kenan Yildiz x Reader - Claim Me Part 1/3

Enjoy!

"I have to go."

"What, no. Five more minutes."

"Kenan." You chuckled. The hardest part was always to get him off of you. After Juventus successful Copa Italia win against Atalanta, it was practically impossible. Kenan had you escaping yesterdays celebrations by sneaking back to his hotel room. There you did unspeakable things to each other. Fun. But unspeakable things.

"Fuck, you're so hot." He mumbled and planted soft kisses against your neck.

"Thank you." You giggled and did not reject the way he wanted to keep you in bed with him. However, there was just one small problem...

"I have to get back to my room before my family notices that I'm gone."

"Relax, I saw your sister dancing on top of a table before we left the club last night. I'm sure she'll still be passed out drunk by the time you get back."

"Yes, my sister perhaps, but my brother won't be."

Kenan raised his head from the crook of your neck. The mentioning of Dusan always set him off, especially if you mentioned him in a moment of intimacy, which has happened more than once before.

"He'll be the first one to look for me." You nodded.

Kenan sighed and rolled onto his back, letting you go.

"Thank you." You bent down to kiss his lips before rushing to the bathroom. However, you did not remain in there for long.

"Fuck!"

You were quick to stumbled back into the room, a hand covering your throat and a struck of panic in your eyes.

"What?" Kenan asked, seeing the expression on your face.

"I hate you."

"What did I do?"

"Kenan, you didn't."

"I didn't do what?" He said, rightfully confused.

You released the hand covering your throat, revealing a hickey the size of a coin.

"Fuck."

"Yes, fuck you." You sprung towards the bed, ambushing your boyfriend with harmless punches to the sheets.

"Baby." He chuckled. "I'm really sorry, okay."

"Sorry? Sorry won't cut it Kenan, Dusan will kill me if he sees it."

Kenan caught your hands, preventing you from throwing any more punches. "You mean me." He said. "I'm pretty sure I'll be the first one your brother would want to kill."

"Think again. He doesn't even know that we're seeing each other Kenan,  I'm the one he's gonna kill."

"Well, maybe it's time we tell him that we're together then?"

You paused, eyes searching your boyfriend's face. He had soft features. Trying to cover them up with a cut to his eyebrow only made him look more like a puppy dog. "You're out of your mind." You said and climbed off of him.

"Right. I'm out of my mind for wanting to be able to hold my girlfriends hand in public, or better yet, kiss her in public."

"Yes, Kenan. You're out of your mind for that. I've told you that my brother won't allow it."

"Well, maybe it's time you stick up to your brother then? Or perhaps our relationship is not worth the hassle?"

It's not that easy, you thought.

Despite what Kenan thought, it was not that easy. You had always been the baby of the family, the youngest three. Your oldest brother Dusan always watched over you like a hawk. But as you grew older, you began to feel suffocated by his constant protection. You longed for the freedom to make your own decisions and live your own life. But that wasn't the case right now.

"I'm back!" You announced, after receiving about a dusin text message from Dusan on your way up the hotel elevator. You had just shut the door behind you when his head popped out from the bathroom.

"Where have you been?" He asked. Getting up before seven AM after a night of celebrations was mental. But that's just who your brother was, a control freak in all things.

"I was just out for a run." You said.

"Wearing heels?"

He shot a glance at the pair that you were holding in your hands.

"Yes, Dusan. In my heels. It's a trend, look it up."

He shook his head but did not question you further. "Remember, be ready for lunch with the team this afternoon."

"Right." You crossed the joint living area on your way to your bedroom.

"I mean it, Y/N. Remind Nina to be ready on time as well."

"Yeah, yeah. I will."

You shut the door behind you and were quick to peel down the laces to your dress, stepping out of it. You left it on the floor,  amongst the other scattered clothes in the dungeon that you and your sister had been sharing for the weekend. She lay fast asleep as you joined her under the covers. Sometimes, you wondered how the two of you turned out so chill while Dusan got the off gene. I guess you'd never find out.

[actual-changeling]

Welcome back to Alex's unhinged meta corner - although today it is less unhinged and more of a watertight analysis.

What I am about to present you is something most people have probably already noticed, but it has been three months and I still lose my mind while going through the final fifteen frame by frame (which is a normal thing normal people like us do, right? right).

You literally cannot convince me my following meta is wrong, and the only person whose criticism I will accept on this post is Michael Sheen and Michael Sheen ONLY. If you're not Michael Sheen (hi Michael Sheen who probably has a secret tumblr account) then your guess is as good as mine, though again, I think mine is solid.

So.

We all love and hate Aziraphale's "I forgive you", but what I find even more painful is the fact that before that he almost said "I love you". Then he stops himself and changes it, and the amount of micro-expressions on his face as he makes that decision is my current cause of death.

Here's the clip as evidence #1, and while it can definitely support itself, let's dive into the pain a little more, shall we?

One important thing I noticed is that Aziraphale doesn't look at Crowley while he stutters his way through his initial reaction. He blinks up at him for a few frames before averting his eyes again and only holds eye contact after the almost-confession (from here on referred to as IL-).

This is Aziraphale holding eye contact with Crowley (left) vs. him looking away (right):

The frame on the left is from the I forgive you (IFY) part of the scene, the other one from right before IL-. If we go through the above clip little by little we will find that he avoids Crowley's face the entire time and his gaze slips further and further down, which I interpret as him overthinking/trying to come up with something to respond to this entire situation.

He is overwhelmed and surprised, caught between his two main desires: Crowley and being a Good Angel.

Combing through the frames, we can actually nail down exactly when Aziraphale first makes eye contact before the IL- and when he stops. Keep the above comparison in mind! The angle is slightly different because his chin is lower and he straightens up throughout the scene.

So! This is where he starts looking at Crowley:

And this is where he stops:

Hard to see? Let's zoom in on his eyes (numbers are the file names):

Now, you might ask me "Alex, this is all fine, although a bit insane, but why is any of this important?"

Because, fellow tumblr user and good omens enthusiast, I think that looking at Crowley is what changes his mind about what to say.

He doesn't look at him -> about to confess his feelings.

He looks at him -> says the absolutely worst possible thing.

Partly to hurt him because they're both lashing out at each other during this argument, but he looks at Crowley, looks at the person that just kissed him, that told him they could have been an us, that wants him and has always wanted him, screw everyone else.

He looks at Crowley and he wants to say l love you but then what? Once he says those words, he can't leave. He just can't.

We have to remember that they have existed within a complicated dance, a game that they have been playing for centuries without ever telling each other what that game actually is, what the rules are - because they couldn't. It was based entirely on trust and knowing the other person well enough to play it safe.

Crowley just flipped the playing board. Nothing is the way it should be, he is refusing to do their dance, refusing to play. He is looking at him and daring him to stop trying to put the pieces back on the board. The only thing neither of them has done yet is actually say I love you out loud.

Saying those words would mean stepping away from the playing board and acknowledging the room they have been playing in. It would mean saying fuck you to heaven, yes, but it would also force Aziraphale to finally define himself outside of the role he has been playing for both Crowley and heaven, and he isn't ready for that yet.

Additionally, there is the fear and/or knowledge (depending on what else the Metatron might have said or done that we did not see) that heaven will retaliate against him and Crowley if he disobeys them now, and he does not want to risk that either.

All that is what, in my opinion, happens in his head when he averts his eyes and interrupts himself. I do kinda what to make a whole different post about his facial expressions leading up to the IFY, so I will end this one with one more bit of pain.

Ready?

Firstly, the face he makes when he makes his decision.

Look at the tight line of his lips, the pain etched into his face, the pure pain in his eyes.

This is the face of someone who knows exactly how badly he is going to hurt Crowley and himself. This is an apology, an I'm sorry for what I'm about to do, this hurts me as much as it hurts you. I'm sorry but I have to.

And then he winces afterwards. I don't know about you, but this is exactly the kind of face I make when I'm emotionally torturing myself with my own thoughts. For the final blow, please look at the picture very, very closely, especially the last frame, because Aziraphale isn't just sorry and he isn't just in pain.

Aziraphale is scared because he knows* that he might lose Crowley over this. He knows that saying I forgive you is (almost) unforgivable. He KNOWS.

He does it anyway because he will lose Crowley either way but he'd rather have him alive and hating him than dead.

With that I am concluding today's unhinged meta corner, thank you for your attention and you're welcome for the pain.

Also: If you want to call me a 'tin hatter' or insane or otherwise make fun of me - this is very much a girl, what were YOU doing at the devil's sacrament moment because you read my meta post all the way to the end. <3

-

*authors note: what Aziraphale thinks he knows and what is actually real is not the same thing but that's a different post

[measuredingold]

heaven sent

authors note: after a month off, i've finally finished my noah piece :) this is my first on tumblr, second one all together (there's one on my ao3). this was a request a friend of mine made a month or so ago, and i'm happy to finally get it out for them. briefly proofread, sorry for any mistakes. as always, enjoy and feedback is appreciated :) my requests are open btw! i'm also working on tag-list, so if you'd like to be added please send me a message :)

pairing: noah sebastian x reader

cross-posted on ao3

word count: 6.8k

cw/tags: slight friends to lovers, readers first time, realization of ~feelings~, fingering, cunnilingus (noah is a munch), p in v, protected sex (be safe!!!!! wrap it up folks!!!), fluff, maybe slight angst if you really squint, loads of tension, noah being a sweetheart, open ending, 18+ minors do not interact

You stare at Noah’s door, nerves bubbling inside of you. It was silly to be nervous - Noah was your best friend. You’ve lived with him for the last three years, known him even longer, and you’ve asked him plenty of favors in the time you’ve spent with him. However, this time was a lot different. 

Navigating your 20’s was something you were still figuring out. Establishing your career, finding a friend group that you trusted, and even dating was all so confusing. You’ve gotten the career down, and you think you got a pretty solid group of friends, but romantic relationships are still something that you can’t seem to get. 

You’ve been on dates, that wasn’t the hard part. The hard part was when things got… intimate. You’re embarrassed to say it, but you were still a virgin. It wasn’t like you were waiting for that special someone, it just never happened. You’d either get to that point and chicken out, or never even make it out of the kissing stage. At this point you just wanted it done and over with, but you couldn’t just do it with anyone. 

That’s where Noah came in.

You trusted him more than you trusted yourself, you think, and your other friends told you that if you just wanted to get it done and over with, do it with someone you won’t regret. 

You don’t think you’d regret Noah. 

With a shaky hand you reach up and knock on his door, the music from inside pausing. You hear shuffling and the twist of the doorknob, and there stood Noah. He smiles. 

“Didn’t know you were home,” He swings the door open and goes back over to his desk, falling into his chair. “What’s up?”

You don’t move, just stand in the doorway, your nerves intensifying. Shit.

He looks over at you after a moment of silence, and his brows furrow, lips pursing slightly. 

“Hello? Everything alright?”

You shake yourself out of your trance and shift on your feet, arms crossing over your chest. 

“Can I ask you something?” You bite down on your lip. “Like… a favor?”

Noah’s head tilts. “…What kind of favor?”

“A pretty big one.” You can’t help but smile sheepishly at the way Noah’s eyes narrow at you before his gaze softens, realizing your nerves, and he nods towards his bed. You walk over and sit down without a word.

He rolls his chair over to you as you pull your legs up under yourself, hands laid in your lap, and he reaches for them. You jump at the touch, and he frowns, but he doesn’t let go.

“What’s going on? Is everything alright?” His eyes narrow again. “…Do you need me to fight someone? I’m not really good at that, but I’ll try.” 

You can’t help but laugh before dropping your gaze from his, looking down at your hands intertwined together.

"No, no fighting is involved."

"Oh, thank fuck. You know I'm not much of a fighter." You laugh again but it falls short, the nerves resurfacing again. Noah's lips dip into a frown. "Seriously, what's up?"

You pull your hands from his to wipe them against your pants, sighing deeply. How do you even bring this up? You practiced a script in your head for hours before even standing in front of his door, but now that you're in his room, and he's sitting right in front of you, it's like you've forgotten everything you wanted to say.

"You can't laugh." You finally say. "And you can say no. It's... a stupid favor, anyways, but you're one of the few people I wholeheartedly trust, so..." Your words trail off with a shrug and you look up at Noah again, seeing confusion written all over his face.

"You're acting weird again." His head tilts again and you keep in your laughter this time. He looks like a confused puppy. "Did you do something illegal?" His eyes widen a bit as he leans in. "...Are you in trouble? Am I going to be an accomplice? You know I wouldn't do good in jail, dude."

"Oh my god, Noah." Your hands come up to rub at your face, laughter spilling out of you. "I'm not in trouble and no one's going to jail."

"Then what is it? You're acting like it's something crazy."

"Because it is!" You whine, falling back onto his bed. Your eyes stare up at the ceiling, arms resting on either side of your body. "And it's fucking embarrassing."

"I've known you for like 6 years, I think I've seen every embarrassing thing you've done."

You hear his chair squeak and feel the bed dip beside you, but you don't bother looking over. You feel his body, heat radiating off of him, and you suck in a breath at the close proximity. You truly were never bothered by being close to Noah, but ever since you've thought of your silly request, just the thought of touching him has your head reeling. He lays beside you, propping himself up on his elbow. You manage to sneak a glance at him and he's already staring down at you, lips pursed.

"Talk to me."

You pout. "I'm nervous."

"Oh, please." He reaches down to flick at your forehead, and you yelp, eyes slitting into a glare at your friend. "It's just me."

You sigh, gazing back up at the ceiling. "Alright. Just... Please promise not to laugh. And remember you can say no."

"Got it. Now, what is it?"

"So..." You hum, eyes falling shut. "You know how I'm still like... I've never had sex with anyone?"

"Yes." Noah says. "Still shocked, by the way, but I support you. It's not for everyone and we all go at our own pace."

You flush at his words, eyes opening to stare at him again. "Why're you shocked?"

He shrugs. "Just am, but it’s not a bad thing. Like I said everyone goes at their own pace.”

"Right." You clear your throat. "It's not like I don't want to do it, it's just... it's never happened. I think..." Your eyes fall shut again, not being able to look at him anymore. "Anna said I might be one of those people that just need to do it with someone I already know. Someone I trust, so it's not as scary."

"Hm..." Noah shifts next to you. "You could be. That's not really unheard of, a lot of people are more comfortable having sex with someone they're already comfortable with."

"Yeah, right." You suck in a breath. "Well... I've been thinking about it recently. And um..." You reach up and cover your face with your hands, trying to hide the deepening flush to your cheeks. "I was thinking about who I trust enough to do that with and... I trust you more than anyone else. Probably even more than myself."

The silence that follows is almost deafening. You're sure it took him a moment to register his words and you know the second he does, the bed shifting beside you. Noah sits up and you can feel his eyes boring into you, and it makes your skin crawl. You can't pull your hands away from your face, too scared to even look at him. 

It was such a crazy thing to throw out there, you knew that. What's the worst he could say? No? Your mind kept replaying that over and over again and yeah, the worst he could say was no. However, you feared that maybe you asking him of this would make things awkward. You knew it wasn't a friendship ending type risky, but it was enough to maybe make the next few weeks stiff and weird. 

"Are you..." Noah pauses and you hear him suck in a breath. "Are you asking to have sex with me?"

"God, when you say it like that it sounds so fucking weird." 

By better judgement you pull your hands away from your face to look up at Noah, expecting the worse. Though, it's not bad at all actually. He looks confused, definitely, but he doesn't look too uncomfortable. His gaze is still soft as his eyes meet yours. 

"Why me?" He sounds shocked, as if there should be a hundred other options before him. 

"Well. I live with you, and you're my best friend." You say simply and shrug. "You're also the only person in this world I trust enough to be... vulnerable like that with. For my first time, at least."

He nods, tongue darting out to swipe as his bottom lip and your eyes can't help but follow the movement. Something low in your stomach stirs, heat rushing through you, and you tear your eyes away to gaze into his again. 

"You can say no," You remind him quickly, moving to sit up across from him. "It's a crazy favor. I won't take it to heart."

"I..." His words trail off and his lips press together, looking off to the side. "I don't know if we should." 

For some reason your heart sinks to your stomach. A part of you knew he would say no and knew that was the worst thing he could say, but there was some other part of you that clung on to the possibility. You just wanted to get it over with and you were hoping that maybe he would help you out... but you still understand his hesitancy.

"Of course, yeah." You nod your head quickly, face heating up again. "I shouldn't have even asked; I don't know what I was thinking."

"No-"

You get up from his bed and rush towards his door. "Forget it, okay? I'm sorry for making it weird."

You don't bother looking back at Noah, slipping out his door and practically running to your room across the hall, shutting your door behind you.

…

Later that night while you were getting ready for bed, Noah slips into your room. You freeze, turning to look at him as he stands in your door frame, wringing his hands in front of him nervously. 

“Okay. I thought about it some more.” 

You pause. “About what?”

“About… what you asked me.” Your skin heats up at his words and you start to shake your head, but he holds a hand up to stop you. “I’m really fucking flattered that you trust me that much to even consider me a possibility and… and if you still want to, I’ll do it. If it’ll make you happy.” 

The silence that follows was brutal. You weren’t sure how to take it, especially with the way Noah was looking at you. He seemed nervous, almost like you had been earlier, and it has something inside of your fluttering. Like a bunch of butterflies had been set free inside your tummy all at once. 

You swallow. “What?”

"I don't know, I just." He leans against the doorframe now, arms crossing over his chest. "The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Being vulnerable can be hard, especially during sex, and... part of me wishes my first time was with someone I trusted."

You stay silent, eyeing Noah from across the room and he finally looks up, eyes meeting yours. He gives you a gentle smile and goosebumps rise across your skin.

"Really?" You say dumbly and he laughs.

"Yeah." He shrugs. "I mean, do I regret it? Not really, but I think it would've made the experience better if it had been with someone I trusted and maybe had known longer than a few weeks." He slowly makes his way towards your bed and sits down on it, patting the spot next to him. Your feet move before you can even think, settling down next to him. "I also want your first time to be good. I know too many people whose first times were shitty, and I don't want that for you. If... if it's with me, I'll be able to make sure you're enjoying it, and not just doing it to say you did."

You notice the subtle flush on his cheeks, and you can't help but smile.

"I just need to know that this is really what you want because there's no going back after this." 

He reaches out to place a hand against your thigh, and you know it was supposed to be soothing, but the burning feeling it left against you was almost too much to handle. You nod quickly, eyes never leaving his.

"If I didn't want this I wouldn’t have asked, Noah." You say softly. "I've thought about it a lot and... and if I were to choose anyone in the entire world to do this with, it would be you."

Something in the air shifts after the words leave your mouth and you swear you see something cross in Noah's eyes, but it's gone before you could even think about it. You feel his fingers dip into your thigh for a split second before loosening, rubbing the spot he had dug into. 

"You're one hundred percent sure about this?" He asks, voice barely above a whisper. 

You stare at him for a moment before your eyes linger down to his lips, before flicking back up to him. He noticed but didn't say a word, hand still rubbing your thigh. You nod. 

"Yes."

"Okay." He sucks in a deep breath after a moment and pulls away from you, the moment you two shared slipping away. Your stomach turns, almost missing the contact, but you scoot a bit from him anyways. "Okay, cool. Do you work this weekend?"

You raise a brow at him, head shaking. "No. Why?"

"I'm free most of Saturday and Sunday, so we could... uh, do it then."

"Oh." Your eyes widen. "You want to wait?"

"I mean, yeah. Us doing it now would be weird, right?" You think about it briefly before nodding. It would be odd to just dive into it now, you don't think you'd enjoy it that much. "This gives us time to... prepare? I don't know. Be less nervous? And it gives you a few days to really think about it."

You rolled your eyes playfully, but your heart swells in size at how concerned Noah was, making sure you were completely okay with your decision. 

"I've thought about it for almost a week now. I think I'm sure."

“Alright, no need to get fucking sassy with me.” He leans over to flick at your forehead, like he had done earlier, and you swat at his hand.

“I’m not even being sassy!”

“Whatever, dude.” Noah finally gets up from your bed and looks down at you, brows raising. “So, next weekend?”

“Um. Yeah. Next weekend.” You clear your throat, trying to come off as nonchalant as possible, and Noah nods.

“Alright. Cool.” He looks like he wants to say something else, lips pressing together before he shrugs it off, making his way towards the door. “Does pizza sound good for tonight?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Pizza.” He looks over his shoulder. “For dinner?”

“Oh.” You blink again, the sudden change in conversation taking you for a loop and you push yourself up off the bed. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Awesome. I’ll go ahead and order it and let you know when it’s here.”

You watch him slip out of your room, listening to his footsteps down the hall, and something in your tummy stirs as the realization of what’s happening finally settles in. What the hell did you just get yourself into?

…

You sat in the middle of your bed late Saturday evening, staring up at Noah as he stood at the end of your bed. You were still nervous, but not as nervous as you had been almost a week ago. Noah had been right - the more you thought about it and prepared yourself, the less scared you seemed to be. You can't lie and say all the nerves have gone away, because they sure as hell haven't, but looking at Noah right now, all you feel is comfort. 

"Feeling alright?" Noah's voice breaks you from your thoughts and you give him a small nod.

"Yeah." You hum, your hands spreading against your thighs. They were bare, the only thing you had on were some sleep shorts and an oversized shirt you typically slept in - probably Noah's. "Just nervous."

Noah gives you a smile as he crawls onto the bed towards you, your heart picking up under your chest. 

"It's okay to be nervous." He mumbles, sitting on his knees in front of you. You still have to tilt your head up just to look at him. "But it's just me, okay? I'll take care of you. I promise."

His words have your stomach turning, like a bunch of butterflies have just been released. Your skin heats up and you're sure your cheeks are flushed some sort of light pink, and Noah leans forward, his lips ghosting against your forehead. You take a deep breath and let your eyes flutter shut at the feeling, trying to ease your nerves.

"At any time you want to stop, you tell me, okay?" He says once he pulls back, hand coming up to rest beneath your chin, tilting your head back up. Your eyes open. "If it becomes too much, I need you to tell me. This is about you - not me. No egos will be shattered or anything."

"Okay."

"If it's alright with you, we can do the stop light method." He hums, hand never leaving your face. "Red for stop, yellow for slow down, and green for keep going."

You stare at him, eyes already glossed over in a haze, and you nod in his hold. "I trust you."

He pauses, eyes scanning over your face one more time before he leans in again, lips pressing against your forehead more firmly. Your eyes slip shut once again and you lean into it, savoring it. You miss the feeling of his lips against your skin when he pulls away, letting his hand drop.

"Lean back for me."

You scoot up the bed and lean back, the back of your head pressing against your pillow. Noah stares down at you before nudging your legs open gently, leaning forward to hover over you. Your heart is thudding so loudly against your chest it's the only thing you can hear, and you swear Noah can too. And you suspect that he does, especially with the way his lips quirk up at the ends before his eyes catch yours.

"Just relax, okay?" His voice is much lower now and it has something in the pit of your stomach heating up, skin tingling. "You're in good hands."

"Promise?"

Usually you would tease him, since that was the nature of your relationship, but right now you feel too vulnerable. You need to know that you'll be okay with him, which you're sure you will, but hearing him say it out loud just makes you feel a little bit better.

His gaze softens. "I promise."

The look you two share has alarms going off in your mind, and your stomach turns in a way you've never felt before, yet you don't think you've ever felt safer in your life. You relax yourself against your bed, fingers gripping the sheets beneath you.

"Okay." You breathe out. "I trust you."

"Thank you." He actually sounds happy by your words, almost like he's proud, and he leans down, lips ghosting against the skin of your neck as he mumbles out, "I trust you, too."

You can't help the gasp that escapes you when he presses a handful of soft, barely there kisses along your neck. He has an arm propped up beside you to hold himself up, while the other is rested against your hip. He nudges your shirt up ever so slightly, the pads of his tattooed fingers brushing against your bare skin. By instinct your hands raise to reach for him, fingers tangling in his hair. You feel him press against you, a shaky breath leaving him and when the air hits your skin, you shiver.

Noah presses another kiss to your skin before he pulls back, sitting up on his knees. You stare up at him, lips parted as a gasp escapes you. The look in his eyes was almost too much, the usual softness in his brown eyes darkening. The hand that was on your hip pushed your shirt up more, letting it wrinkle up against your stomach.

"Can I take these off?" He questions, fingers now tugging at the waistband of your shorts.

You can only nod, words not being an option right now and your hips lift up on their own as he tugs your shorts down your legs. Your body shakes the second you're exposed, the only thing covering you now is your underwear. The cold air hits against your core and its damp, and you flush out of embarrassment. He's done nothing but kiss you and you're already wet. You try to shut your legs out of habit, but Noah was still seated between them.

"Hey," His voice is rough, but he leans down, meeting your eyes again. A hand rests against the top of your thigh, his fingers dipping dangerously close to the one spot you're aching for him to be. "You okay? You don't need to hide."

You nod again because nothing seems to come out and Noah shakes his head, hair moving around.

"Talk to me." 

Something in his tone has you shivering again, and you swallow. "I'm okay... just not used to this." 

"I understand." His eyes drop from yours down to his hand against your thigh, watching as he gently caresses the skin. You can't help but squirm when his fingers get a bit too close to where you want him, and he glances up at you, lips quirked up into a grin. "I promised to take care of you, and I'm going to."

"I know."

He doesn't respond, just gives you another grin before he slides his body down yours, nestling himself in between your legs. You've never had someone that close to that part of you before, the closest being a finger or two, and when Noah's tugging at the band of your underwear you have to look anywhere but him. Your hips rise off the bed, and you let him drag them down your legs, almost achingly slow, and your eyes lock onto the ceiling.

You're bare in front of him and just knowing that has your chest tightening, your throat closing up. Your fingers move back to the sheets beneath you, and you grip them tightly, squirming when you feel Noah's fingers drag up your thigh. You feel him shift, finger dragging closer and closer to your center, and then the brush of his lips against your inner thigh. You squeak.

“It’s okay.” He murmurs, so low you barely catch it. “Have you ever been fingered before?”

You nod, stiff and quick. “Mhm. Felt weird.”

“Probably because you were so tense.” Another quick kiss was pressed to the inside of your thigh. “Don’t worry, we’ll fix that.”

He starts off slow, a long, slender, tattooed finger sliding up and down your slit before he gently prods at your entrance. You suck in a breath when you feel him push in, body stiffening again. You've been fingered before, you're not that inexperienced, but it's always been uncomfortable. Not enjoyable. Noah senses your unease and presses a kiss to your hip, his free hand rubbing your thigh.

"Need you to relax, baby." His voice is muffled by your hip and the word baby has your entire body flushing. "It'll feel good when you do."

"How do I do that?" You whine out, fingers gripping the sheets. He pushes forward again, his finger now fully inside you. It feels... foreign. 

"Stop thinking so much." He lifts his head up and you sneak a glance down at him, his eyes blown wide, and lips pursed in a slight pout. "Think of something that relaxes you, because you're way too stiff right now."

You toss your head back against the pillow, huffing out, and Noah laughs softly to himself and scatters a few more kisses against your skin. Your eyes flutter shut at the feeling, body almost instantly melting into the mattress. 

"Keep doing that."

"Kissing you?" He mumbles, lips brushing over your hips again. You nod.

"Yes. Please."

"Atta girl," He mumbles, almost to himself when he pumps his finger inside of you, finally relaxing around him to make the action much easier than before. "I got you."

This goes on for a few minutes - soft, delicate kisses being placed along your skin as he worked a finger inside of you. As time went on, the odd and almost painful stretch from before became... pleasurable. You don't even notice the tiny noises slipping from your lips and your hips slowly rocking down to meet his finger.

"You think you can take another?"

You nod. A second finger slips in, and the stretch has you keening, back arching slightly off the bed. It wasn’t terrible, though. No, it felt good. So much better than your previous experiences. You clench around his fingers, and you hear Noah groan quietly, face pressing against the inside of your thigh to muffle the noise.

“Fuck.” You curse out when he picks his movements up, fingers now scissoring in and out of you.

“Feel good?” Noah sounds strained, like he’s trying to hold himself together even though you’re the one experiencing all the pleasure. You nod.

“Really fucking good.” You choke out, hips bucking down to meet his fingers. “Green. Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t, baby.” Noah mutters, not once letting up. “Doing so well for me.”

You practically purr at his words, your body warming up and feeling the fly all over. You’ve always been one to love a good bit of praise, and hearing it come from Noah was something you’d never imagined enjoying so much. A surprised gasp leaves you when you feel his thumb press against your clit, applying pressure while his fingers continued.

"You've ever been ate out before?"

Noah's words pull you away from the cloud you were just on, the pleasure coursing through your body. You whine, shifting your hips down to meet his fingers again but he stills his movements.

"No." You whimper. 

You wiggle your hips down to get some kind of friction, the heat that was beginning to pool in your tummy slowly slipping away. You hear Noah groan below you and he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, gently biting down on the soft plush of skin there.

"Can I be the first?" He breathes out, lips dancing across your skin. "Please. I'll make you feel so fucking good, I promise."

“Yeah,” You nod quickly, hips rolling down to gain some kind of friction again. “Please, just do something.”

That’s enough for him, diving headfirst between your thighs.

Noah leaves no mercy, his lips wrapping around your now swollen clit as his fingers begin moving inside you again. The feeling of his tongue wet and heavy against you and his long fingers pumping in and out of you has your eyes crossing, stars dancing around the edges of your gaze. You can't help but let another moan slip, hips bucking wildly. You feel Noah moan against you, angling his fingers up to press against something inside of you that's pulling an unexpected noise out of you, something mixed with a cry and a moan. You’ve never experienced pleasure like this before with another person.

The heat pooling in your returns much quicker than you thought and you feel yourself clench around his fingers, hips moving on their own accord. Noah moans again, tongue moving against you, and you swear you feel shifting at the end of the bed. You take a chance to glance down at Noah, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. You have to bite down on your bottom lip to hold in any noises and watch as Noah ruts his hips against the bed.

You’d never seen anything so insanely attractive before – Noah’s mouth working against you like a starved man and getting off on it to the point that he has to grind against the bed to get some kind of release. It’s enough to push you over the ledge, the heat in your stomach snapping and your cunt clenching around his fingers. You cry out, falling back onto the bed as your eyes squeeze shut. You’d experience orgasms before, but this was your first with another person, and it was probably the best damn orgasm you’ve ever had.

Noah doesn’t let up until you’re practically shaking, reaching down to curl your fingers into his hair and physically push him away. He laughs, light and airy, and turns his head to press a quick kiss to the side of your thigh before finally sitting up. You stare up at him with hooded eyes, his chest rising and falling heavily with each breath he took. You feel your heart pounding against your chest, ringing loudly in your ears as the realization of what just happened settles into your bones.

Noah just gave you one of the best orgasms of your life.

Your cheeks flush with color and before you could reach up and hide your face from him, he’s leaning down, hovering over you. You suck in a deep breath.

“Was that okay?” He questions softly, but you can hear the slight shake in his voice, and the look in his eyes was anything but soft.

You nod. “Better than okay.”

“Yeah?”

You watch a smile spread across his lips and find it hard to look anywhere but there, so you don’t, and you give him another nod.

“Do you wanna keep going?” He leans further down until your noses are barely touching and you’re doing everything in your power to pull him down and kiss the absolute fuck out of him.

You nod again, swallowing harshly. “Yes, please.”

He doesn’t say anything, just hums out a quiet noise of approval while brushing his nose against yours. You can’t stop yourself from smiling at the soft gesture while he sits up from the bed. You watch with hooded eyes as he pulls his shirt over his eyes and you let your gaze trail over him, not trying to hide the fact that you were indeed checking him out. You lived with him so of course you’ve seen him shirtless countless of times before, but now it was different. Much more intimate.

You pull your bottom lip in between your teeth as he’s pushing both his sweatpants and boxers down, crawling back towards you. You sit up and finally pull your shirt off as well, tossing it to the ground before lying back down, watching Noah reach over for the condom he had brought in with him, and you swallow down the nerves that were beginning to rise.

It’s now or never.

You meet his gaze again and the look he’s giving you, like he wants to devour you has a fire setting off inside of you. Your eyes drop to his achingly hard cock, watching as he rolls the condom on, and you squirm underneath him, fingers gripping the sheets below you. He grips his cock, long fingers wrapping around his length and your mouth practically waters at the sight.

You realize in that moment you’ve never wanted someone more than you do now, and that is definitely something you’ll have to unpack later. Right now, though, all you can think about is the way his slides the tip along your slit, teasing your entrance before pressing into your now sensitive clit. You whimper, hips wiggling down and Noah chuckles above you.

“Remember, red is for stop, yellow is for slow down, and green is for keep going. Okay?”

It takes you a minute to register his words, too focused on the way he looks above you, and you give a shallow nod. “Okay.”

“Good.”

Noah hikes your legs up around his waist and you circle them around him, unintentionally pulling him closer to you. The tip of his cock nudges against your entrance at that and you suck in a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut. He takes his time slipping in, going as slowly as he could, and you whine quietly, face scrunching up at the feeling. It was different than his fingers, much bigger, the stretch almost uncomfortable and not the same pleasurable feeling you had just moments before. You feel his body lean over yours when he finally presses in all the way, nose brushing against yours again.

“Look at me.”

You do, eyes opening to stare up at him. His voice sounded strained again, like he was holding himself back for you, and the look in his eyes has you melting into the bed. You stare up at him with wide eyes, not sure what to say, and he gives an experimental roll of his hips. You whine again, the stretch as his slide in and out of you has your back arching off the bed.

“Is this okay? Talk to me, baby.”

You give a small nod, another noise falling from your lips. “It’s okay, just… I’m yellow right now. Go slow, please.”

Noah let’s out a breath like he had been holding it and gave you a nod, giving another small roll of his hips before stilling inside of you. You have to shut your eyes because the way Noah was staring at you was almost too much, your chest feeling like a brick had been sat on it. You can’t believe that you were doing this, finally, and with your best friend no less.

He rests his arms on either side of you, leaning down to nose as your cheek before dipping his head down to press a few kisses against your neck. He nuzzled himself against you, letting one of his hands come down to rest against your hip, gently rubbing soothing circles against your skin.

“You’re already doing so good for me,” You hear him whisper, pressing another kiss to your neck. “Color?”

You flush, keening at his words and your back arches off the bed on its own, causing your hips to shift down and you fee his cock slide further inside of you. The head presses against that spot inside of you again and you let out an unexpected moan, pleasure finally sleeping through your veins. You clench around him, hips shifting down again, and he presses his face against your neck as a groan leaves him.

“Shit.” You breath out, hands coming up to card through his hair. “Green. I’m so fucking green.”

With another groan, Noah rolls his hips against yours and you moan again, eyes rolling back. The stretch of his cock no longer felt uncomfortable, pleasure coursing through you with each slow thrust Noah gives you. His lips never leave your skin, licking and biting at your neck with each roll of his hips.

He pulls back to press his forehead against yours, eyes boring into your own and you squeeze yours shut. Another moan leaves you as he gives a rather hard thrust, your fingers gripping the ends of his hair and tugging. He whimpers at the feeling and you tug again, wanting to hear those sounds fall from his lips more, and his movements speed up.

The heat you had felt in the pit of your tummy earlier was beginning to form again, warmth spreading through your chest. You open your eyes again just at the moment when Noah’s hand left your hip to slide in between both your bodies, rough fingers pressing against your swollen clit. Your mouth drops open, a loud moan escaping you. The feeling of his fingers rubbing against your clit as his cock slides in and out of you was enough to make your head spin.

“You like that, baby?” He breathes out, lips dangerously close to your own. You nod quickly, whining out instead of answering properly. “Come on, you know I need words.”

“Fuck.” You choke out, a mix of a cry and a moan leaving you. “Feels so good. Please, don’t stop.”

This spurs him on, another whimper slipping from his lips as his hips snap into your own, pace picking up. You clench around his cock, the tip hitting the spot inside of you over and over again. His fingers never let up against your clit either, matching the pace his thrusts and you swear you feel dizzy, eyes rolling back. You’ve never felt like this before, and you think you prefer his cock inside of you over his fingers, the feeling unbeatable.

Your mind races just at the thought of Noah doing this for you, making you feel like this, wanting to take care of you, and your throat tightens for some reason. Something from deep inside your chest twists and you get the overwhelmingly need to be as close as possible to Noah, your fingers gripping the ends of his hair again.

“Noah.” You whimper out, eyes burning with unexpected tears.

“What is it, baby?” He grits out, eyes never leaving yours. His gaze softens when he notices your eyes watering, hips stuttering for a moment. “Are you okay? Tell me a color.”

You nod quickly, head knocking against his gently, and your hands drop from his hair to wrap around your arms around his neck, trying to pull him closer to you.

“Yes, fuck. Green.” You moan, trying to swallow down the lump that had formed in your throat. “Just feels so fucking good. You make me feel so good, Noah.”

Your words just start pouring out, slurring together almost like you’re drunk, and your cunt clenches around him again. You’re close, so fucking close, you can feel it, and so can Noah.

“Yeah?” He whispers, lips brushing against your own. Your back arches as you give him another nod. “God, you feel so fucking good on my cock, baby. Everything I ever dreamed of.”

His fingers against your clit speed up, and you let out a choked moan at the feeling of the heat in your stomach snapping. The combination of his words and his thrusts, plus the pressure against your clit, has your orgasm hitting you at full force. You’re not sure what kind of noise leaves you, something primal pulling itself from your chest as your vision blurred again. You feel like your body was sent to heaven and back, the most euphoric feeling coursing itself through your veins as your orgasm washed over you.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

You hear Noah groan from above you as he fucked you through your orgasm. You don’t know what comes over you in that moment, but staring up at Noah as he chases his son release, you don’t think you’ve ever seen something so beautiful. Without thinking, you pull him down to you, lips sliding over his sloppily as he continued to fuck into you. A surprised noise leaves him, muffled by your lips, and with one last thrust you feel him still inside of you, spilling his release into the condom.

Silence follows after that, nothing but the sound of the two of you trying to catch your breath filling the room. Noah’s face is buried in the crook of your neck and your arms are still tightly wrapped around him, holding his body against yours. That overwhelming feeling in your chest seems to return, but you can’t even fully think about it, your mind too hazy. You feel exhausted, limbs feeling like mush after two mind blowing orgasms, that you barley even register Noah pulling himself up and out of you slowly.

You watch with hooded eyes that are becoming too hard to even keep open as Noah crawls off the bed, sliding the condom off and throwing it away, searching your room for his boxers before slipping them on. It’s a blur after that, Noah looking for the cloth he had brought in, probably to clean you off, and you barely remember him getting back on the bed, slowly pulling you up to slip clean clothes on your body.

Your back meets the bed again as you flop back down, curling yourself into your bed. It’s never felt comfier, you think, as you feel Noah curl up behind you, pulling your blankets over both of your bodies. His arm feels heavy over your waist, and his lips leave a burning feeling against the back of your neck as he pressed a kiss there.

The last thing you remember is your fingers curling around your hand that rests against your stomach, whispering out, “Thank you,” as sleep finally overtakes you.

[thelastofhyde]

you cut your hair, and take some space. (1)

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 15k

hyde’s input. this was written over the course of four months and could easily be used in court to prove i am, in fact, unequivocally in love with one mr. javier peña. if you take the time to read it, just know i appreciate it so much. i really poured my heart and soul into this and, as someone who's been writing for years, it's been so long since i've written something so self-indulgent that's brought me nothing but joy to write. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it, i've decided to post it in three parts. the fic will be posted in full on ao3 once all three parts are available on tumblr!

“i told you, corazón mia (my heart),” he can't meet your eyes. “made it clear from the start i wasn't looking for anything serious.” “i know,” you heave in a breath, hold back a sob. “but if it wasn't serious, why'd you treat me like it was?”

I cut my nose to save some face You cut your hair and take some space.

The mirror is not clean enough to see yourself.

Where there are usually your eyes, there’s a discoloured splotch of brown. A crack runs down the left of what should be your face. Someone’s taken it upon themselves to draw a cartoon penis just where your mouth is. But in your drunken haze and laser focus, you don’t care enough to notice. All you see is the spot where your nose is, a tiny ball of silver nestled just above your right nostril.

It’s something new to fidget with.

On the flip side, it stings like a bitch. Or, more appropriately, like the tequila shots that led you to this run-down tattoo parlour.

You wonder if, come the morning and mental clarity, you’ll regret it.

If you do, you’ll blame him.

Your night was going fine. Good, even. And, with a lack of good nights in the recent week, that was an accomplishment.

You’d dressed up, let loose, had fun. A friend on either arm and a drink close at hand, you’d giggled and gossiped your way through this impromptu girls’ night.

They’d ambushed you, in a way, forced their way through the barricade of tissues and take-out boxes into your apartment. A skimpy dress tossed at your head and four hands dragging you, limb by limb, into the shower.

Get some dinner, hit the town, get fucked up. That was the plan they set out for you.

You skipped dinner, dove head-first into the town.

You were careful all night to never speak of him.

One part fearful it would summon him, another part embarrassed to admit just who you’d gotten tangled up in. A third part, tucked away in a locked closet, ready to do it all over again.

And then it happened.

You didn’t say his name, no.

Not aloud.

You thought it, for just a second, hearing the person beside you at the bar order the same drink you’d watched him nurse time after time. It wasn’t him but, instead, a man far too short and a clean-cut kind of handsome to even begin to compare to the ex-agent.

But it was enough to make you want to leave.

Giving up your space, you’d made your way back to your girls and made up some little white lie, surprised neither of them called you out on it- what kind of bar doesn’t have white wine?

They left to find someplace with wine, you left to find some peace of mind.

The bar they dragged you into was familiar, the setting of many of your father’s stories. It only took you walking through the door, tugging down the dress-too-short, to hear your name called across the floor.

“Hey kiddo!” Your dad’s a tell-tale kind of drunk, his eyes giving away even the smallest sip of alcohol he has. He was just tipsy, scooting his way out of a tattered booth to wrap you up in his arms. It felt as nice as it did guilt-inducing, knowing you’d been avoiding his calls all week since The Incident. A punishment to yourself more than one aimed at him. “You here yourself? Could join us for the night, if you like. Ain’t that right, boys?”

It was only then that you’d realised two men were sat within the booth, collars undone and ties loosened after a week’s work.

There were usually three of them.

"We’re just waiting on Peña." Oh god, it made you feel sick. Heart in your throat, stomach at your feet. His name no longer feels real, not when spoken by anyone but you.

“And raising bets on his tardiness,” one of your father’s friends said. You recognised him from a few of the barbecues and Christmas parties your dad's thrown. He's nice, responsible. Married, to a woman his own age. “I’m saying he’s chasing some tail. God knows he could use some stress relief. Boy’s been wound up all week, nearly bit my head off for asking him about some files."

It’s a wonder none of the three men- one a retired lawyer, the other two members of the force- noticed the blood drain from your face.

“My guess is he’s pulled some muscle in his back and can’t get himself out of bed,” a nudge from your father’s elbow, delivered straight to your ribs. “Whatcha think, kiddo?”

You didn’t have an answer.

You didn’t get to give an answer.

“You need to quit speaking ‘bout me like you’re not a whole decade my senior, viejo (old man),” it came from behind you and threatened you to look. Like the foolish final-girl in a slasher, you ignored your basic instincts and glanced over your shoulder.

You’re not sure what you were expecting, but you know what you were hoping for.

Tired eyes, chewed lips, unkept facial hair. A twitch of sadness drawn between his brows and the stains of cigarette ash on a worn-out suit.

Javier Peña was none of that.

The suit, grey. One that fit him all too well and had you wishing you could stain it with your drink.

The signature moustache, perfectly groomed, sitting perched above the bow of his pouty lips, rosy-red and fresh for picking.

His eyes have always given him away but, staring down at you in that moment, they read only as passive, unaffected.

It was like, nothing.

And, yes, that’s what you’d asked for- from now on, whenever you see me, can you at least pretend that none of this happened?

But he's smart enough to know you didn't mean it, right?

“Hey officers, sorry to interrupt but,” a hand curled around your arm. It tugged and you let yourself be inched away from heavy brown eyes and your father’s smile. “She’s ours for the night. We’re going clubbing!”

That was never part of the plan.

Neither was skipping dinner, though.

You caught the back of him as you were dragged away, some pleading from your father to take it easy and call me in the morning, and noticed it only then.

His hair, freshly cut.

“‘S getting too long,” a mumbled sort of thing, hidden in your neck, spoken against your pulse. A kiss placed upon it, and then another for extra measure. Fingers dragging through his hair, ridding him of the knots your very same hands had worked into them an hour of passionate touching ago. “Lo sé (I know).”

A pause of silence. The blissful moan birthed from nails on his scalp. And, then, “no. It’s nice, I like it.”

That puppy-dog stare, so particular to the cool-down moments between you, meets your own, chin propped upon your sternum. He’s sweet like this, honeyed skin and pleasant smiles.

“Yeah?” He asks, like he even needs to. “You like it, corazón (sweetheart)?” You opt for a hummed confirmation, finger tracing over the arch of his nose. “Guess I better keep it this way, then.”

Now he’s gone and chopped the overgrown curls off.

In a way, it feels like he’s cut you off with them.

We don’t speak cause it’s too tricky But if I’m tricky, why’d you kiss me?

The next time you see him, a wedding is taking place.

He sits on the groom’s side, you sit on the bride’s.

It feels unreasonable to be surprised by his presence. Why wouldn’t he be here, sitting four rows from the back, at his cousin’s brother-in-law’s wedding?

The bride is gorgeous, the groom is in tears. The priest drones on a little too long.

Somewhere between the exchanging of vows, and the ceremonial kissing, and the cheering of guests, your instincts get the better of you and you glance back at him.

He’s already staring right back, eyes ignited with something that weakens your knees and shakes your confidence. The newlyweds walk down the aisle, cut through your line of sight. He’s still staring at you when they’ve passed.

The reception takes place in the events room of some glammed-up hotel, the kind you can barely afford the one night you’re booked in for.

An open bar, a local band. The catering is tasteful, handpicked by the couple, and the table you feast at is so far away from his that you don’t get that chance to see if he chose the chicken or the beef.

You find a friend behind the bar, in the shape of a bottle and toothpick-impaled olives.

You dance till your feet hurt, slip away to your table, take off your heels. You’re back on the dance floor in time to catch the bouquet, too busy basking in the envy of the other women to notice his eyes burning a hole in the back of your head.

If it weren’t for the dent in your bank account made by the room you booked, you’d gladly dance away the whole night. But if a bed with a view costs double your rent, you’ll be damned if you don’t get to sleep in it.

So you stumble to the elevator.

Clutch your heels and flowers to your chest, struggle to remember your floor number. The fifth floor seems to ring a bell, but it might’ve been the eighth floor. Your room key! Maybe, you hope, that’ll have your floor number on it. You struggle with your purse’s zipper, trying your best to pry it open.

You succeed, but at what cost? Heels and bouquet tumble to the floor, thumping and clunking as they knock against it, flower petals falling loose.

You try to bend down, stretch your fingers out to grasp the clasps, seize the stems. A wave of exhaustion mixed with too much alcohol washes over you and you stand up straight again. Take a calming breath, do a little song and dance before reaching down again.

“Déjame. (Let me.)”

Scuffed shoes come into view as you’re halfway down, bent at the waist and holding your balance with one arm against a wall. You stand up straight, too fast, lose your balance and stumble forward.

He catches you.

For a moment, it feels like you’ve never left his arms.

“C’mon, let’s get you to your room.” You hate the way he ends his sentence, no term of endearment and no impure intentions.

He asks for your floor, you give him your key. He punches the number into the elevator and it shakes to life.

Neither one of you makes an attempt to part. There’s a chance he pulls you closer to him. You let yourself melt, regardless, muscles relaxing and sinking into his arms.

He’s still warm. He’s still steady. but his cologne’s different and it makes your eyes sting.

You’d warned him he was about to run out of his signature bottle, made a note to buy him another one for his birthday or Christmas, whichever came first.

“You look like you had fun,” he rasps out, eventually, as the elevator slips past the fifth floor.

“I did,” you tell a partial truth. You would have had more fun, if he’d stood at your side, ate at your table, danced in your arms. But you can’t say that, because he doesn’t want that.

“I’m glad.”

It turns out your floor is the ninth. He’s careful to guide you out the mobile-box, hand on your hip, pressing you to his side. Your heels dangling from one of his fingers and the bouquet gripped in his palm, smacking against his thigh every other step. A little down the hall and there you find it, your precious and expensive home for the night.

It’s easier to let him open the door, he tells you.

It’s easier to let him guide you to bed, you tell yourself.

Dropping the heels on the floor, he disappears out of your line of sight and you stare motionless at the ceiling above, buzzing in your brain and pain in your heart.

You’ve never shared a space like this with him, one that’s hollow and decayed. The shell of a creature that’s long abandoned it, grown too big for its home.

Your eyes sting all over again, this time enough to brim with unfallen tears.

A thud against the nightstand.

You roll onto your side and find he’s still here, a glass of water and some painkillers lay to rest at your bedside. The first tear gives way, running down your cheek and dropping to the crisp white sheets below. Even more fall as he raises a damp cloth to your face, wiping away smudged mascara and bringing your lips back to their natural colour.

The undressing is gentle and so unlike his usual impatience.

Fingertips drag down each inch of skin released as he unzips the back of your dress, tugging it down and folding it by your heels. The weight off your chest helps you breathe as he unhooks your bra. Left only in your underwear, the sheets ruffle as he drags them up your tired limbs and tucks them under your chin.

“Get in bed, please,” you plead like you have any right to ask that of him. “Javi.”

It’s the first time you’ve said his name since that night in May. His shoulders tense and release, his fingers smooth down his moustache. He looks like he’s going to fulfil your request, slip in behind you and wrap you up in his soft but steady embrace.

He looks like he wants to.

His back cracks as he bends down and presses a kiss.

Against your forehead, lips that linger.

Then, he stands up straight and walks out the door.

On the forehead, way up north Pressed the scar and found the source

Vermont, ‘98.

That’s where it all began.

Your dad, turning fifty.

Javi just hit forty.

It was someone in the station who had the wild idea they celebrate it together. The sheriff and the station’s rookie- really, a hardened, inching-out-of-a-fresh-retirement former DEA agent your father manipulated back into the force, some promise of a light workload and a hefty pension. With no need for money, you wonder why he ever accepted the offer.

Plans were set, money was put in a pot, and a wheel of fortune was spun. It landed on the northern state, a downpayment to rent a ski lodge placed within a matter of twenty-four hours.

Somewhere along the way, you’d been roped into joining this boys-only trip. Your dad argued you needed a break from studying. Your mother argued there needed to be a responsible adult to supervise your dad. and, well, a free holiday never hurt nobody, right?

Wrong.

The final evening, with a constant pounding of a hangover never-quite-nursed, a litter of bruises down your back from falling and a firmly closed chapter on any possible career as a ski prodigy you may have had, you trailed your way down to the only bar in the tiny ski town.

Textbooks on the table, glasses on your face.

A half-drank glass of cabernet, an empty plate.

Peaceful and quaint, until it wasn’t.

The cheer of a frat-boy out in the wild warrants the same response as hearing a lion’s roar in the dark of the Saharan night.

The kind you hear them before you see them, spilling through the door in their obnoxious jerseys and their face-painted cheeks. one wore the badge of honour, a giant Soon To Be shackled Married printed poorly onto the back of his jersey.

You put your head down, breathed more subtly.

The pride stormed their way over to the bar, pounding their fists onto the surface and gnashing their teeth, spit spilling down their mouth as they brutally tore into the bartender, demanding pints of beer and rounds of shots.

The key was to avoid eye contact, keep low and out of sight.

They dispersed through the area, sniffing out free booths and the occasional local to irritate out of their seats.

One of them found the jukebox and wasted his coin on blasting Pour Some Sugar On Me. The group of older women playing bingo scowled and made their way out of the joint, calling it for the night.

You got up to follow suit, hands slowly packing up your belongings and slinging your bag over your back.

Inching towards the exit, footsteps light as a feather.

“Woo! Look at you,” just as you were close to slipping out the door, a single member of the pack spotted you, prowling his way over. He already had his chest puffed out by the time you turned around. “Ain’t seen an ass like that since we left the city!”

Hardly charming. Tame, compared to other things frat boys have said to you.

“Why don’cha come join me and my buddies over there?” He nodded back at them, like they weren’t the obnoxious centres of everyone’s attention.

You were not scared of him, exactly. But you’ve seen where things can go. Heard about it, countless times, from your own father.

So you spoke with caution, gripping your bag a little tighter, “thanks, but I’ve got an early flight. Have a nice night-” He told you his name, like you cared. “Yeah, thanks, bye.”

And then you were stepping out into the quiet of the night.

Fresh air, cold enough to sting your lungs. You breathed it in like it was going out of fashion.

You barely got a moment to compose yourself before that grating voice was back in your ears.

“Oh don’t be a buzzkill!” He whined, you cringed. Took a step back, watched him move an inch. “It’s early, stay. Have a drink.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“To have fun?! C’mon, it’s too cold to be out here by yourself.”

“I have an early flight.”

“It’s just one drink, sweetheart. I ain’t asking you to sign your life away.”

A couple bumped past you both, weaved their way between you. His eyes trailed after them, your feet twisted around, carrying you away from him slowly, carefully. Best not to make yourself look like prey, not to this predator.

“Hey!” He called after you. Your steps sped up. “Where you going, sweetheart?”

It didn’t even matter that you were walking in the opposite direction of the ski lodge. You told yourself you would find your way back, once this lion was off your back.

“I ain’t done talkin’ to you!”

The lion pounced, sank his claws into your back and ripped through you.

Your hand flew out to break your fall, the contents of your bag spilling out onto the sidewalk.

Pain, the kind that stings. It nipped at your knees, and your hands, and your eyes. Pushed it down, pulled yourself up.

He froze, maybe surprised at his own actions, maybe waiting on the chance to pounce once more, this time with his fangs instead of his claws.

You wouldn’t give him the chance. Filled your bag, collected your senses and ran.

It was tricky on frozen ground, trying so hard to not look back.

He followed and you knew it, heard it. Roaring and growling, chasing you down streets you’d never walked.

You slipped, momentarily, slammed into a wall. A crossroads, go right or go left.

You don’t remember which direction you turned.

“Quit running, you bitch!”

He was still following, how was he still following?

Caving in, you glanced over your shoulder and saw the blurry figure of him running after you.

He was getting faster. Maybe you were getting slower.

You came to a screeching halt, body smacking into something solid. Eyes shut, mind alive. You feared the worst, hoped for the best, expected to open your eyes and find yourself trapped in a dead-end, nowhere to run from this predator.

Instead, you heard your name. Called softly, at first. Gentle, coaxing you to pay attention. The second time it was more urgent, worried and aggressive. You sank deeper into the wall, felt your feet shuffle on the gravel below.

“...Gotta let me know, nena,” the wall pulled you back from it, a firm grasp on your forearms. Your eyes opened and met his. “Fucking Christ, look at the state of you.”

You’d not known much about Javier Peña at the start of the trip.

Your dad had mentioned something about a family ranch. Your mom let it slip that he’d enjoyed the pumpkin pie she’d brought to the station’s Thanksgiving feast.

There’d been one time you’d caught the end of a conversation between him and your dad. Nothing concrete, just some shameful mutterings about Colombia and Los Pepes. You’d left once you heard your dad start to comfort the man, deciding your intruding on the moment had already gone too far.

You now knew he liked his whiskey, no ice. His coffee, no milk. His bread, no butter.

He didn’t like the mess of mixing things, and you had to wonder if it had always been this way. Or had he learned his lesson, the hard way? Mixed the wrong things, burnt his own blessings?

“You’re bleeding,” he announced it, fresh news for you.

A pleasant warmth thrummed through your veins as he took hold of your hand, inspecting it under his scrutiny.

His thumb swiped over your palm.

Your mouth winced, your arm pulled back.

He held you in place.

Something visceral shifted in him, enough to coax you to glance at him.

He was looking past you, eyes a deadly killer stalking their prey. You followed their line of sight and found the lion at the end of the street. Standing still, arms at his side, eyes a little wider than you remembered them. You’d not really been looking, in the first place.

The former agent twisted you behind him, an effortless shield. Took an urgent step toward the frat boy, and then another three.

You grasped at his sleeve and tugged him back, didn’t let him stray too far.

“I’m fine,” you lied. He didn’t believe you, furrowing his brow. “I’m just cold.”

He seemed to hesitate, softened by a tremble in your voice.

He glanced back to see the lion was retreating, staggering his way back to the pride of frat boys. A perfect opportunity for him to attack, from behind and unexpectedly.

“Leave it, he’s not-” The sting in your eye got the best of you and a tear tracked itself down your cheek. You wiped it away with your scraped hand, leaving behind a smear of gravel and blood. “It’s not worth it.”

You said it not for the agent’s sake, but the boy’s.

The agent puffed out a breath of frustration, then followed your plea. Turned back to you, licked his thumb and swiped off the dirt on your cheek. Pulled you in, against him once more, and pressed a deliberate kiss against your forehead.

It was instinctual, no thought placed behind his action.

He did it because that seemed to be in his nature: to nurture.

“C’mon, the lodge is this way,” he pointed in some direction.

You didn’t bother paying attention, more than willing to follow wherever he led.

“Put this on.” It was not posed as an option, not when the agent tugged off his coat and draped it over your shoulders.

Somewhere along the path, you realised you’d lost your key to your cabin. Your dad carried the other.

Officer Peña offered to take you to him, drinking down in the ski lodge’s bar with the rest of the men.

You shook your head, told him your dad couldn’t see you in that state.

He took you back to his own cabin instead.

Cleaned up your hands, put on the fire, poured you a drink.

Then fucked you into his bed, till you clawed and sobbed around him.

If you don’t love me, Why’d you act it?

Late june brings nothing but gloom.

You get bored quick, no college to fill your days. Pick up extra shifts, hope to combat the empty feeling in your chest with the rush hour traffic that torpedoes it’s way through the cafe.

Friends invite you out, you rarely go. They tease you’re becoming a recluse, and that just makes you want to shut yourself in even more.

Tonight, you’re appeasing them.

Some line dance event, downtown in a bar that’s only gimmick seems to be a worn-down mechanical bull. It’s missing a horn and no one seems to know why.

Truth be told, you don’t want to go.

You want to stuff your face with take-out while you melt into your couch, watching reruns of the first season of Friends and drooling over Joey till you forget about another smooth-talking, raven haired man.

Here you are instead, fighting against the cheesy cowgirl hat till it sits on your head correctly.

In the mirror, it’s still lopsided.

The clock sits at eight forty-seven.

They’re 2 minutes late.

You give up, decide to pretend you want the hat this way. Slip on your jacket, do a sweep around your apartment: windows locked, flat iron off, fridge closed. Grabbing your purse, you unzip it and wrestle around in it’s contents, searching for your keys.

You pull on something and- it’s a pack a gum.

Dive back in, search again.

An empty tube of lipbalm.

Third time’s a charm, you think, and try once more. Something scratches your fingers, coaxes you to tug it out and inspect it.

A broken earring.

A familiar car honk’s outside, you stay frozen in place, staring at the broken hoop and counting one, two, three.

Bile burns the back of your throat.

He opens on the fifth knock.

Any other night, he practically rips the door off it’s hinges and tugs you in, before you can so much as raise your fist for a second knock.

Maybe he was busy, on the toilet or on the phone. You don’t think too much into it.

He steps aside, lets you in. Stands so far away, it’s hard to read his eyes.

The air’s uncomfortably quiet.

You think’s it’s all in your head, self-doubt at an all time high after a bad day.

“My earring snapped today,” there’s a growing pit in your stomach, just from staring at him. He looks so distant, not present. Mind a galaxy away. "Your favourite ones, too. You know, the little hoops with-”

“The hearts dangling from them.” He finishes, on your behalf, and it’s the first green flag you see. Green enough to lull yourself into a faux calm.

The silence returns.

You rock backwards on your heels, glance around the apartment. Try to find what has changed, because this no longer feels like the place you’ve grown so familiar with. And neither does the man observing you from a distance, hands glued to his sides.

He should be touching you by now, in any way he could: his foot bumping against yours under his dining table, his hand trailing patterns over your shoulders as you settle into his side on the couch, his tongue delving between your folds as you lay splayed out on his sheets.

You notice his bedroom door is shut.

It’s never been shut before.

“Is- Am I-” You don’t have to find the words, but the courage to speak them. “Do you have someone over?”

He blinks, slowly.

It’s hard to tell if it’s from guilt.

“Because if you do, that’s fine!” It’s not. “I understand,” You don’t.

He doesn’t answer.

You keep talking.

“Totally chill, I’ll comeback some other night. Or, you can just come by mine! Yeah, actually, that sounds better. Won’t risk interrupting again-”

“This needs to stop.”

You don’t have to question it.

You do, anyway.

“What?”

“Us. This-” He’s pointing between you both, a little haphazardly. It’s like he’s rushing to get the words out, get it over with. Get you out his apartment. “Thing we’re doing. It’s done.”

“I don’t underst-”

He cuts you off with your name. “Why’d you come here tonight?”

He’s stern.

Not in the way that makes you want to bend to his will and indulge in all his sins. But in a way that makes you feel dirty, wrong. A child scorned for touching fire and getting themselves burnt.

“I,” you’re beginning to wish there was someone else in his bed, so she could stroll out of his room in one of his stupidly soft shirts and interrupt this conversation. “Uh, I had a bad day.”

“Okay,” he nods. Smooths a hands over his chin, pops out his hip. “What’s that got anything to do with me?”

Everything, you want to tell him.

For every single thing that went wrong throughout your day, seeing Javi gave you something to look forward to.

“I just thought-”

“You thought, what?” His face twists up, just like your insides. He’s angry and you’re the one to blame. “This isn’t a- I’m not your boyfriend.”

I know, you mouth.

Because you do know. Repeat it to yourself all the time.

When he calls to make sure you got home safe.

When you sneak off to pee in the middle of the night and are welcomed back to bed with a forceful tug into his chest, a sleepy, gruffed out ‘where’d you go?’ whispered into your neck.

When he picks up on the things you say, remembers silly things like your favourite toilet paper brand and the exact milk to cereal ratio you enjoy.

Javier Peña is not your boyfriend.

So why does he act like it?

“Look, kid, you’re young, and I know-”

Kid.

That makes you angry.

He wasn’t calling you kid when he bent you over your parents’ bathroom counter.

“Don’t call me kid.”

“And I know,” he pushes through your protest, keeps up the distance. “This can be a lot at your age. Don’t blame you for getting caught up. But whatever you think you’re feeling for me, it’s not-”

“Is this about the p-” The word won’t come out of you, so your change the verbiage. “The hospital? Because I told you, Javi. We’ve been safe. Safer than a pair of purity-ring wearing teenagers-”

“No, this is about me needing to do the right-”

At this point, you’re just interrupting one another.

Fighting to get in the next word, frowning at what you do hear.

He tilts his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose, a groan leaving his cracked lips. You’d imagined him doing that tonight, but not like this.

Eventually, the back-and-forth stops.

Silence.

You take the lead.

“So, what? That’s it just... over?”

“I told you, corazón mía (my heart),” he can’t meet your eyes. “Made it clear from the start I wasn’t looking for anything serious.”

“I know,” you heave in a breath, hold back a sob. “But if it wasn’t serious, why’d you treat me like it was?”

It takes him a few minutes to answer. There’s a twitch, in his hand, reaching up only to drop back down at his side.

Usually, he wipes your tears before they get chance to fall.

The rug at your feet turns darker with each wet spot that drops.

“I got caught up,” his eyes seem so sad, so lost. Staring across the ocean of his living room, searching for a lighthouse to pull him safe to shore. But he won’t let you be that. “In the way you deserve to be treated, instead of some sleazy secret.”

He breathes out your name, the most painful melody you’ve ever heard.

“This has to end,” you’re unsure if it’s only you he’s attempting to convince. “Before someone gets hurt.”

Too late, you want to say.

You’re already being torn apart by his hands, and he’s standing ten feet away.

“Corazón, I’m so sor-”

The car honks, again.

You breathe in, and find it’s hard, snot piling up in your nose and tears splashing down your cheers.

Another honk.

You never make it to the line dance.

You curl in on yourself, instead, and fall asleep to the sound of Joey and Chandler’s bickering.

Love’s a verb And not a bandage

In retrospect, it’s hard to tell where the lines begin to blur.

A promise of casual, turned into something fragile.

Whenever you think about it, for too long, your mind carries you back to the same night. A few months after Vermont, you don’t recall the exact date.

All you remember is a pounding at your front door.

1 am. Too late to be causing ruckus.

You nearly trip over discarded shoes, curse earlier-you for assuming you would remember their existence. Undo the bolt, grab the key and then-

Pause.

This could be anyone, anything.

You check the peephole, find exactly who you were hoping for.

He’s on you like a moth to a flame, pressing you flush against him the instant he can fit through the crack in your doorway. Mouth on mouth, hands on waist. The door thuds as he closes it behind you both, you’re too distracted to notice.

You let him invade your senses.

Smell his aged leather and nicotine thrill. Feel his strong arms and bulging crotch. Hear his laboured breaths and muttered pleasantries. Taste his whiskey tongue and metallic lips-

You pull back. He follows.

It’s flattering, his inability to get enough of you, but you halt him nonetheless.

Cup his cheeks, pull down his face, and stare.

“My dad finally figure out who those panties in your glove-box belong to, Peña?” It’s meant to be a joke.

There’s nothing funny about his bleeding lip and split eyebrow.

He graces no response, dives back into you and submerses himself in your touch. Kisses you slow, with deliverance, his final mission to arrest all your sense of self till you turn yourself in to his embrace.

Only as you pass by those discarded shoes do you realise he’s inching you both deeper into the dark of your apartment.

This time, you do trip over them.

It’s okay though, Javi’s there to catch you.

He finds refuge in your neck, burrowing in deep, mouthing at the skin like a dog does a wound. Your arm shoots out to find a light-switch. A warm glow fills the apartment, bathing you both in an orange hue.

The gold of his skin shines brighter.

The red on his skin appears darker.

“What happened to you?” You don’t need to worry about him. And, yet, doing so comes naturally.

“S’not important,” it’s spoken against your skin, as if he intends to seep his gravelled tone into your pores and have it grow a new life for itself within you. A gentle scraping of his teeth sends a shiver down your spine. “I’ll tell you later.”

Later with Javi never seems to come.

‘If you’re not busy, I’ll make you dinner later.’

‘Keep it up and I’ll be fucking that attitude out of you later.’

‘I’ll get these back to you later.’

He’d never made you that dinner.

He’d dragged you into the station’s bathrooms and fucked the attitude out of you only seconds after.

You’d never gotten those panties back.

You decide to grant him no time for later. Shove him down into a seat at your dining table-for-two. Roll your eyes as he asks if you’re “gonna put on a show for me, corazón?”

The makeshift first-aid kit put together by your mother resides at the back of a cupboard, hidden by mugs and cups. It takes several minutes and a smashed glass to manoeuvre it out. You step over the pieces of glass and head straight back to the table, dumping out the contents.

You click your tongue, point your finger. He scoots the chair back from the table and you slip between the space. Press back against the surface, stand between his parted knees and do your best to not look down at the jeans that grant him no modesty.

Distractions are not welcomed, your patient needs tending to.

He’s insisting he’s okay, yet he’s hissing when you dab at the tears in his flesh with betadine. His hands find a place upon your hips and give a tight squeeze as you press butterfly stitches to his no-longer bleeding brow.

“I,” he starts up, an indefinite time of silence passing between you both. He shakes his head.“It’s stupid.”

“Javi,” you stroke your finger over his jaw, tilt his head back to meet your eyes. “The less you tell me, the more I’ll worry.”

It does the trick, unlocks his tongue.

“I was just wanting one drink, was gonna head home... Or to you, after. I had a shitty day at work and... You probably don’t care about that,” he has no idea you’ll hang onto those words for the weeks to come, wondering how to lighten his workload, ease his tension. “Heard some loud-mouth kid beside me at the bar, he was talking to this girl. She gets up to leave, he follows. I was just gonna go back to nursing my drink but-”

He hisses.

You’re pressing too hard on his fragile lip.

There’s no malice in his eyes as you pull your hand back, only soft and tender. He must sense your remorse for hurting him, chasing after your fingers and grazing a gentle kiss upon them.

A splotch of red stains your skin.

“Corazón,” he croons, shifts himself closer to you. His hands grip the backs of your exposed thighs, his chin presses into your lower stomach. A few movie-strand hairs cover the molten brown eyes that stare up at you. “You’re exhausted. Vamos, basta de preocuparte (C'mon, stop worrying), I’m fine. I just wanna crawl into your tiny bed so I can wake up to your bedhead and more back pains.”

It’s a tempting offer, and one you’ve given into far too many times acceptable for the casual agreement you both share.

A deep breath. Your hand lands on his cheek, his eyes flutter shut.

There’s bags under them. Heavy, dark. Bearing the exhaustion he hides behind charming winks and dashing smiles. Your thumb grazes over one and you ache to give him the rest he deserves, the rest his body craves.

“But, what?” You persist, pleading for him to continue his story.

Javi sighs, gives in.

He always gives in, to you, eventually.

“I just- I don’t know, it’s crazy, but I kept thinking of you,” his eyes reopen, sorrow buried deep in his soul and a worry-line etched into his brow. “In that bar. Alone, in Vermont, when you...”

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

He doesn’t need to.

“So what did you do?” It’s best to keep him talking, drag his mind away from whatever dark thoughts those memories bring up.

“I followed them outside,” he admits with a tinge of shame. “Tried to be subtle about it. Lit a cigarette, took a few drags, scoped out the street. Neither of them were around,” you’ve long abandoned the first aid kit, transfixed by the tight grip he holds you in, his hands smoothing up and down the backs of your thighs in an attempt to soothe himself. “I thought I’d maybe read into it wrong. Maybe she was into him, and they’d got a cab back to her place. Or his.”

He’s rambling.

Stumbling through words he deems unimportant, rushing to push out the thoughts that clog up his brain pipes.

You listen closely, swallow up every morsel he offers.

“It was just as I turned to go back inside that I heard something,” his hands no longer dance over your skin. They sit stagnant, halfway up your thigh, fingers flexed and nails digging into flesh. He’s burying himself into any part of you he can, rooting himself in your solid figure. “Rustling, or something. Coming from the alley. And I just... I felt my stomach drop. Followed after it. Found them, him-”

He chokes.

On his words, on his breath, on his failure.

You run a hand through his curls, soothe the lines off his face.

Bend down, drag him up, press your lips to the arc of his nose.

“Didn’t think, I just dragged him off. Punched him, a few times. Felt his nose crack under my fist.” He’s still pushing through, his earlier unwillingness to talk now a streaming fountain you can’t switch off. “I must’ve tripped on some glass, lost my balance. Gave him the space to get a few hits in, and-”

“Did you arrest him?” You cut him off.

He nods.

“Did you help her?”

Another nod.

“Did you get her someplace safe?”

This time, a reply.

“An officer checked her in at the hospital, stayed till her friend arrived.”

“Then Javi,” you make a point of saying his name, remind him of who he is when he’s not on duty. Not parading around with a badge and a gun, and answering to Officer Peña. The shift in his stare tells you it helps. “You did enough.”

A weight slips off his shoulders and he slumps further into you, eyes squeezing shut.

“I didn’t,” frustration steals the show, coursing through his voice.

“What more could you have done?”

“I don’t know... I could’ve-” He groans, like something pains him, and purses his lips. “I should’ve helped her sooner. Followed them, the minute they left. Shouldn’t have let...” A whiff of whiskey reaches your nostrils. Javi pulls you in tighter, breathes in the mixture of sleep-sweat and lingering cologne on the shirt you wear- Pink, the top buttons undone, left behind by him. “Shouldn’t have let you go out alone.”

You whine out his name.

The air is miserable, dragging through your lungs and staining them.

The chair creeks at the loss of his weight, knees straightening him up to his full height. Instinctually, you lean back into the table, head tilting to meet his broken eyes.

He’s searching for comfort, in the only way he knows how.

Slap a bandage over a bullet-hole, place a kiss upon his gaping-heart.

“Not everything about that night was so bad,” you play into his game, splay a hand upon his shirt. Trace a finger over a stained blood spot. “If I hadn’t gone out, then maybe we wouldn’t be...”

The words catch in your throat.

Partially because you don’t know what you are anymore. Boundaries crossed, lines blurring. Hands that hold and eyes that linger. Too close to be nothing, too reckless to be something.

But mostly because he kisses you.

Desperate, hungry. Groaning into your willing mouth.

He’s a man on a mission, to consume your soul right out your willing body. Unravelling you where you stand, he takes pleasure in peeling his shirt off you.

Hot mouth to hot skin, the tip of his tongue meeting the peak of your breasts. Your hands pull at his hair and he grips at your waist.

The descent into madness is quick, bodies melting together in a dance that’s unique, improvised, and yet always in sync.

He tugs at your panties and you undo his belt. He hooks your thigh over his hip and you anchor yourself to his chest. He teases you with a pinch to your clit and you torture him as you cup his heavy balls.

When Javi fucks you, he fucks with purpose.

The table thuds and scrapes along the floor with each punctuated thrust he gives, driving his cock deeper and deeper into your welcoming cunt, the coarse hairs at its base gifting you the occasional thrill of friction on your aching clit.

He’s slurring out curses and pet-names, lavishing you with delightful proclaims of what a pretty girl you are when you 'shut up and take my cock'.

When he does manage a full sentence of logical wording, his forehead’s pressed to your shoulder, his cum coats your thighs and the sweat between your frantic bodies holds you both together.

“There’s not a universe where this doesn’t happen, corazón,” you feel him softening against your thigh, yet you still delight as he drags a finger coated in his own spend up your folds. “Want you too damn much to miss out on you.”

Curling up into your bed that feels too big these days, you grip at the pink shirt and wonder when that changed.

When did Javier Peña stop wanting you?

And I’m spiritual cleansing (but the truth) Is I’m good at pretending (oh and you)

By July, things change.

The stud in your nose is traded out for a silver ring.

The lonely nights in your apartment turn into stumbling back home from some nameless club in the early hours.

Boredom leads to hobbies.

At first, you try pottery.

Four plates broken and a crumbled mug later, you put on your dance shoes.

Slip. Almost break your arm. Wrestle with the doom placed on your budding dance career. Throw out the dancing shoes, bring home running shoes.

You hate it, running.

You sweat, you ache, you exhaust.

But when you’re gasping for a breath and your feet pound into concrete ground, you don’t think about it.

The heartache.

The headache.

The agent.

You drop a few pounds, tone up your muscles. Watch your body’s shape outgrow your wardrobe, investing in a new one while clinging onto the items you love too much to lose.

Like the dress that now rests just below your ass, instead of it’s usual place mid-thigh. Or the sweater that once hung loose, that now hugs new curves and creases. The jeans that were tight now sliding off your hips.

The pink shirt still lives on one of your hangers.

But you’re not thinking about it, or it’s previous owner.

Not right now.

Now, you’re balling your fists and counting your breaths. Music blasting through your headphones, sweat dancing on your forehead.

The sun is warm on your back, even as it makes way for night to begin. This is the best time to run, dusk, you’ve discovered.

No kids loitering on park grounds, no threat brought on by the dark, no slow-walking pedestrians crossing your path.

You run your self-made circuit with freedom, switching off all your senses and emptying your mind.

Today, however, it’s more challenging.

The thought of him creeps through, no matter the effort you put in to fight it. Your father’s the one to blame.

You have to come, kiddo.

The phone-call still echos through your thoughts.

Because it wouldn’t be the same without you there.

You’d wanted a better explanation than that.

Then, you tried some lame excuse of already having plans.

You had no plans.

Bring your friends then! The more the merrier!

You nearly groaned out loud at his enthusiasm, but held back. Your father’s light didn’t deserve to be dampened by your shadow.

C’mon, kiddo! I’ve not hosted the annual barbecue since you were still wearing your braces!

You bit your tongue. Fought against telling him that, back then, there were no pretty-eyed, heart-breaking agents for you to worry about.

The whole station’s gonna be there, you have to come!

He said it, like that would persuade you.

Keep asking about ya, the whole lot of them.

The more he spoke, the less you wanted to go.

Just last night Javi was asking how you’re doing!

You’d hung up.

Immediately.

Called back, 3 minutes later. Mumbled an apology and an excuse- I lost signal!- and ultimately agreed to going to the damn barbecue.

Now, you run from the phone call, from the impending doom it brings.

All this heartache and pain, it’s not good for the soul.

Of course, being dumped is a lot easier when the person isn’t your dad’s closest confidant.

It gets hard to breath. Each pound against concrete shakes the cassette player glued to your hip. There’s a sting of tears in your eyes.

Until you come to a screeching halt.

Double over.

Place your hands on your knees.

Dry heave.

You pay no mind to the figure sitting a few feet away on a bench.

Nor to the dog that’s chasing it’s ball back forth between it’s owner’s throws.

You let the sadness flood your soul, deflate you like some discarded party-balloon.

You’ll have to see him.

Spend time near him.

Watch him laugh, and smile, and share beers with your father.

It’s unfair, and you hate him for putting you through this.

For not quitting the force.

For being your dad’s friend.

For not wanting you the same you wanted him.

Want him.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand. Try to stand up straight, get lost in the knots you’d tied into your laces. Sloppy and uneven.

You’re usually more careful.

You catch, in your peripheral, the figure on the bench move. Take it as your sign to compose yourself, get over yourself.

You pick your pace back up.

Manage only a handful-or-two steps.

Your feet fly out in front of you.

Land ass-first on the gravel below.

Beneath the sounds of Olivia Newton-John demanding you get physical, you hear a muffled sorry! yelled out. Spot as the dog rushes to grab it’s ball, halfway down the path thanks to your kick.

You groan and prepare to get back on your feet.

You’re met with a hand in your face, palm open and waiting for you to accept the open offer. You take it, no hesitation.

Big mistake.

The hand tugs you.

You glance up.

And meet the eyes of Javier Peña.

“Easy, tiger,” he coughs up a laugh, like you don’t wind him as you slam into him, full-body force, nerves on fire and all systems shutting down. “You trying to break my ribs?”

It’s no less than you deserves, you think.

And instantly regret it, heart turning blue at the thought of him hurt at your hand.

You take a few steps back, create a safe distance where you can’t smell the remnants of his last cigarette or count the eyelashes that line his eyes.

He asks you how you’ve been, and tries his best to smile.

It comes off as awkward. A crooked line across his lips.

You try to remember the last time he smiled at you and meant it.

You come up empty handed.

Maybe it was back in April. A hospital hallway, one hand clasping yours, the other peeling through the leafs of some medical pamphlet.

Or, was it after, on the drive home, back to his apartment, hand still holding yours while the other spun the wheel?

There’s a vague memory that toils in the depth of your mind.

Sharing an elevator, your heels in his hand, his lips on your forehead.

Wedding attire, a post-party glow.

It’s toyed with you since you woke up in that hotel room, driven half-mad by an image you can’t quite form of him tucking you into bed.

Had he smiled, then?

Had he even been there?

Or was he merely a product of martinis and negronnis-

His fingers grasp your chin, no warning, and tilt your face.

His eyes don’t greet your own. Instead, they’re focused on the centre of your face, inspecting you like a piece of evidence.

“Hmm,” he’s so close, you smell the mint of freshly bitten gum on his breath. Dart your eyes down, catch the glint of his badge poking out his pocket.

He’s still on duty, a tailored uniform contrasting the hair roused by stress. Maybe at his desk, in the office next to your father’s, hands running through his tresses to express frustrations, tensions.

Were they his own hands, or someone with longer, brightly painted nails? Your stomach turns at the thought, your loins warm at the memory of writhing in his desk chair, legs thrown over his shoulders whilst his own dug into the ground below, eager to please mouth and a happy to taste tongue working you to a orgasm muffled by your own hand.

He’d slapped your ass, kissed your cheek and sent you out his office door, wiping your own wetness off your cheek just in time to greet your father.

“You suit the ring,” his voice and a gentle breeze bring you back to the present. To the park. To the heavy feeling that hangs between you both. “I prefer it to that stud.”

“I- What?” Confussion.

You furrow your brow, wipe your sweaty palms over your thighs.

He just smiles, still crookedly, and brings his hand up to your nose.

Adjusts your piercing, swipes his thumb over your cheek.

It’s hard to breath, but you do it anyway.

Thank him, in a struggle to find your voice, with a whisper.

His eyes bore into your own, chase them as you look off to the side, watch the dog still chasing it’s ball and failing to catch it.

You wonder if it’s a cruel metaphor sent by the universe, a symbol of you and Javi.

And then you wonder if you’re the dog or the ball.

Or both.

“You never answered me,” his voice, honey, sweet on your ears. It melts away your other senses, turns you blind to anything other than him. “I want to hear how you’ve be-”

“Peña, if you don’t report your skinny ass to my office in 5 minutes and share a celebratory drink with me, I’m putting you on cleaning duties at our next poker night.”

A static-filled voice blares out his walkie-talkie.

Your father’s voice.

It’s enough to set things right, force your body to retreat from his.

He’s not your Javi anymore, desperate to hear about your day and kiss any aches away.

He’s Peña, your dad’s best friend, meant for nothing more than to be a passing figure in your life.

His eyes are heavy with emotion as he fishes out the device.

Maybe it’s sadness you see.

There’s definitely remorse.

Guilt, too.

“We... Your dad caught the guy that’s been breaking into college girls’ apartments.” He tells you, shares information that should help you sleep better at night. You’ve not done that since the last time he lay next to you. You watch him press down on the call button, hold the speaker up to his mouth. “Do that and I’ll shit in your shower, pendejo (asshole).”

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d commit an indecency within your parent’s bathroom.

But none of that matter, anymore.

You’re already walking away.

Wringing your hands and hoping the tension in your limbs falls out.

He calls out your name, loudly.

Attracts the nosy eyes of people around.

People who know fine well who your father is, who Javier is.

You turn in time to see him half-jog, half-pace his way over to you.

He reaches out for your hand.

And quickly gives up on the thought of holding it.

“I’ll, um,” his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, grinds his teeth in an attempt to say something. “I’ll see you at the barbecue, right?”

He knows the answer.

You still give him it, “yes.”

Smile, uncomfortably brightly, before you turn and walk away once more.

You feel his eyes on you.

And pray he takes no notice of the sob that shakes your shoulders.

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

You’re laughing but it’s mostly fake.

A courtesy, a polite gesture. A signal that you’re still listening, despite tuning out her voice five minutes ago.

She’s a nice lady, someone who works alongside your father. Specialised in forensics, she balances the darkness of her job with the brightness of her wardrobe.

Today, she’s paired a lemon-yellow skirt with a vibrantly orange camisole. She looks like a walking cheese cube.

You’ve known her since you were a kid, even if you can’t remember. She claims you used to stand on her desk, make a big spectacle out of nearly matching your dad’s height.

You’d got to talking to her after she helped you wipe ketchup off your chin.

That was half an hour ago, and the discomfort of wanting to be anywhere but here is finally settling in.

It’s not her fault. You know.

She’s not the one who roped you into going to this barbecue.

Your dad is.

And right now he’s stood on the other side of his backyard, half-drunken beer bottle in one hand and Javier Peña’s shoulder clapped under the other.

Even from here, you can hear him bragging.

So then Peña’s on his ass.

Chases this guy, whilst he’s driving down the street!

Catches him at an intersection, physically rips him out the car.

All while the man in question shrugs, sheepish. Dismisses your father’s praising.

He’s exaggerating.

The guy was barely going 5 miles an hour!

He stepped out the vehicle at his own will.

Sweat lines his forehead, shirt-sleeves hug his biceps, joy wrinkles his eyes.

He’s happy, at ease. Enjoying himself, in a way he was always meant to.

Something about him fits so perfectly in this picture: laughing with your father, complimenting your mother, playing fetch with your dog.

If you step inside the frame, it cracks.

Shatters.

And maybe he knows that.

Knew it all along.

Broke things off before you could try find a frame large enough to fit you all in.

And, though it hurts, you see why things had to end between you and feel relieved it happened before it was too late.

The feeling lasts all but four seconds.

“Kiddo!”

Your father’s voice is obnoxiously loud. Several of the party-goers turn their heads, follow his line of sight. Spot you, frozen in place, glass full of watered down lemonade and a belly full of dread.

It takes a moment, but you wave.

“Come over ‘ere!”

Not the response you were hoping for.

Still, you do as he asks. Smile at your mother, shuffle your feet, make your way across the yard. Do everything in your power to not look at Javi.

Even if the weight of his stare threatens to crumble you.

“You having a good time?” Your dad’s got this smile, big and dopy and oh so caring, that you can’t bring yourself to ruin with the truth.

“I’m having a great time,” you barely manage out before he’s squeezing you into his side.

The condensation on his bottle of beer seeps through the shoulder of your top, his arm secured safely around you.

He must be tipsy already, a buzz in his veins making him more affectionate than normal.

“I can’t believe it,” he laments, speaking to no one in particular.

In your peripheral, you fail to ignore tight jeans and a loose-fitting shirt.

It’s hardly buttoned, the top three undone and leaving a golden plain on display.

Perhaps you’re going crazy but he seems thinner, skin drawn a little tighter against his ribcage.

It’s not a sight you want to see.

It fills you with dread.

Pulling you out of your own head, you father continues to drone on.

“My little girl’s spreading her wings soon, going on her first adult holiday to-”

“London.”

Javi’s voice, interrupting your father, finishing his sentence.

All eyes snap to him.

Your own, wide and panicked. Scared. Trying so hard to dismiss how intensely he’s staring back you.

Your mother’s, amused and curious. Flicking back and forth between his face and her husband’s.

Your father, confused and perplexed, “I- Yeah...” He speaks slow and the arm on your shoulder slips down. “How’d you know?”

“I’ve been, you know?” Two hands dance in front of you, somewhere in the dark, intwining and unwinding. It’s a nervous habit, of Javi’s. You welcome the contact of soothing touches. “To London.”

That peaks your interest.

Enough to shift positions. Rip your hand out his own, roll onto your side and rest a hand under your propped up head. Your other, inevitably, finds its way upon his warm chest, rests over his no-longer-racing heartbeat.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ve been a few times, actually. I’ve got some friends out there.”

With Javi, friends could mean anything.

A fellow agent, a government official, a moonlight lover.

For all you know, this friend could be the Queen of England.

So it’s best you don’t inquire on it.

“Where do you recommend I visit then, Mr. Bond?”

“Mr... Bond?”

The room is dark, but you still notice the furrow in his brow.

You can practically hear it, in his voice.

“You know, like James Bond.” That’s the thing about jokes, explaining them makes you realise how dumb they are. “‘Cause you were an agent and you like London, and he’s an agent in Lon-”

He cuts you off in the way you like best: his mouth against yours.

The kiss is brief, and leads no place further than the simple act of wanting to silence you.

And, though it goes unaddressed, because it’s been too long since he’d last done it.

Even if he’d done so less than an hour ago, naked bodies intertwined on ruffled bedsheets.

“That was the worst pun I’ve ever heard, corazón,” somehow, the words don’t bruise your ego.

Instead, they make you giggle and burrow your heated face into the crook of his neck.

His lips press against your hairline before speaking again.

“I’d need to write you a list of places to go, too many for me to pick one.”

“Maybe I need a tour guide,” a hand of his greets your back, strokes soothing motions back and forth. It’s lulling you to sleep, at last. “Y’know, show me all the places a real Londoner goes.”

“I could,” he pauses. Clears his throat. Pulls you a little tighter against him, till your limbs are tangled and it’s hard to tell where he stops and you start. “I could check my calendar. See how many holiday days I’ve got left. Could come with you, to London, if you want me there.”

It’s too late though.

You’re already snoring against his skin.

“How does he know?” Your mother shatters the silence, tone incredulous. “I mean, seriously, are you blind!?”

For a minute, it feels like she knows.

She knows why Javi knows.

You should be panicking.

Both of you should.

Should look away from one another, should wipe the guilt off your faces, should already be working on some excuse for when your mother exposes what once was between you.

But you aren’t. Neither of you are.

You’re just staring at each other, as if you’re working to commit each other’s face to memory.

“He knows because you won’t shut up about it!”

Your dad gives an unceremonious oh.

Your mom rolls her eyes.

Javi takes a sip of beer and looks off to the side, eyes breaking contact from your own at last.

“Ok but,” your father’s back to talking before you can fully work up the courage to leave. At least that’s the excuse you try give yourself, anything to distract from Javi. “I bet I’ve not told you what she’s decided to do on her travels!”

“You have,” your mother’s tone is pointed.

Javi laughs, sputters up a little beer back into the bottle. Tilts his head back, accepts his own backwash.

There’s a worn-out cigarette box squeezed tight inside the front pocket of his jeans.

You try ignore the fact he’d promised you he was working on quitting.

“Shh,” your father waves a hand in your mother’s face, dismisses her teasing with a playful wink.

Pulls her close, kisses her shoulder.

Gives both you and Javi a display of what a relationship is.

Open, celebrated, acknowledged.

Not secretive, dirty, scandalous.

Javi cuts the tension with a chuckle and a gentle shove to your father’s arm.

As his hand retreats back to his side, his knuckles brush your skin.

“She’s gonna get herself a christmas-tree decoration every holiday,” your father reveals. You’re frozen at the fact he even remembers you mentioning it. “What was it you said again, kiddo? So in the future, when you’re decorating the tree with your kids, you’ll think of the places you’ve been and tell them all about it?”

Your heart drops.

Javi’s seems to do the same.

For a moment, you worry he’s stopped breathing.

Till his chest rises and falls, no thanks to your father’s stupid rambling about you, and the future, and kids.

“Uh, yeah,” the ground can’t swallow you sooner. You’re already planning your exit, from this conversation and, hopefully, this party as a whole. Your dad’ll understand. You just need to tell him something came up. Or came out. Tell him you’ve got food poison. Blame it on some dodgy take-out the night before. “Something like that.”

But I’m actually bloody Motherfucking batshit crazy

There are moments in one’s life where they must question their own sanity.

You’ve lived plenty of such moments.

But none quite like right now, half-crouched in the middle of a grocery store aisle, peeping into the next one through a gap between two cereal boxes on the shelf.

And all because you heard his voice.

“This is what you’re craving?” Through the crack, you see him wave about something in his hand. It’s hard to see what exactly he’s holding, though.

He’s facing a woman.

She’s pretty.

With dirty blonde hair, piercing blue eyes that not even the shelves and produce between you both can block the shine of.

And a well-rounded belly.

“No, Javi, this,” she doesn’t say his name the same way you do- did. There’s a jovial tone, but there’s no awe, no seduction. Maybe that’s just what your bias hears. “Is what the baby is craving.”

You’ve never seen her before.

Not on the mantel of photos that line Javier’s television. Not at any of the station thrown parties. Not in his wallet, tucked behind the picture of his mom.

She’s a total stranger, to you.

But that doesn’t mean she’s a stranger to him.

A very pregnant, non-stranger.

“We gotta get this kid some better taste.”

His hand rests on her bump.

She welcomes it, placing her own against it to hold him in place.

The image of the American dream, a beautiful woman and a handsome man. The promise of a child, soon, half her and half him.

The blood drains from your face. There’s a lump in your throat and a sting in your eyes.

You won’t let it fester.

Take deep breaths, pretend there’s no shake in your exhales.

It’s not enough to stop the vicious thoughts that sink their jagged ends into the soft tissues of your brain.

Was she the reason things between you and him ended?

Had he got her pregnant, decided to stand by her, and found love along the way?

Was he with her, all along, while he was with...

Surely, he couldn’t have.

But, then, why couldn’t he have?

You were never exclusive.

You were never anything.

“Did-” Somewhere, between the aisles, Javi speaks in amazement. The smile is practically dripping off his words. “Did it just kick?”

Your heart’s palpitating.

Your hands are sweating so badly, they threaten to drop the box of Cap'n Crunch in their grasp.

Jealousy turns to misplaced anger, irrational in every form but impossible to conform.

Because, how could he do this to you?

Make a mockery of you, turn you into the other woman?

Love you so deeply and leave you so easily?

Settle down with this woman and her baby, yet run from you at the first scare of a-

“He’s a real kicker, ain’t he?”

At first, you think it’s spoken to you.

But, no, it’s too distant. Too far.

A third person enters your view through the window in the shelf.

He’s handsome, in the typical sense.

Blonde haired, a nice smile.

There’s a little girl in his arms, resting on his hip, half asleep and clinging to a worn-out giraffe doll.

“He?” It’s Javi who echoes.

“Don’t get him started,” the woman seems to beg, rolling her eyes.

The man nods, pride on his face, “I’m telling ya, Peña, it’s gonna be a boy. It needs to be a boy, ‘else I’m gonna be overrun by little girls.”

The woman must give him a pointed look, or a gentle nudge, for not two seconds later he’s following his words up with a tickle to the sleepy girl’s side and “little girls who I love very much.” Pause. He leans closer to Javier, hand covering one side of his mouth as if to block the woman and the child from hearing him. “I still want a son, though.”

“Olivia,” the pregnant woman strokes a hand over the little girl's head, coxing her to keep her eyes open. It’s hard to tell if there’s a drool mark on the man’s shoulder. “Why don’t you show uncle Javi your favourite toy?”

The bile in your throat burns more than ever before.

The misplaced anger bleeds into sadness, shame, embarrassment.

Here you are, going stir-crazy over a man who never wanted much of you in the first place, raising your heart-rate at the thought of him moving on from something that never even existed.

And there he is, fine as can be- in every sense of the word-, sharing laughs and exchanging smiles with old friends in the grocery store.

Friends his own age.

Worlds apart, yet nothing but a shelf between you.

Through the gap, you watch him lean down to the little girl’s eye-level. A twinkle in his eye, he happily tugs at the stuffed giraffe’s tail.

“Glad you liked it, Olive,” curse him, and his soft voice, and his gentle touch and his everything, for still forcing you to swoon over him, knees weak and ovaries treacherously screaming. “I had to go all the way to Africa to find him.”

The little girl perks right up at that.

Eyes widened, head off her father’s shoulder.

“Really?!” She’s amazed, and how could she not be? Javier Peña is beaming at her, ear to ear.

“Mhmm,” he nods, feeds into his own lie, ignoring the disapproving looks from the other man. “If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll go back next year and get you a zebra.”

“Quit lying to my kid, Peña.”

Javi, undeterred from keeping the little girl’s smile, rolls his eyes and pokes his tongue out at her father, huffing under his breath “Your dad’s a right grump, Olive.”

You begin to wonder how long Javi’s known this couple, how he knows this couple.

“Just wait till you’ve got your own kid and I’m feeding it lies.” The man punctuates his empty threat with a dull punch to Javi’s forearm. Javi barely flinches, unfazed. “Speaking of, when are you making me uncle Steve?”

In sync and apart, you and him both physically freeze.

Your breathing stops.

Javier stands up straight. Rolls his shoulders, scratches at the back of his neck, clears his throat and, “not any time soon.”

“Really? What about that girl you’ve been seeing, the-”

“That- We- It didn’t work out, we wanted,” you begin to see cracks in his facade. Fake laugh, solemn eyes. “Different things... I want, wanted to settle down but, yeah, no it was for her best that we-”

“Sorry, can I just,” your heart jumps in your chest, flying back so quickly from your peep-hole that you nearly knock over the person behind you. “Grab one of those?”

You nod, gain composure, watch the stranger pick up a box of cereal off the shelf.

They walk away and you’re left alone, again.

Your eyes flicker up to the shelf and-

He’s no longer standing on the other side.

You turn on your heel, ignoring your half-filled cart and book it out of the store before you fall apart.

Try as you might, you can’t shake off the weight of his stare as you pass by the check-out.

I kept it in, but it wrecked my organs So pour the gin and call Graham Norton

You wake up early.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re seizing the day.

Making the most out of your time upon foreign land.

The early bird gets the worm, and all that proverbial bullshit.

The truth lies in that you can not sleep.

Jetlag. Your body clock is at odds with the timezone.

Which lands you here: strolling upon the cobbled streets of Notting Hill.

A quarter past six.

Its barely light out, the sun still fighting to rise over the horizon and the streetlights still shadow your every step.

Colourful houses, cosy shops, a melodic thud each time your feet meet the ground.

It’s picturesque, straight out of a romantic comedy.

Yet, somehow, you’ve never felt more gloom.

In the silent bustle of a city awakening to a new day, you’re startled.

Trip over a cobble, nearly meet the floor, and just about save yourself from rolling your ankle.

Your ringtone is the culprit.

Loud, imposing. It scares a flock of birds off a wire and gains you a stare from a man stepping out his home.

Scrambling to get the clunky cellphone out your bag, you spare the screen a fleeting glance.

You question if it’s one of your friends, awakened back in your shared hotel room to find you’re not there, and press the green button.

“Corazón.”

It’s funny how one word can drain the blood from your face.

You swallow the lump in your throat, made of equal parts anger and sadness.

Anger that this is the first time you’ve heard Javier Peña’s voice in nearly two months.

Sadness that it sounds so broken down the line.

“I- Shit, I can’t tell if I’ve even dialled the right number...” He’s muttering in your ear, confused and at odds with himself, mouth a fountain his thoughts pour out of. “... Probably changed it or- Can she even receive calls all the way in-”

“I’m here,” it’s only a whisper.

It’s enough to shut him up.

Silence rings down the line, a static buzz that reminds you of the distance between you.

“You’re in London,” he states.

“I am,” you affirm.

He hums, sips something.

Ice clinks against glass, and you feel a little sick.

“How have-” His voice sounds strange. Muffled. Different. Maybe it’s the poor connection. “Was your flight okay?”

“Yeah,” you spare him the details.

The truth.

The boredom, the turbulence. The fact you’re dreading the flight home.

“I’m glad,” he sighs the words out, worry going with them. “Know you’re not the biggest fan of planes, kept thinking of you alone and afraid on it.”

“I wasn’t alone,” it’s defensive, and ironic.

You sure felt alone.

“That’s right, corazón, you weren’t,” something slips, rolls, smashes. Glass shatters and is met with cursing anger, an oh, shit! followed up by hollow laughter. “You’re never alone.”

“Are you...” The street’s a little brighter, a few cars have begun to back out of driveways and you’re still there, frozen in the middle of the street, phone pressed to your ear. “Drunk?”

“No, I’m javi.” If his laughter is anything to go by, he thinks himself the comic of the century. “Had a few drinks with your dad, sweetheart, that’s all.”

For a moment, it feels like you shouldn’t be here, in London.

You should be home, in Laredo, dragging a drunken Javi to bed.

Stripping him of his clothes, kissing his rosied cheeks, urging him to go to sleep. Leaving him a pair of painkillers and a glass of water for his breakfast before curling yourself into his soft arms.

You blink, and feel the familiar weight of a tear on your lashes.

“Why’d you call me, Javi?” It’s a desperate plea.

For answers, for clarity, for closure

“I wanted to hear your voice,” that’s too vague of an answer, too unfair of an answer. Your heart swells nonetheless. “Wanted to go to London, with you. I should be there.”

“It’s your fault,” that’s as cruel as you can bring yourself to be towards him.

Even then, it kills you to do so.

“’S half my fault. Joder (fuck),” you can picture him, leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. You wonder how much he’s drank, and if he spoke to any women. Maybe he took one home, fucked her nice and good before dialling your number. “Wanted to give you my answer, too.”

Someone bumps your shoulder on the street, walking past you.

You pay them no mind, vision blurred to the world around you.

“What answer?”

“Where you should visit, Mrs. Bond,” he says it, like it doesn’t send you into cardiac arrest.

You miss the nights like that one, tangled in your bed, smelling him on your sheets and feeling him against your skin.

He’d woken up first the next day, coaxed you out of bed with the promise of homemade pancakes and his head between your legs.

“There’s this little bar in Inslington, called the Distillery Club. The owner, he makes his own gin. You like gin, don’t you, corazón?” You nod, and it’s almost like he feels it. “It doesn’t look like much from the outside. Or the inside, either. But it’s some of the best gin I’ve ever had, in the greatest company.”

You try to picture him, sat amongst friends you’ve never met. Friends who don’t know your dad.

You try to picture yourself, next to him, scooting your bar stool closer to his.

The image doesn’t quite form.

“Want you to go there, get yourself a drink. Tell him Javier Peña sent you, and that you’ve not to pay.”

It’s like he’s given you a piece of his soul. A piece of his history, someplace he’s sought out refuge in his lowest moments.

Refuge he’s willing to share with you.

That tear finally gives way, dropping off your lash and rolling down your cheek.

You wipe it off with the sleeve of your sweater, before anyone can see.

“Promise me you’ll go, corazón.”

Your reply is instant, “I promise.”

“Ok, I’ll let you go,” it’s solemn, regretful, devoid of truth. You almost beg him not to, but that didn’t work last time. “Enjoy yourself, okay? Come home, safe.”

“Javi, I-” the line cuts off, disconnecting before you even finish. “Miss you.”

I’m gonna throw you down the river Your mum can watch it over dinner

“How you feeling, kiddo?”

You startle awake at your father’s voice, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

Before you can give him an answer, you erupt into a fit of coughs.

“Not good,” he grimaces and slowly steps into your room. “Got it.”

Stepping off the plane, you’d managed only one night back in your own bed before the fever had taken over.

All it took was hearing your nasally voice over the phone for your mother to demand you come stay with them.

Just till you’re back on your feet, she’d said, like she ever needed an excuse to have you over.

She’s not quite adjusted to being an empty-nester.

Neither of them have, really.

“Actually,” your tone is matter-of-factly. “I almost smelt something earlier.”

“That’s great, kid!” And he means it, you know he does. Even if his shoulders slump at any sign of you feeling better and returning to your apartment. “Now we just gotta figure out if it’s your sinuses unclogging or your stench just growing more rancid.”

Try as you might to aim the pillow right at his head, he still manages to catch it inches from his face.

“Hey, I’m just saying! You’ve got the flu, you ain’t dying! Could be a little courteous to those who’ve gotta be around you and take a shower.”

“You’re literally in my room!”

“Which is literally in my house!”

Downstairs, your mother yells something unintelligible.

Likely, she’s telling you both to shut up and to quit behaving like children.

Making eye contact, you both can’t help the roll of laughter that comes out.

He steps a little closer, and that’s when you spot it.

Tupperware, clasped in his hand.

The contents are hard to decipher.

Luckily, your father spots you eyeing it.

“Your mom said ya wouldn’t be up for eating much but, if you’re hungry,” he pauses, at the foot of your bed. Tugs a little on the homemade-blanket you’ve had since you were in grade school. You wonder if he remembers making it with you. “One of the guys down at the station made you some stew.”

Your stomach growls, hungry and unfed.

The prospect of a hot, boiling bowl of brothy stew suddenly peaks your interest.

In fact, you can’t think of anything better.

“It’s a family recipe, he said it would cure ya right up.”

He’s popping the lid open, presenting the delicacy before your eyes. 

Immediately, you spot chicken.

Some corn cob, a couple lumps of potato, flakes of chilli.

You wish you could smell it, ingest it through your nasal canal and get a taste of it before you even put it in your mouth.

Your father continues, practically talking to himself.

“What’d he say it was called again, ga-sue-lay day ah-vay?”

“Cazuela de ave.”

A change into warmer, drier clothes.

Your hair still sits wet upon your head, but it no longer drips puddles onto his floor.

Thirty minutes it took him to drive from where he’d spotted you, walking soaked upon the sidewalk.

It would’ve only taken him seventeen minutes if he’d dropped you at your apartment.

And that fact is partly what warms your insides.

You watch him, tie discarded and the top buttons of his shirt undone, strutting around his kitchen.

Objectively, you think, he’s gorgeous.

Yet the word somehow doesn’t seem like it’s enough to summarise him, when he’s making his way round to you, two ceramic bowls in his hands and a look of pride in his eyes.

He put his own bowl down first. Sloppy, uncaring, spilling a little of it’s contents over it’s edge.

And then yours. More careful, slowly, both hands guiding it down.

The scent alone is enough to have you salivating. 

Warmth and care, all encased in a bowl of brothy goodness.

“It smells delicious,” you inhale deeply, for dramatic effect.

And to get more of that meaty, comfort-food goodness.

Javi sits on the opposite side of the dining table, and you try hard to stop your mind from wandering off to visions of you both sat like this, out in public, in a restaurant.

A real date.

Only, this isn’t even a fake date.

You guys don’t do that.

“It’s- It was my mom’s recipe.”

Frozen in place, you wonder if the shock spills over your face.

He’s never mentioned his mother.

Or much about his family, really.

There’s the occasional comment about projects he takes on at his dad’s ranch, and tid-bits of information you hear across a dinner table that's set by your mother and seated by your father.

But you’re no fool blind enough to not realise the obvious.

A worn-out polaroid in his wallet, his mother smiles brightly in permanent ink each time he opens it. It contrasts her impermanence in the real world, dead and gone long before you became so much as a ripple in the lake of Javier’s existence.

Across the table, he’s relaxed. At ease.

Open.

His eyes, his mind, his heart.

And so you try venturing inwards, test his waters with a dip of your toe.

“Was she a good cook?”

Lukewarm, they appear, when he favours you with a tiny smile, his eyes staring somewhere off in the distance.

“No,” and he laughs at his own admission.

Not just a scoffed out chuckle, or a gesture meant to feign joy.

A full, hearty laugh, that shakes his shoulders and splits his cheeks.

It’s disturbingly beautiful.

You wonder if there’s a life where it could be like this, always.

Javier laughing at his own jokes, you smiling at his visceral joy, plates of homemade food filling the space between you.

“No, she, uh,” he restarts, relaxing a little bit. He wipes under one of his eyes with the back of his palm, a rogue tear breaching his waterline. “She was awful. She burnt every slice of toast she made, and even served an unbaked cake at one of my birthday parties. This dish is actually one of the few she knew how to nail.”

You can picture it, a young Javi, party hat on his head and a cheesy grin topped by rosy cheeks, eating away at gooey batter mix sprinkled in icing. 

It’s hard to imagine him complaining, or getting angry at her.

In spite of his reputation, and the career he’s undertaken, Javier Peña is a gentle soul, who nurtures and protects anyone he can.

A modern-day hero, a knight who’s exchanged his shinny armour for form fitting jeans and unbuttened shirts.

“Tell me more about her,” the words are out before you can reel them back in.

Because you like this feeling, and you like this Javi, reminiscing on his late-mother.

“She not only was awful at cooking, but she had the worst coordination too.” It’s like he’s been waiting to tell you this, with how easy he slips into doing so. “She was forever falling and tripping over herself. And her driving, god! Pops used to dig out his rosary each time she’d be out on the field, driving the tractor.”

There’s something intimate about him recalling details so many would see as flaws, whilst he sports the most earnest, heart-wrenching smile.

Like nothing about her was wrong, all of her perfect and angelic.

“She was brave, too. I’d like to think I’m just like her in that respect. She didn’t let anything stop her from doing things she set her heart on, and she never let her inabilities hinder her,” he’s getting a little emotional now, you can hear it in his voice, see it in the lump he swallows back. You stretch a hand across the table and watch as he leans on you for support, fingers interlocking with your own. “There was this one time when I was a kid, I was swimming in a river and got stuck in a current. She dived right in to save me... She didn’t even know how to swim!”

You don’t know what to say.

You opt for saying nothing, silence speaking more than a thousand words.

Give his hand a reassuring squeeze, feel him squeeze back harder.

Your stomach rumbles, but it doesn’t ruin the moment in the way you feared it would.

“Listen to me being a sap and starving my poor lady to death,” still, he tugs your hand closer and plants a kiss on your knuckles. You’re still trying to process the possessive adjective he’d used to address you. My. His. “Eat up.”

Both of you settle back in your seats.

You pick up your spoon, scoop up a piece of chicken out the steaming bowl and-

“Asi no, corazón (not like that, sweetheart),” he spews out, panicking to pry the cutlery out your hand. He ignores the questioning looks you give him. “You drink the soup first, eat the filling after. Like this.”

Leaning over the table, he scoops your bowl up in his careful hands and guides it up to your lips.

When your lips part and rest against the bowl’s edge, he tilts it and you feel it’s warmth invade your mouth.

And then your chest, branching out over your heart, your lungs, your stomach.

Horned-up bias you so often show towards Javier aside, it’s one of the best things you’ve ever tasted.

Like a hug on a gloomy, wet day, all wrapped up inside a ceramic bowl.

You hum, hands taking over his own to allow him back into his own seat, focusing his attention on drinking his own soup.

“Javi, this is...” You trail off, eyeing the small ring of liquid pooling at the bottom of the bowl. One more mouthful and you’ll get your taste of the stew’s fillings. “Amazing. Your mum would be proud.”

Instead of modesty, instead of 'thank yous', instead of bashfulness, Javier smiles, takes another sip from his bowl.

“She would have liked you.”

You stare across at him and find no jest in his eyes.

They’re as open as before.

“Really?”

“Mhmm. She always liked pretty girls smart enough to put me in my place.”

“Kiddo?”

You’re ripped out your own head by your father’s voice and his hand, waved repeatedly in front of your face.

“Hmm?” 

“You okay there? I was talkin’ to you but you seemed lost in thought.” There’s a little excitement in you father’s voice as he presses his cold hand to your sweated forehead, the prospect of you still being ill, still needing taking care of, filling him with the relief of keeping you in your parents' home a little longer.

“I’m- Yeah, just tired, s’all.”

“Ok, let me know when you’ve finished your food,” he presses a kiss atop the crown of your head, and you hold back the pointless comment of not risking getting himself or your mother sick. “Need to get the tupperware clean ‘fore I give it back to Javi.”

Your stomach twists and longs for the meal before you, while your heart shatters into pieces you doubt will ever be repaired.

[mimsynims]

Fool For Love

part 9

~~~

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8

~~~

Author’s Note: Aaand it’s finally done! I always have trouble wrapping up a story, and this one was no exception… but I hope you’ll enjoy it!

This will be posted at AO3 at some point. (In fact, if I write more BG3 fics I’ll probably post it on AO3 instead of Tumblr, as usual. And I do have a few ideas actually…👀)

Thank you all for the likes, reblogs, and comments <3 it has definitely helped me keep going!

~~~

Astarion x reader/Tav

Tags: (mildish?) angst, pining, pining while fucking, jealousy, minor Karlach/Dammon, finally a happy ending for these two knuckleheads

Summary: You thought you knew what you were doing when you let Astarion into your bed. He doesn’t have feelings for you, and vice versa. Only…now you do.

To begin with, you didn’t handle it well. You tried moving on, and that seemed to work. At least you told yourself that it did.

Then something happened that gave you hope. Perhaps he feels something for you too, after all?

~~~

You find him on the path close to the archway, in almost the same spot where you talked to Bex mere days ago. You take a moment to study him from afar. It’s hard to be sure when there’s nothing but the light from the moon illuminating him, but you think his shoulders look tense. Is this your doing?

You wish you could hug him, offer to him relax in your arms.

“I’m afraid your personal blood bank will be closed for a while,” you joke as you walk closer, hoping it will lighten his mood. “For restocking purposes.”

Astarion doesn’t turn around, and when he remains silent for several tension-filled seconds, you wonder if your quip was a mistake.

“Did you mean it?” he finally asks.

The question takes you by surprise and try as you might, you can’t figure out what he’s talking about. “I’m sorry?”

“You said that you’d do anything for me. Did you mean it?”

Oh. That. “Yes.”

Your heart starts pounding as he shifts to look at you. Silvery beams of moonlight caress his beautiful face, a face painted with apprehension — and possibly hope.

“And what does that mean?”

“What do you want it to mean?” you ask in return, because you’re not ready to say those three little words. Not yet.

“Nice try, Tav.” His jaw tightening, Astarion suddenly looks closed off. “If you’re going to play coy with me you might as well leave.”

With that, he turns away from you again — and it feels like a stab to the heart. “It means,” you amend quickly, “that I care for you.” You’ve never been good at expressing your emotions. Never been good at opening yourself up to other people. And it’s scary to do so now. “Deeply.”

Astarion scoffs. “I bet you said that to Gale too,” he says, and the bitterness in his voice stings.

“I– what are you talking about?”

“I saw you. You went to him.”

Acting without thought, you rush forward to place yourself in front of him to make sure that he looks at you; he needs to fully understand what you say next. “It wasn't like that, we only talked. Astarion, you’re special to me.”

You steel yourself for another cutting remark, but you’re helpless against the sad expression that replaces the anger. “So special that you decided to end things between us?”

Fool. You’ve been a fool. “I ended things because I didn’t think…” Taking a deep breath, you tell yourself to be honest. “I did it because I was jealous and I couldn’t handle the possibility of you breaking my heart.”

His brow twitches in confusion. “You were jealous? Of who?”

You desperately ache to touch him, but you hold yourself back. “Shadowheart. Halsin. Anyone that I thought was sharing your bed besides me.”

“Tav. Darling.” He sounds exasperated but hearing the endearment again sparks tingles of joy and hope inside your chest. “I haven't invited anyone to my bed since we started sleeping together.”

Oh. Oh. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” For the first time since you found him, a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I thought you knew that.”

“No. No, I didn’t.” To say that you’ve been an idiot is an understatement. You’ve let yourself see things that aren’t there because you are insecure. “I haven’t either, you know. Been with anyone else since you.”

The smile twists into something teasing and sultry that feels more like Astarion. “Is that so?”

“It is, and I honestly can’t believe you’d think anything different.” It’s true. While you wouldn’t call yourself unattractive, you’ve never really been one to draw the attention of potential lovers. You’ve had a few before Astarion of course, but in general, people have been more inclined to remain your friend rather than try to pursue something more. “You wouldn’t have looked twice at me if you had seen me on the streets of Baldur’s Gate.”

“Now that is just untrue, my dear Tav.” He reaches for your hand, taking it in his. “As you so bluntly pointed out that night, my motives for seducing you may partly have been driven by self-preservation, but I chose you for a reason — and not because you're our reluctant leader.”

His slender fingers grip you tighter and the touch is exactly what you need just then. “Is that so?” you echo, attempting to sound teasing. You fail spectacularly.

“I was drawn to you even before I started to develop feelings for you.” Lifting your hand, he presses a lingering kiss on the sensitive skin of your palm before resting it against his cheek. “At first, I thought it was the need for your body that kept you in my thoughts night and day. But as I got to know you better, I realised it was your mind — you — that held my attention.” Closing his eyes, he leans into the touch with a sigh. “What Cazador had me do… It taught me how to read people. But you…?” He opens his eyes again to look at you, and what you see makes your heart skip a beat. “I thought I had you figured out, but you continuously prove me wrong. And I appreciate that more than I can express.”

“Astarion.” There’s so much you want to say. So much you need to say. But in that moment, you finally find the courage to tell him what you should’ve told him weeks ago, so the rest will just have to wait. “Astarion, I love you.”

His eyes widen in surprise as something vulnerable flashes across his face. After five heartbeats — you know, because you counted — he lets go of your hand to gently cup your neck.

The kiss is soft and gentle. Careful. In a way, it feels like a first kiss.

“Why didn’t you tell me that instead of breaking up with me?” He kisses you again before you can reply. “There you go again, doing the unexpected.”

You don’t even try to hold back a smile. “Have to keep you on your toes, you know. And I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure it would be welcomed, you silly goose.” To your surprise, it no longer hurts as much thinking back to that night. “First you disappeared and then when I found you, you were sitting between Halsin and Shadowheart.”

“My my, were you jealous, darling?” he drawls in mock surprise. The bastard.

“Of course I was!” You very carefully wrap your arms around his waist, ignoring the ache from your injury. Because you need to feel him against you, pain be damned. “Why do you think I gave Gale so much attention?”

“And got yourself decadently drunk, too. It was a glorious sight.”

“Oh shush, you.” Despite yourself, you laugh.

“I have to apologise, though, my darling. I, too, was jealous.” His breath is warm against your cheek as he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours. “I could tell something was troubling you, but you kept being so elusive. I assumed… I thought that meant you only deemed me worthy of getting access to your body, and nothing more.”

“Astarion.” The sincerity and sorrow permeating his words make you feel like a villain. “Gods, I’m so sorry, too. At the time, I didn’t think you’d be interested in anything else.”

“I want anything and everything you give me, Tav.” You feel his fingers slide down your uninjured side, gripping you as firmly as he dares to. Lifting his head to get a better look at you, his eyes lock with yours. “I love you, with everything that I am.”

You can see the truth of it in his gaze, can feel it in his touch. He loves you. Was it always there and you were just blind to it? Or did he hide his feelings, just like you did?

It doesn’t matter, you decide, because all you need to know is that he’s in your arms.

“You have all of me, Astarion.”

“My beautiful Tav.”

You share another kiss, and then Astarion insists you both go back to camp to let you rest. The thrumming pain of the wound is there, but it’s easily overshadowed by the warmth blooming in your chest every time Astarion throws a smile your way on your way back. His hand is still linked with yours — it’s such a small detail but it feels infinitely more intimate than anything else you’ve shared with him so far. It’s impossible to stop smiling — not that you’re trying.

He follows you to your tent but to your dismay, he tries to leave after he has made sure that you have everything you need.

“Please don’t leave,” you say, refusing to let go of him. “I want you to stay. Stay the night.”

“Tav, my love, you’re in no condition to have sex.”

My love. It almost throws you off course to hear the new endearment. “Astarion, my love,” you counter, and oh, it’s worth it to see his reaction, “I wasn’t suggesting we’d have sex. I just want you close. Assuming that’s alright, of course.”

“Really?” He sounds just a tad surprised; that’s something you and he will need to unpack before going any further. But not tonight. “Well, that I can do.”

It takes a bit of careful shuffling around, but you manage to find a position that’s comfortable for you both without putting pressure on your injury.

He’s here. In your arms. You didn’t think you’d get to have this, but he truly is here. Your contented sigh is nothing but a muffled exhale into his curls but he doesn’t seem to mind, giving you a fond chuckle in response.

“Are you sniffing my hair, darling?”

“No.” It doesn’t sound convincing even to your own ears. “Well. Maybe a little,” you confess. “I can’t help that you smell nice.”

“Oh, I don’t mind, pet. Your scent is quite enticing too, you know.” You feel his chest expanding as he takes a deep inhale. “Drives me crazy sometimes.”

“Since you drive me crazy on a regular basis, I’d say that’s only fair.”

“Why, you little cheek..! Just watch me be even more annoying from now on.”

“You’re not annoying,” you say, trying to hold back a yawn. “You’re just a handful.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Of course–“ you lose the battle against another yawn. “…you will.”

You feel the press of his lips against your skin. “Quite right.”

“Astarion?” Your eyelids start to get heavy, and for the first in what seems like ages, you feel completely safe and relaxed. “I’m so happy I have you in my life.”

“Me too, darling. Me too.” His hand slides down to find yours, lacing your fingers. “Now go to sleep, my love. I’ll watch over us. And tomorrow we will face whatever comes next. Together.”

~~~

[feefymo]

Omg loved this fic game =D

Let's go:

Kit Walker

Spanking kink

Third element: coping mechanism after Briarcliff

Dear anon, hi! I hope this time is the right time: I've been trying to post the fic based on your three requests since I still had baby teeth but Tumblr says "nuh-uh". Fingers crossed and let's have some fun!

"Nnnnot again. Enough, fuck... !" You heard Kit hiss through clenched teeth - so clenched he could have cracked them - so you stopped what you were doing and a shiny string of your saliva broke. For the first few seconds you had a bewildered expression but it didn't last long because you knew the problem. So, worry set in. The anguish of seeing your husband perpetually frustrated, so exasperated that you feared he might become seriously ill at any moment. You timidly raised a hand to your mouth and wiped it away as you peered at his tense form in the grass of your yard. July set Massachusetts on fire and so did you who lived there. For his part, Kit was sweating but not because he was enjoying the summer or your skimpy attentions. You, now kneeling between his legs, silently observed his sore and reticent sex as you pressed your tongue against the taste that remained in your mouth. It had never been easy between you two.

When he was free to leave Briarcliff there was no shortage of skeptics but you - who knew him from before - had never, ever doubted his innocence. You had loved him before he could even discover it and your dream of being loved back had come true. Obviously, Kit Walker was no longer the carefree, heartthrob boy he once was but you didn't care. The problem with sex had emerged almost immediately after he returned to "normal" and the thing that really drove him crazy was the fear that you didn't think he was involved enough. He never failed to satisfy you, no man had ever considered you with such concern but he... he was stuck. Stuck in the loop of some trauma he suffered that he didn't talk about. And you didn't dare ask. You just wanted to see him more peaceful. "My love..." you started in a syrupy voice before being interrupted by his fist tearing a tuft of grass. Kit let out a lamentation and shook his head before sitting up and looking at you with desperate, shaded eyes. The irises melted like chocolate on his sharp features. "No, come on. Don't tell me it doesn't matter, don't tell me it will be better next time. Don't tell me not to force myself, please." yet another demonstration that he knew you and listened to you, you closed your mouth and sighed. You made sure you had permission and caressed his cheek, a gesture he appreciated and settled against. He closed his eyes for just a moment. "I love you, I'm tired of... I need reciprocity, complicity but the problem is me. I'm a broken toy now, aren't I?" as it rarely did, your expression hardened and you had to grab onto your skirt to dispel your anger. "Don't you dare call yourself "broken", that's unfair. Did you hear me, Kit Walker? Never again." and Kit knew you didn't see him the way he saw himself but that biting severity hit him. It disoriented him because... he liked it. He stared at you with a vaguely lost look, while a monster now familiar to him mounted in his chest. He had been suppressing it since the moment you had met again but he was struggling to keep it at bay and his member hinted at his secret. It pulsed, forcing Kit to palm it. "Y/N, you see, I..." he was torn, you could see it in him. "Kit, together we will get through this too. Okay? But I can't keep quiet if you denigrate yourself like this. I just want you too to experience the well-being that you are able to give me. I want to make you feel good, there's something on your mind. .. can it work? Maybe you don't want to tell me, are you afraid that I will judge you? That it'll scare me?" at that point, Kit just flinched, as if he had actually been caught killing a poor woman in a brutal way. This made you realize that yes, there was something but he had never allowed it to surface. "Fine. I don't know if it's the solution, don't..." he sighed "Come with me. Let's go back to the kitchen." The house was burning and so was the wait your husband was subjecting you to. He needed to find the right way to communicate and you would put him at ease so, standing still, you began to drop your blouse and skirt onto the clean floor. Dressed only in lingerie with sage green embroidery, you caught Kit's lustful gaze, which resembled a hybrid between a free beast and a weak prey. In captivity. "Holy God, suga': you're breathtaking, I don't deserve you." "Kit." you took half a threatening step forward, showing a certain vehemence towards his victimhood. He wasn't interested, he wasn't mortified, on the contrary: he looked you up and down as if dazed. The right hand rubbing on the open fly of his jeans.

"Tell me how to make you come, Mr. Walker. Now." Now cornered, Kit bowed his head and swallowed dryly. He didn't say a word until he had a broom in his hand which, shortly after, he passed to you. "Take it." he murmured, unable to hide a veil of shame. You hesitated for a moment but then complied, studying the object. “As you know, in Briarcliff I took corporal punishment. I took it often, so often that… something clicked. I had to defend myself, survive. Y/N, I started to like the caning. I hated it, and yet… my body reacted with enthusiasm. Perhaps this..." The more Kit explained, the more you regretted having imposed yourself so confidently. Did he want you to cause him pain? Was that the way to fix the mechanism? "You're scared, I understand. You don't have to, there's a reason I never asked." "It... it's not healthy. I would never want to see you suffer, if I indulge you I contribute to..." you took a breath, left the sentence hanging. You both knew everything that even silence conveyed. "Go to the table and lean on it. Turn around." suddenly, you changed voice in a calm but merciless tone: you were giving brief orders. For a moment, Kit had to store your words but a gasp writhed in his throat and he hurried to comply. "Take down your pants and underwear." you moved barefoot, it was almost impossible to hear. "Moreover." you grabbed onto his jeans and tugged at them, causing your husband to exhale violently through his nostrils. Now, he was staring at you over his shoulder and his eyes were shining pleadingly. He breathed violently and, in a certain sense, you too followed that syncopated rhythm. "Punish me. Punish me for all the times I couldn't get inside you. That I couldn't stay there. Please." you despised that compromise, and yet, the idea of ​​reaching a solution entered your core and made it crackle. You didn't know the practice but you were tired of waiting and Kit looked like he was about to implode, so you passed the broom handle over Kit's buttocks with the delicacy of a Judas kiss. Then, without warning him, you loaded the blow and dealt it to him. While you jumped in fright, he arched up moaning darkly. He seemed absurdly… relieved. With his hands wide open on the wood in search of balance, the man nodded vigorously and you caned him again. This time, his legs trembled and an animalistic cry pierced the daytime heat. Now resting on his elbows, he whispered darkly, "M-more." annihilated by the scenario in front of you, you were the victim of widespread tingling. Your panties had become soaked without you realizing it. It wasn't the violence that excited you but the way Kit reacted to that. "Are you...are you getting wet? You're wet, I can see it from here." yet another blow came unexpectedly, immediately followed by a soothing: "ssssh...". Breathless, with his eyeballs rolling to the ceiling, Kit had to press his cock against the table. The live, pulsating erection was in need of the friction that Kit found in contact with the support that endured his weight. "God, my God, suga', how do you do it... get Sister Jude out of my fuckin' head. Again. Again!" teeth sealed in a roar and fingers scurrying off his tank top as your pussy cried out hungrily. You came closer and touched the reddened flesh and then tightened it in a vice that forced Kit to bark in pain and pleasure. He quickly brought his hand to his length and ran along it with uncontrolled ardor but, victim of yet another beating, he had to go back to holding on to the table.

Now bent at a right angle with one cheek on the surface, he was panting uncontrollably and you were unable to resist the temptation: you grabbed onto his hips and pushed yourself against his ass. “Oh, fuck… fuck, Y/N I’m about to come… ff-…” Kit, in the throes of adrenaline, found the strength to turn around and pounce on you. You both fell to the floor, kissing as if you were going to bite each other off while he dodged the obstructing fabric and entered you without grace.

He filled you with such voracity that an incredulous, breathless laugh left your jaws. Kit was destroyed, distraught, a toxic flame that hit you with its impetuosity. "Yes... yes, my love, yes... do it hard! Strong as my sti-AH!" your husband, firm on his knees, sucked in his lower lip, holding your hips as he slipped out of you to re-enter with even more urgency. "Jesus Christ, Y/N, I have to fill you..." and on the last letter, the thrusts of that brief embrace became frantic, taking both of you by surprise with a stunning orgasm. An expression of disbelief built on Kit's face. His eyelids narrowed and his Adam's apple threatened to tear his throat open as the hot spurts of his seed invaded you as promised. The lips swollen and wide open in a silent cry. Desperate and euphoric. He soon leaned over you, grabbing your breasts as he continued to move and slide into you. You, who didn't remember the sensation and who, entranced by the mere image of Kit, had the impression of going crazy with ecstasy. Coming, clinging to the soft curls of the love of your life, you trembled with such force that it nauseated you. Tightly wrapped around his veiny cock, you had never reached such a climax and neither did he.

[lipglossanon]

In Heaven, Everything is Fine

╔═════ °• ♔ •° ═════╗

Dark stepdad!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader (finale)

Hello, hello 👋

This is the finale of dark stepdad! I’m trying to wrap up some of these little storylines since I want to write, well, other stories lol. Not saying I’ll never write about him again, just the ‘main’ story is now over and done with.

Posted on ao3 first since I was on a tumblr break lol

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, stepcest, daddy kink, Leon being nice to reader (with ulterior motives of course), character death, grief, kissing, dirty talk, slight nipple play, praise, pussy spanking, collaring, biting, unprotected sex, creampie, thigh fucking

Title from a song of the same name in the movie Eraserhead

part ii

 

╚═════ °• ♔ •° ═════╝

It was an accident. That’s what the officer at the front door relayed to you. A freak car accident that left you motherless in the blink of an eye. Lucky for you, Leon was standing behind you and heard it at the same time so no need to repeat the awful news. He seemed even more shocked than you.

“What do you mean? How did it happen?” 

The officer only offered a very generic answer of a drunk driver jumping the median and hitting your mom head on and killing her instantly, like that’s any consolation. In disbelief, you wandered away to the living room to sit down on the couch, letting Leon and the officer talk. 

It’s been three weeks now since the funeral, (closed casket because you couldn’t bear anyone else to see your mom in that state). You’ve been roaming the house like a ghost. Barely eating and drinking. Leon has been working overtime in trying to manage everything on his own. Secretly, you feel like he owes you that much. Your fucked up relationship with him has morphed into Leon being an actual caretaker in regards to your needs. It’s not too unexpected, but you didn’t think he would be as considerate as he has been. 

It’s routine now for you to fall asleep on the couch and wake up in his bed, too tired to go to your room, letting yourself fall back to sleep next to him. Truthfully, you sleep a lot now; you know it’s not a healthy way to cope with your grief, but you also don’t give a fuck. Your mom’s dead. Your dad’s too busy to give you the time of day. Hell, he only sent a wreath of mourning to the funeral and a quick phone call of apologies to you for not being there. 

Leon is truly the only person you can rely on right now and he’s been doing phenomenal, surprising you when you actually think about it and not battling the sadness threatening to overwhelm you. He’s also kept to himself aside from trying to get you to eat or drink. You know financial and legal matters have taken up a lot of his time, but even when he has moments to himself, he’s in his office on the phone with his work colleagues sorting out issues while he’s on a leave of absence.

Months pass in this way. You eventually pull yourself out of the miasma you’ve been sucked into, the grief not growing any smaller but you yourself growing around it. When the time comes to go back to class, you opt into taking the semester off. You stay at home and slowly start organizing your mother’s belongings. Leon helps if you ask, but it’s mostly you deciding on what you want to keep and what you’d like to store until you’re ready to part with it. 

Another month of crying over knick-knacks and clothes, you finally finish up sorting everything you feel needs to be stored. Looking for Leon, you eventually find him in his office. You hover in his doorway and watch how his shoulder blades flex under his button down while he wraps up a phone call. 

“I know, everything was moved up due to the accident. I didn’t have anything in place. I did have to change my plans, but it all worked out in the end, didn’t it? She’s—“

Leon pauses and turns to see you at the door. 

“Let me call you back. Yeah.”

He places his phone down onto the desk and steeples his fingers as he leans his elbows onto the oaky top. 

“Did you need something, beautiful?”

“It’s finished,” you gesture vaguely to the second floor, “I have everything sorted for tomorrow.”

He nods and grabs his phone, “I’ll email the moving company to let them know we’re ready for pickup.”

You sigh shakily, “Thanks, Leon.”

He gives you a tight smile, “It’s no problem. Are you hungry?”

Looking down at your feet, you watch as you wiggle your toes in their socks, “Not really.”

“You need to eat,” he stands up from his desk, tucking his phone into his pocket, “let’s head into the kitchen and find something.”

You lean into his warm frame as he steps up next to you, pulling him into a hug. 

“Thank you,” you murmur into his chest, tears beading your lash line, “it would be worse without you here.”

Tensing, he freezes up for a second before he wraps his arms around you in a tight hug. 

“I’ll always take care of you,” he kisses the shell of your ear, making you shiver. 

He keeps an arm wrapped around you, pressing you into his side as you both walk to the kitchen. Guiding you to sit down at the countertop, he turns and begins rifling through the cabinets. With sudden clarity, you realize this is the first time since it all happened that you’ve sought him out. He’s been really present and patient with you while you navigate the death of your mom—just a steadfast presence in the background. 

Tears slip from your lashes and you wipe them away by the time he turns back to you. 

“Do you— what’s wrong?”

He walks over to you and cups your face with his big hands, thumbs rubbing away the tear tracks on your cheeks. 

“I-I,” you smile even though it’s watery, heart fluttering in your chest like a bird, “I’m so thankful you’re here is all.”

“Of course,” he murmurs, eyes blank and unreadable, “you’re my special girl.”

He dips down and presses a featherlight kiss against your lips making you gasp. It’s the first time he’s shown any affection of this kind in months and it makes your fingers tingle and your stomach warm. Before he pulls away, your hands snag into his button down and pull him back in for another kiss. You’ve missed the physical connection you had with him before this whole ordeal. 

“Beautiful,” he groans against your mouth, kissing you hungrily, hands going down to grab your hips and squeeze, “ my perfect pretty girl.”

“Leon,” you whimper, cunt throbbing with need that’s been lying forgotten and dormant for months on end, “daddy, please .”

“Are you sure?” He kisses a hot trail down your neck, nipping the sensitive skin. 

“Yes, please,” you whine, hands tangling in his hair, “take me to bed.”

He growls and scoops you up in a bridal carry, quickly moving you upstairs to his bedroom and setting you down on the bed. Kissing you heatedly, he pins you down with his broad body, grinding his bulge into your clothed cunt. Pulling back, he helps you shimmy out of your sweats and underwear, watching with dilated eyes as clear strings of slick spider web between the gusset of your panties and your glistening pussy. 

He finishes undressing you and then moves on to himself, tossing his clothes in a heap next to the bed before pressing his hot throbbing cock against your mound. 

“Oh,” you gasp, rocking your hips up to feel the drippy head of his dick rub against your swollen clit. 

“Wait,” Leon moves to the side to open up the nightstand and pulls out the buttery faux leather collar he bought for you ages ago. 

He holds it out to you yet you shy away. You love the feeling you have when wearing it, but that plate with cursive writing is just too much for you to look at right now. It might seem silly, but sometimes the oddest things set you off and this happens to be one of them. 

“It’s a lot,” your eyes dart away from the gold tag.

Leon notices and smoothly unclips it to tuck it back into the drawer. Your brows pinch together for a moment, but then you nod face smoothing into a small smile. 

“Okay,” you move closer and Leon clips the collar around your neck. 

“We’ll save the mommy tag for later,” he soothes, running his hands across your neck, fingers gliding down your clavicles to drag down the stiff peaks of your breast. 

A small pang of hurt twinges in your chest, but Leon chases it away with pleasure as he teases your nipples with his fingers. 

“Thank you, daddy,” you whimper, pressing your chest out so he can tug harder on your nipples.

“You’re very welcome,” he coos, kissing the apple of your cheek, “such a sweet girl for me today.”

“Missed you,” you sigh out as he pinches your sensitive nipples between his thumb and forefinger, “feels so good.”

“Seem extra sensitive,” Leon murmurs, squeezing your breasts before rolling the hard buds between his fingers until you’re moaning softly. 

He ducks his head down to lick across a hard nipple, pressing a kiss on the puckered skin of your areola. 

“So sexy,” he groans, hands groping and squeezing the fat of your breasts, fingers tweaking your nipples to watch you shiver, “love playing with your cute tits.”

He latches on to a nipple and groans as he suckles while your fingers tangle in his sandy blonde hair. 

“ Daddy ,” you keen in your throat, fingers tugging at his hair as he nips and sucks at your hard buds. 

“So good,” he laps the trail of spit dripping off of the swell of your breasts, “can tell you like when I suck your tits, baby.”

You lose yourself to his hot mouth as he licks and sucks at your nipples, his big hands cupping your breasts so he can squeeze them. Shifting in his lap, your cunt leaks slick until it’s soaking your thighs letting you easily rock and grind your mound against his fat dick. 

Shifting around, Leon sits with his back against the headboard and pulls you into his lap. You moan as his thick cock parts your pussy lips to grind against your entire cunt. 

“Look at you, precious girl,” Leon’s voice oozes praise, making you writhe in his lap, “soaking wet and we’ve barely started.”

“Leon,” you whisper and he hums, eyes still watching as he ruts his cock against your slit. 

“C-can you spank my pussy?”

He growls, eyes snapping up to your face, “Yeah? My sweet girl needs her pussy slapped?”

“Uh huh,” you lean back, palms pressed against the tops of his knees to put your slick covered cunt on display right in front of him, “really wanna feel it.”

He groans, gaze flicking down to your twitching clit before dragging back up your body to your needy face. 

“Can you stay like that until daddy’s finished?”

You nod your head so fast you're surprised your neck doesn’t hurt. 

“Good girl,” he says before bringing the flat of his fingers down onto the hood of your clit. 

“Oh god,” you keen, thighs jumping as Leon spanks your clit hard and fast. 

Using his other hand, he spreads your pussy lips open so he can spank down on your cunt. After a couple of slaps, each spank of his palm onto your drippy pussy sounds wet and dirty as your hole gushes slick down your ass to drip onto the bed. 

“Daddy’s so lucky to have a girl like you, isn’t he, baby?” Leon smirks up at your panting form, “listen to how much your pussy’s missed me.”

“Need you so bad,” you gasp brokenly, humping forward every time Leon slaps your pussy, “please, daddy, want you so much.”

Giving one last rough smack on your clit, he uses his already damp palm to cup your soaked mound. 

“I think she’s wet enough that you can sit this sweet pussy down onto my cock,” he smiles, a smug little curve of his mouth that makes your cunt throb, “c’mon, now.”

Nodding, you shakily raise back up into his lap and kneel above his thick length as he drags the head through your wet folds. Pressing the tip into your hole, you both moan as you slowly work his dick deeper and deeper into your clenching heat. 

Once he’s balls deep inside you, it makes your pussy clamp down on his fat cock like a vice. 

“Baby, you’re going to make me cum,” he grunts in your ear, hands moving up to cup your breasts. 

“Not yet, please,” you mewl, “can I sit here just like this?”

Leon groans low in his throat, “Yes, cockwarm me in that tight little pussy. Bet she’s missed daddy’s cock stuffed into her hole, huh?” 

You nod quickly, “Missed you so much, ‘m all stretched out.”

He presses his thumb on the hood of your clit and pulls back, showing off the swollen and wet sensitive bundle of nerves. Lightly running his middle finger over your clit, he teases the pudgy bud until you grind down hard into his lap. 

“So good, daddy,” you moan, nails digging into his twitching stomach muscles.  

He uses his other hand to wrap around your waist, helping you grind your slick pussy onto his thick cock. You slowly pull yourself halfway up his thick length then let yourself drop down on his lap, whimpering as his drippy tip kisses your cervix. 

“Don’t push yourself,” he rumbles low in his throat, dragging his fingers against the hood of your slippery clit as his dark eyes stare you down with an unidentifiable emotion. 

“I won’t,” you promise softly as tears gather at your lash line, “want you to stretch me on your big cock, want to make you feel good, daddy. Wanna take care of you.”

“My sweet girl,” he soothes, lifting your hips and slowly sinking you back down onto his cock, walls fluttering until he’s buried deep inside of you. 

You gasp trying to swallow air as he bullies in and out of your spasming pussy at a slow dragging pace. 

“Let me take care of you for now,” he murmurs, eyes dropping down to the collar decorating your neck, “all you have to do is take it, sweetheart.”

“Oh, daddy ,” you moan, hands scratching across his abs, thighs spasming as they squeeze around his hips. 

Leon groans and fucks up into your sopping wet cunt, making your breasts bounce with the force of his thrusts while your mouth gapes open as you draw in haggard breaths. 

“My pretty perfect girl just needs daddy taking care of her, huh?” his grip on your hip becomes bruising as he teases your clit softly with the other before moving that hand up to tug on a hard nipple.  

“Uh huh,” you squirm on his lap, clit throbbing for him to touch you again, “daddy takes such good care of me.”

He hums and keeps teasing your nipples before reaching up to loop a finger through the front of the collar, “You’re going to let me handle everything from now on.”

You nod jerkily, dislodging Leon’s hand from your collar making him drag his hand back down to your swollen clit. He surges up to messily lick past your lips, sucking on your tongue before filling your mouth with his own. Pulling away, he messily kisses down to your neck, teeth sinking into the skin above your collar making you whimper and rock down against him. 

“Daddy, s’good,” you mewl wantonly, nails scratching along his pecs making him buck harder into you. 

“I know,” he croons, making your cunt clench around his dick, “mmm, you and that cute pussy love the way daddy takes care of you.”

Whining, you bounce your ass faster, feeling dizzy with want at the low possessive tone coloring Leon’s voice. 

He picks up the pace, cock thrusting up into you harderand harder , grinding against the spongy spot at the front of your cunt every time he slips inside. He moves the hand gripping your waist around to grasp the fat of your ass, helping you bounce on his dick. The other continues to rub your pudgy clit with soft barely there touches that drives your arousal higher. 

“Leon,” you moan, pussy clenching down on his thick cock, eyes fluttering as the pleasure builds. 

“Are you getting close, sweet girl?” he coos, “this pretty little pussy keeps getting tighter and tighter. Needed this so badly, didn’t she?”

“Yes, yes!” You moan, hips stuttering and messing up your rhythm, “daddy, please, ‘m so close!”

“I’ve got you,” he slips out of your soaked cunt and eases you down onto your back, the sheets warm against your skin from Leon’s imprint.

Spreading your thighs, he kneels between your legs and guides his fat dick back into your twitching hole. His eyes watch your pussy greedily suck his cock back in with every short thrust until his pelvis is flush against yours. 

He grabs your legs and places them over his shoulders, letting him lower himself down, forearms boxing in your head. You gasp out a whimper as the new angle has Leon’s cock pressed up against your cervix. He waits a beat and you slowly relax your tense muscles as that sharp bite of pain transforms into pleasure. 

“That’s my girl,” he kisses the apple of your cheeks before taking your lips in a sloppy spit filled kiss that makes your pussy clamp down on his cock, “daddy’s good girl.”

“‘m yours,” you choke on a gasp as he pulls out to bully his dick back into your warm wet cunt, “my pussy’s yours. All of me is yours.”

Leon’s hips rabbit into your squelching pussy as he groans at your, unknown to you, damning words. 

“Say it again,” he growls down at you, hands squeezing your thighs as he keeps you pressed open for his hungry gaze. 

“I belong to you. ‘M all yours, daddy,” you babble up at him, tears sticking to your lashes causing them to clump together, “you make me feel so good.”

“Perfect, fucking perfect,” he mutters before rocking his hips down, “going to take such good care of you, keep you safe, give you everything you ever need.”

“Jus’ need you,” you slur as his tip hammers against your g-spot sending sparks of pleasure buzzing through your body. 

“Please, Leon— daddy ,” your nails score down his back making him grunt, “w’nna cum, want you to cum in me.”

“Fucking hell,” he groans, roughly flicking his thumb on your clit as he grinds into your pussy. 

“Going to make you cum for me, baby,” he kisses you again, nipping your bottom lip, “daddy wants to feel you cream all over his cock.”

You shudder as he spanks the first two fingers of his hand down onto the hood of your clit. 

“Oh, oh, god,” you toss your head back, body thrashing against the bed, “I’m gonna cum, daddy. You’re gonna make me cum .”

He bites your neck just as his fingers swipe your pudgy clit, tipping you over the edge and sending your hips arching off the bed as pleasure washes over your body. Your walls pulse and flutter around his cock making Leon groan and snap his hips into you harder. 

“Feels so good — fuck ,” he groans, burying his cock deep inside your spasming cunt and cumming, hot jizz coating your walls. 

His thrusts begin to stutter while he fills your used cunt with rope after rope of thick sticky cum. You feel his cock throb and kick inside your fluttering walls as your pussy keeps milking him for every last drop of cum. He grunts while he continues to finish inside of you. 

“There’s so much,” you whisper, loving the feeling of being so full of Leon. 

“I’ve been a little backed up, sweetheart,” he kisses you, all dirty and wet, while he finishes stuffing you to the brim. 

You sigh when he slowly pulls out, Leon hissing at the sensation. He lays down next to you, pulling you into his arms as you both catch your breaths. 

“Thank you,” you tilt your head up to kiss his jaw, “you waited for me and I appreciate it.”

His sea dark eyes watch you as his lips tic up into a little smile. 

“Of course, sweetheart,” he kisses the top of your head. 

You hum, pleased, and tangle your legs with his, “Can we have dinner later? I’m really tired now.”

“Mmhmm,” he runs his fingers down your back, muscles twitching as you relax even further against him.

It doesn’t take long for you to pass out, snuggled against Leon’s warm chest as he pets you softly. 

═════ °• ♔ •° ═════

After you fall asleep, Leon slips away, tugging the blankets up around your naked shoulders before leaving the bedroom. He makes his way downstairs to his office and pulls out the burner phone hidden in a secret drawer of his desk. 

He quickly dials a number and drums his fingers along the wood desktop as he waits. A familiar voice finally picks up. 

“I’m calling you back,” Leon grins to himself, idly tracing his fingertips across his desk.

“Yeah, everything’s good here. This time next year I think I can talk her into selling the place and we’ll move south, somewhere with a beach I think.”

The voice chatters away on the other line making Leon laugh.

“You’re not wrong. I just can’t believe some complete stranger beat me to the punch,” he frowns down at his knuckles, “kind of wanted to take her out myself for the hell of it, but this way my hands are 100% clean. And it won’t look strange to keep my sweet stepdaughter in my care.”

His blue eyes dart to the closed door as he lets the other man on the line talk. 

“Mmhmm. I was just checking in to see if everything’s been taken care of in regards to the father.”

He nods along, the grin blooming into a smirk, “Excellent. No, no need to get rid of him unless he proves to be an obstacle. Sounds like he’s making himself scarce without any prompting which is great.”

Chancing a quick glance to the clock on the wall, he stands up from his desk. 

“Great work as usual. I’ll wire the money into the account tonight.”

He hangs up the phone and quickly disassembles it; he runs a magnet over each piece before dropping it all into a small bowl of water he kept off to the side earlier in the evening. Tomorrow, he’ll get rid of it completely but for now he’d rather rejoin you upstairs. 

He lets himself daydream about your new life together as he double checks that everything is locked up tight before retiring for the night. Your mom’s death wasn’t planned, at least not in a sense, so it put a bit of a wrench into his plans. However, everything has worked out wonderfully in the long run. Your deadbeat dad is too busy with his own life to give you the time of day leaving Leon the one person you rely upon. 

He’s been patiently waiting all of this time, letting you grieve and navigate the death of your mother without his interference, only to reap the benefits now. The way you’re reacting and behaving gives him complete confidence that he’ll be the only one in your life from now on; months from now, when he asks you to be his second wife far away from this place, he’s positive you’ll say yes. 

Entering the bedroom, he takes in your sleeping form underneath the sheets and feels that same old hunger stir in his chest. He climbs back into bed and spoons your body from behind. Feeling his cock thicken against your ass, he slips his dick between your thighs, still damp from the activities earlier. Rutting slowly, he gently fucks your thighs as you sigh and squirm in your sleep. 

Reaching around, his hands grope your breasts, fingers quickly tweaking and tugging on your puffy nipples. 

“Daddy?” Your groggy voice just makes him harder and he rocks forward a little more roughly. 

“Just needed to touch you,” he bites your neck and you clamp your thighs together making him groan. 

“Inside,” you whine, “please.”

“Shhh,” he nips your ear, “let daddy have his fun.”

Shivering, you moan as Leon teases your nipples while he fucks his cock against your leaking pussy, plush thighs squeezing him just right. As much as he wants to slip right into your hot pussy, he likes making you beg for it. 

It’s a slow back and forth as he plays with your tits and makes you soak his cock with slick before he teases the tip against your hole. He’ll never get tired of this, of having you so soft and malleable, all for his enjoyment.  

“Oh, please, daddy, please,” you pant, hips pressing back against his, “need you to fuck me, need to feel you so bad.”

Smug satisfaction drips like honey down his spine as he slides the tip of his cock into your soaked hole. He hisses through clenched teeth as your cunt greedily sucks his cock further into your sticky wet walls. Once he bottoms out, he notices how much noise you’re making, cut off little whimpers and moans that has his cock kicking inside your snug cunt. 

“ Thank you, thank you, thank you ,” you chant under your breath, bolstering his already inflated ego. 

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs against your ear, feeling you clamp down around his dick. 

It’s almost too easy he thinks while he thrusts his cock in and out of your squelching pussy. It’s obvious to anyone that you were meant for him, meant for this. Gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, he picks up the pace, fucking into you so hard and fast that you can only gasp and whine. 

Reaching around, his fingers circle your clit firmly until your pussy’s clenching rhythmically around his cock as you cum.

“There we go,” he whispers in your ear, “cum on my cock, squeeze daddy’s dick so he can fill you up again.”

He lets you ride it out for a moment before hammering his dick into your spasming pussy. It doesn’t take too long with the way your cunt’s milking his cock for him to spill hot and thick inside your needy pussy for the second time that night. 

You sigh happily as he paints your pussy walls white with his sticky cum until it’s dripping out around his cock. Pulling out, he grunts to see globs of jizz ooze from your used pussy. 

“My perfect girl,” he kisses the back of your head. 

“Mmhmm,” you murmur sleepily, drifting off before he can even clean you up, “love you, Leon.”

His lips twitch up into a wicked grin, “Love you too, beautiful.” 

Getting up out of bed, he heads to the en suite bathroom to grab a damp cloth. He returns and gently cleans you up, feeling nothing but pride as he takes in the collar still cinched around your neck. Tossing the washcloth into the hamper, he makes his way back to you. He pulls you into his chest, feeling elated when you snuggle up underneath his chin. 

You press a soft feathery kiss against his pecs and hum before drifting into a deeper sleep. Running a hand down your back, a feeling of possessive ownership flares up in his chest. His fingers drift up to the collar, softly rubbing against the clasp. He’ll need to buy you an everyday one now, something that shows you’re all his. Maybe something with his initials. He’ll have to see how you react to the idea first. Dropping his hand to your shoulder, his pinky brushes against the collar and he feels his cock twitch against his thigh. 

Deciding to let you sleep a little more before waking you up for a late dinner, he idly traces patterns against your bare skin. This is what it’s going to be like from now on he thinks with almost giddy anticipation. And regardless of what happens from here on out, he knows you’re his forever more. 

[hellomynameisghostface]

Stu Macher Is DEAD!!

Hello yet again, "Scream" fans of Tumblr. It's time for another one of my opinions/rants. This is probably a super unpopular opinion but I also feel like the "Scream" fandom is equally split on it. Something that kind of bothers me is the fact that so many people in the fandom want him to return but I'm very against it for many reasons, personally. This post is basically just to get my opinion and feelings off my chest. A small declaimer before I start: I do not hate Stu. I actually love him and all Ghostfaces, for that matter. If you ask me, they're the best part of the movies and each one is great in their own way. Okay...let's get started. Why is Stu Macher dead? Because the original plan for "Scream 3" was to bring Stu back and be the mastermind behind a cult of Ghotfaces people hold on to the hope that he's still alive just because he was going to be for a very specific movie. Plans get scrapped and changed so this shouldn't be used to support him returning now. With that being said, the writer/director has confirmed his death. In the commentary with Wes Craven and Kevin Williamson for the first movie, one of them states "here's someone saying I'll be right back which mean he's going to be dead but he doesn't know he's actually one of the killers...but he does die at the end." You think this would be enough but apparently not.

Randy even exclaims in "Scream 2" that "Stu was a pussy ass wet rag..." He talks about him in past tense because he's dead. On top of that, NO ONE stop to think "oh, the Ghostface killings are starting again? Do you think...it could be Stu?" No mention of him possibly being alive at all and that's the first thing that should've come up in Sidney, Randy, Dewey and Gale's minds. However, people like to theorize that he faked his death and is in hiding but (respectfully) that is this dumb piece of fucking dumb shit accuse to bring someone back to a franchise just to please fans. You think THE Gale Weathers wouldn't know all of this? That Dewey wouldn't have been keeping close eyes on this case for Sidney's sake? The fact that Wes made three movies after this and made no mention of Stu possible being alive is proof enough that he is died with the original script for "Scream 3."

I don't even know how he would still be alive given he was bleeding out and said he thought he was dying from when Billy stabbed him. On top of that, he used the rest of his strength to try and take Sidney down. Then having a giant TV not only crush your head but electrocute you as you bleed out? Crazy that people still think he's alive.

All that aside, a reason I don't think his return would work is because they waited waaaaay too long. Could it have worked for "Scream 3?" Maybe. I still think it would've been a little lame given the lack of hints he survived in "Scream 2." However, if it was going to happen, the second or third movie would've been the time to do it. SO much time has passed with no talk around it within the movies that it makes literally zero sense to do it now. They dodged a bullet bringing him back for "Scream 3," honestly. Besides, if he survived that means Ethan survived and I know a bunch of you old school fans wouldn't want that. I feel like that was basically even the new writers/directors confirming that Stu is dead. They only hinted he could be alive because they wanted to watch you squirm. I know this because instead of officially naming the fifth film "Scream 5," "Scream V" or even "5cream" they chose to name it "Scream" then continuing to name their following movie "Scream VI." They loved to piss the fans off. It also got people to watch the film because for the past two movies everyone was so certain he would come back.

At this point, the only reason to bring him back is for fan service. Bringing back a past killer defeats the purpose of these movies and if you're sick of that, why are you still here? One of the main reasons I love these movies is because you never know who it could be and it's ALWAYS someone new. Bringing him back automatically confirms he's alive and a killer (or at least has something to do with it) and it's someone I've already seen do all this before. It would be boring. This fandom's always complaining about how all the killers are so obvious, how predictable the movies are and how they're always trying to carry the movies with nostalgia because they can't move on from the original yet...you want a killer from the first movie to come back and be super obvious? Make it make sense.

With all of that being said, I feel I need to say this again: I do not hate Stu Macher. I love Stu, I love Matthew. He did amazing in this role and that's another reason why he needs to stay dead. Sometimes you just need to let things be. Bringing a perfectly good thing back when it does not need to be brought back often ruins it. He left on a good note so lets keep it that way. LET MY MAN REST IN PEACE.

[9mysterybook6]

Rhylie need a psychiatrist and get out of the internet

Let's see some of her interactions with people.

Get ready, you will lose some of your brains because of her.

The worst thing is that she still lies to apologize AND has NOT learned her lesson

She's trying to shut me up about the truth about her.

That's why she steals my posts and spreads hate about me. She hopes I'll be afraid of her.

Rhylie hopes I'll leave tumblr because of her bullying ON me.

The joke on her If you think she scared me or this is bullying that affects me, then that proves what I said about her.

How many times do people have to say to Rhylie to leave them alone?

I'm not the only one sick who of her

pamithebunterfly2007 literally sick of Rhylie so much

Rhylie still thought they could be friends again

It's pami decision if they want you to be their friend again.

But of course this is impossible due to your bad and sick behavior.

First, if you are a true friend, you will leave pami alone..

Second: How many times do they have to tell you to leave them alone?

Three: The problem all started in Your disagreement with pami

AND YOU kept doing more and more bad things.

Who wants to be friends with a toxic and controlling person like you?

Not only that, Rhylie says things that people said, but they really didn't say them.

Here is an example from nicky-toony27

nicky-toony27 are tired of Rhylie taking their posts AND Put words in their mouths Even though she doesn't ask their opinion

And the last thing THAT Rhylie is Threatening me

LOOK AT THIS

I just have no words for it.

Have you seen her words?

9mysterybook6: No... *gets up* you don't get to end this! I'm fucking Mysterybook! *gets out of crater and faces gang* I'm the fucking women, and you're just some fucking clown or something! I started everything on Earth! All of mankind came from these fucking nuts! You all should be worshipping me, you ungrateful, disgusting, fucking losers-!

HO MY GOD

for crying out loud She is a 21 year old woman AND she does this kind of thing.

She believes herself to be a god!!!!

no no no no Guys, for God's sake This is really out of line.

The stupid insect doesn't realize what she did

Rhylie showed her true colors with these actions.

This idiot is really failing at hiding her true self.

I doubt anyone will followers to her after this.

Even I wouldn't be surprised if Rhylie lost a lot of followers.

Because it is impossible for people to be with these kind of toxic people

[supercalime]

A goodbye post I guess?

Hey yall, i wanted to write something about all of this as this may be the last time I talk about this show. Apologies in advance, this will be long and all over the place cause im using this little essay to get it off my chest and help me calm down my anxiety. Strap in, this will be a doozy.

First off, no matter how sad and disappointed we are, let’s please not stoop down to the level of those fans when it comes to voicing our issues with this situation. Please, let’s not harass, call people names, send them threats, etc. we can voice our opinions in an adult way, and although it fucking hurts and it makes us want to shout from the rooftops and call Murphy, Minear and Stark every name in the sun, we need to be grown ups and come out on top of it.

That being said, I want to first acknowledge how fun and cool yall are. We endured A LOT of shit since april and all that bullshit didn’t stop you from keeping the positivity going. I applaud you all for that. It has been hard. I came in contact and became friends with some really nice people here and I wouldn’t change it for the world. I loved being a part of this fandom and it physically hurts me that this feels like it was all for nothing.

Even though I feel like a fool as well, I hate to see how you are all so sad with this. This wasn’t our fault. We were not naive for believing that this storyline could’ve been great. Don’t blame yourself for being taken advantage of. Because that’s what they did. They saw the opportunity to profit from a community and took it. They are the ones in the wrong. They used us for brownie points and then tossed us away like trash the second they got what they wanted. It’s on them.

What I’m about to say now will sound hypocritical as I’m writing this at 2am while trying to cope with an anxiety attack caused by this very show, but what we can take away from this is that unfortunately, we can’t rely on tv shows for happiness. Yes, that’s a bitter pill to swallow, specially in this political climate as we were hoping for some sort of escape from the horrors of the elections. What i took away from this is that I need to (for lack of a better word) touch grass. I need hobbies, I need friends. All things that I’ve been lacking because fandom stuff is easier. I need to find stuff that makes me happy that doesn’t depend on outside factors. But also I want to make sure that if a show is all you have, that’s okay and is even more okay to feel betrayed. I was an absolute mess a few years ago when a show I adored stabbed their fans in the back, but it gets better. You still get angry remembering you were done dirty but I promise that the memories that stick are the positive ones.

I don’t wanna go on a deleting spree but I also don’t want to be reminded of this hurtful moment as the wound is still fresh, so I’m deciding to reevaluate some things offline, like I did with previous fandoms, and come back when I’m ready. I don’t think I’ll leave tumblr or never watch/talk about 911 again but I need some time and space from it so I can feel better. I don’t want to doom scroll through the tags like I did tonight. What Ryan Murphy, Tim Minear and Oliver Stark did to us was awful, but the best thing I can do is not let these three men influence my mental health. I won’t let a tv show ruin me because it’s not my fault. It’s not our fault to believe that there were half decent people in the entertainment industry that cares about the portrayal of queer individuals. They will have to sleep at night with that knowledge and deal with the consequences from the BoBs. And if these guys decide to humor the BoBs that’s their funeral. It would further show they never cared about representation and just wanted to save face after making so many people miserable for simply enjoying a canon ship. I hope they can see the consequences because I’m not even the target here. I’m hurt for all the queer men that saw themselves in buck and tommy, that even messaged the actors thanking them for their honest portrayal.

In conclusion, here’s my goodbye (for now).

Thank you so much bucktommy nation!

Yall are the best,

Love, Lety 🖤

[ripeteeth]

Self-rec time! What are your favorite five fics that you've written and why? After replying to this ask, feel free to pass on to five other writers to spread the love. 💗"

Thanks, @danpuff-ao3! You’re always a treat to see on the dash and I hope you’ve been having a lovely break <3.

I’m always a bit awkward with these, both from an itching sort of discomfort with staring my own artwork in the face, and I think from a lifetime habit of denying compliments out of a feeling of guilt or fear. So! I’ve had a glass of wine (and an edible) and I’m going to try to kinder to myself. I might be in the mood to talk right now. (Honestly, that’s a good sign. One of the big elements of my recent writer’s block has been an inability to express myself in any written way, even tumblr posts and comments. Maybe this is why I hit twitter so hard.)

My five favorite fics. Not my five best fics. Not my five most popular fics. My favorites. Hmm.

5. blood, bones, and butter | MDZS/The Untamed] SongXueXiao | E, 12,443

“A relationship, deconstructed. Served three ways.”

Ah, Yi City, that deliciously painful Shakespearean tragedy echoing Wangxian’s romance. The specific notes of obsession, revenge, love, and grief that run through these three make me completely unhinged. I love the quiet service and stoic devotion of Song Lan, the otherworldliness and power of Xiao Xingchen, the unchecked brilliance and cruelty that fill up Xue Yang. The Yi City fandom is easily one of the most incredible fandoms I’ve ever been a part of, full of uniquely talented and deranged writers and artists who love to really explore the dark edges and nitty-gritty of these character and let them be their fucked-up selves. The appeal of SongXueXiao isn’t to make it better for them, it’s to see how much you can make it worse.

It’s two pretty classic tropes: a first time after meeting at a bar, and also a story told from alternating POVs. I really wanted to focus on trying to carve out distinctive interiorities, like their motivations, their assumptions, their fears, their memories, and allow the reader to draw their own conclusions without spelling these all out outright. I’d recently rewatched Rashomon, and I love how the understanding of an event can be so differently shaped by each person’s POV and I wanted to show their first night together in that way, moving the lens over the night a few times, before it gets clear. It was a really fun process to focus on and I think it’s one of my best pieces of recent writing.

4. in search of the wind | Good Omens | Crowley/Aziraphale | E, 27,112

After the World Doesn't End, Aziraphale is not returned to his body. Crowley tries to find a way to get to Heaven's fast-shut gates. Aziraphale tries to find his way back from the sky (and back in time).

I remember writing this almost immediately after the show aired, in that heady summer of 2019, when I feel head over sweaty heels for that charming demon and his delicious epicure of an angel. This is essentially how I saw canon going on, this is the headcanon of my soul. Maybe that’s why I haven’t seen season 2 yet? It was a pleasure to write, almost like knitting together different scenes, different pieces of history, like an extended version of the s1s3 cold open. It’s Aziraphale without a body, unmoored in time, turning up at different points along his and Crowley’s history, and realizing that his friend is in love with him. That his friend is heartrendingly in love with him. I love stories that play with structure, striking different chords each time.

I couldn’t write this kind of story again. This belongs to a very specific time.

3. White Light, White Heat | Harry Potter | Snape/Harry | E, 32,107

“In 1347, Benedictine monk and scholar Severus Snape goes to fetch a young man joining the abbey. In 1347, rumors come of a strange and unrelenting plague from the east.”

An AU set in a fourteenth-century Benedictine monastery in Britain during the period of the Black Death where the two men develop a bond through a special sort of crucible. Snape, as always, falls in love with all the grace of a cat being given a bath. As dark as the material is, this was a pleasure to write. I had so much fun describing the setting, peppering fun little facts like a Pop Up Video of Medieval History. I wrote this in a fever-fueled three weeks, absolutely obsessed with getting it down exactly as it was in my head. I loved writing the monster theme and using it as almost a leitmotif for Snape. There’s probably a literary term for that. Is there? Anyway.

2. the body as anagram | The Terror | Crozier/Fitzjames, Crozier/Ross] | E, 3090

“In the dark, it doesn't matter which James is in his bed. As long as Ross doesn't speak, the illusion holds true.”

I took the title from a passage on J.G. Ballard’s Crash by Baudrillard in Simulacra and Simulation: “Technology is never grasped except in the (automobile) accident, that is to say in the violence done to technology itself and in the violence done to the body. It is the same: any shock, any blow, any impact, all the metallurgy of the accident can be read in the semiurgy of the body — neither an anatomy nor a physiology, but a semiurgy of contusions, scars, mutilations, wounds that are so many new sexual organs opened on the body. In this way, gathering the body as labor in the order of production is opposed to the dispersion of the body as anagram in the order of mutilation.”

There’s something a bit haunting about the parallels of the two men who held the intimacy of Francis Crozier’s friendship. The name. The confidence. The bravery. The charming manner and handsome face. I love the idea of a Francis who sails out pining for one man and returns home loving another, switching between true love and placeholder. And I’m notoriously a slut for both proxyfucking and Gremlin!Francis, who just can’t stop pressing on the wound of his grief. It’s not the drink but it may as well be, for all this is good for either he or Ross, but Francis is a fool in love with a dead man and he does what he does to get by.

Something about this came together, from concept to finish, in a way I’m quite happy with. It was fun to play with concepts and free associate from them, focusing less on plot, but more on the vast empty grief in Francis’ chest. Everyone here knows this is a bad idea. No one is having a good time.

1. Revachol Calling | Disco Elysium | Karry/Kim | E, 35,321 [WIP]

“Somewhere in Jamrock, a church burns. A study in Kim Kitsuragi.”

Sometimes you just feel the next part of the story in your bones. When I first played Disco Elysium in 2021 it hit me in an incredibly familiar, emotional way. There’s something somber and hopeful about it. The writing is sardonic, dark and humorous. It’s nearly cynical but it’s cynical with a sad old smile, because cynicism is born through disappointment, and through not quite being ready to give up. I think we can all find ourselves in it, in one way or another and, like many, I’m hopelessly in love with Kim Kitsuragi, a wild creature who’s built himself within thousands of rules. I can’t play the game without craving his side of the story, his interiority, his history, so I grab at the little crystals of information, such as his secret love of Speedfreaks FM and his past with Eyes, and I try to imagine it might go. This is my sequel to the game and, more than anything, this is my love song to Revachol, a character of a city, and one that echoes vastly in all those of post-Communist country and family.

For some reason, this fic is extremely visual for me and usually in a Wong Kar-Wai sort of fashion. Think the saturated aquamarines of a neon diner sign. Think a studio apartment with cheap wallpaper and the yellow-orange flicker of sodium lights. It comes alive at night, when Kim is left alone with his thoughts, running out of rules to keep him safely in. I love that Disco Elysium has such a vast world to explore. It’s an endless playbox.

And this is also, in a way, a bit of an elegy to a belief I’d once held in a motherland, and do not anymore.

I’m almost done with Chapter 8, so hopefully it will be up soon <3

Tagging! @jaggededges123 @soft-october-night @wildcard47 @rcmclachlan @brawlite @zaxal @pearwaldorf @kiingbooooo @darcylindbergh @et-in-arkadia @itsevidentvery @iodhadh @iamwestiec @mia-ugly @laurashapiro-noreally @pinehutch and anyone else who wishes to!

[aristocratic-otter]

Welp, I wasn't going to post today...but then I realized that the final chapter of Heart in the Well will go up before Sunday, and that'll render the excerpt I carefully picked out obsolete by then. So I scrambled to pick bits from my other stories just so I could post this one excerpt. Go me!

The good news about Heart being done? I've got a new WIP plotted out that I'm super excited about, but I wouldn't let myself write anything until one of my WIPs finished. So next week or the week after, you should see the first words from that fic, a very very angsty Watford era canon divergence.

In the mean time, thank you to : @monbons, @messofthejess, @rimeswithpurple, @thehoneyedhufflepuff, @best--dress,

@nausikaaa, @youarenevertooold, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @artsyunderstudy, @j-nipper-95, and

@facewithoutheart for the tags over the last two weeks. I'm having so much fun reading and watching your stories and art. This is such an incredibly talented fandom, it's endlessly inspiring. Plus, I get to meet some of you soon when I see Rainbow in August!

Here's my teasers for this week:

Here’s one from each of my official WIPs

From Saving Simon Snow: 

I shake my head now, thinking about it. I’ll just have to keep close to Simon, or at least, as close as he’ll allow me. At least my vampire anatomy gives me an advantage there; I can listen to what’s happening with Simon from three rooms away (I won’t, unless it’s a matter of his safety. It’s a gross invasion of his privacy otherwise) (fortunately, I had to learn to tune out the chatter of my peers by my 2nd year at Watford, or I would have gone mad). 

From the Heart in the Well

He looks back at me and then frowns. “Well, come on then,” he says, impatiently. 

“Come on, what?” I say, exasperated. The water’s up to my breastbone now, and I’m starting to feel a little panicky, so my voice comes out higher pitched than I’d like. 

Now, he rolls his eyes. “I need your tie,” he says as if it were obvious. It was not obvious. “Take it off, please.” At that, I shiver a little. I never thought there’d be a day where Simon Snow would be telling me to take off my clothes.

From Snow Fox: Penny, learning you can’t go home again (especially if you’ve signed on with the Snow Fox)

I step onto the road and walk briskly towards the house I grew up in. I can tell when I’ve been noticed. Several heads swivel my direction, and the murmur of conversation in the camp ceases. I keep on as if I haven’t noticed however. As I draw closer, I nod distractedly at some of the boys nearer to my path. They don't nod back. They’re watching me with narrowed eyes and I shudder internally. What do they see when they look at me?

From TikTok Dancer: Quite a bit racier than what I usually post, but still Tumblr legal, I think

Years from now, if I, for some odd reason, try to explain how my first time having sex felt, I won’t be able to. There’s no describing it.  I’m planning to get a degree in words, for fuck’s sake, but right now, all language has left me, sailed back to England probably. I’m left with caveman grunts and desperate whines. Every particle of sensation in my body has gathered between my legs, and every atom of will I have left is devoted to an attempt to meld my body with his. I’ve almost succeeded–we’re nearly one creature now, moving in frantic, panting unison. 

From Stars, Flowers, and Children,

I know he’s been looking for me. I know he’s probably forgiven my great sin. He shouldn’t. Forgiveness requires that the person who receives it is contrite, is sorry for what they’ve done. 

I’m not sorry. I’d do it again today, if the circumstances were the same. 

Even being estranged from the only person in this world that I care about is still better than the permanent separation that would result if we were rescued. 

I believe that we’ll be friends again someday. Some day when the pain in my chest and stomach have dulled. And that day is worth waiting for.

From Cupid’s Shield:

I’m left gaping at where he just stood. It’s suddenly clear to me how much of his vampire abilities Baz has been hiding, because I was looking right at him. 

I never saw him move. 

All I know is suddenly he’s above me, and my arms are above my head and prisoned to the bed by his hands clamped around my wrists. I’m so stunned that I don’t even struggle. 

His knees are on either side of my hips, and he’s staring down at me like I’m his next meal. 

From my COBB project:

I know I should be worrying over tomorrow, and what my team will face out there. And I will be worrying over that—tomorrow. Tonight, I’m far more worried about the hours ahead. Hours of, once again, sharing a room with the only man I’ve ever loved. A man who’s never looked at me as anything other than a posh prick. 

That’s my fault, of course. It could have been different, all those years ago, when we first met at Watford Uni. I was excited, back then, to meet my roommate. Excited, and nervous. I freely admit I’ve had a privileged upbringing, and this would be the first time I’d ever shared a room. 

My childhood was mostly lonely, so I didn’t mind the idea. I’d thought it’d be nice to always have someone nearby to talk to. 

Of course, everyone knows how that turned out.

As others have said recently, please let me know if you no longer want to be tagged and I'll take you off of my tag list. Unless I hear otherwise, I assume you're like me, and like to hear from people even if you're not feeling like sharing yourself.

Tags and cheers to: @chen-chen-chen-again-chen, @bazzybelle, @dragoneggos, @erzbethluna, @palimpsessed,

@frjsti, @fatalfangirl, @letraspal, @martsonmars, @melodysmash,

@moments-au-crayon22, @moodandmist, @mostlymaudlin, @onepintobean, @raenestee,

@tea-brigade, @upuntil6am, @whogaveyoupermission, @carryonsimoncarryonbaz, @krisrix,

@shemakesmeforget, @confused-bi-queer, @nightimedreamersghost,  @thewholelemon, @angelsfalling16,

@noblecorgi, @hushed-chorus, @whatevertheweather, @ivelovedhimthroughworse, @mooncello,

@wellbelesbian, @ic3-que3n, @shrekgogurt, @cosmicalart,  @cutestkilla,

@theearlgreymage, @alexalexinii, @prettygoododds, @blackberrysummerblog, @bookish-bogwitch,

@Iamamythologicalcreature, @emeryhall, @larkral, @ileadacharmedlife, @thewholelemon 

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

Am I the asshole for how my previous 'situationship' ended? (I genuinely do not know what to call this situation so that's gonna have to do).

Okay so I (20F) met a guy that we will call Chris (21M) on tinder in Oct 2022. We were at the same uni, and we had good rapport over text, so we decided to meet up. He was pretty awkward but once we actually got talking he was a good chat. Nothing romantic or sexual was discussed/acted upon.

We hung out a few times after that. I kissed him once after a night out, which he didn't reciprocate or ever mention again. Given the complete lack of romance/sexuality coming from him, and the fact that he is a very socially awkward person, I took the hint that he wasn't interested and didn't know how to tell me. I felt that i made the fact I was interested clear and he hadn't taken me up on it, so I just dropped the subject. We continued talking as friends, and I genuinely thought that's all it was.

Come Feb 2023, I went on a night out with a different group of friends, during which a friend of mine, we'll call Tom, kissed me. I nearly had a one night stand with Tom, but I ended up not sleeping with him and just going home because I was too drunk. Being drunk and cringe, I made a pretty crude post to my tumblr before I passed out which was something like "someone is actually attracted to me? Nail me to a wall!" (Long deleted because drunk me is an embarrassment lol).

I woke up to texts from Chris, who had seen my tumblr post and was upset. I was pretty confused because 1. He doesn't even use tumblr, 2. I don't remember ever giving him my account name but it must have been in a screenshot at some point, and 3. I was not under the impression that we were dating... I let all that slide like an idiot because I was really hungover. Chris and I then had a chill discussion about what we were, and agreed to be friends. Cool! I thought that was the end of the drama. We chatted and hung out afterwards with 0 difference to how it had been before.

Cut to May, and I sent him good luck wishes before an exam. He says thanks and I just didn't think about it again, normal exchange.

Over three weeks after I'd wished him good luck, I woke up to a wall of text he'd sent me at 3am where he went into detail about how i had strung him along and wasted his time; that he thought I was manipulative and playing "mind games" with him for that good luck text, which he took as me trying to psyche him out before the exam and make him fail the module; that he didn't want to 'just be friends anymore' because the knowlege that i strung him along hurt too much; that I "ignored him as he walked past" (I still have no idea where or when this happened, I straight up did not see him wherever it was). He also went into detail about physical and mental health issues he'd been going through (that I wasn't aware of before the wall of text) saying that I'd been a great help with them during first term, then "ruined his second term". He went off that my lack of communication skills is a detriment to everyone around me.

I was completely blindsided by all of that, and honestly really hurt that he'd accuse me of trying to make him fail his exams, but I'm not sure that he's not got a point? Looking back, yeah maybe I should have straight up asked him if he was interested back in Nov. But idk I'd say kissing someone is a pretty fucking clear communication that i was interested, and he made 0 reaction to it, what was i supposed to think? I'm not in the habit of pushing people when they do nothing in the way of reciprocation. But, one of the issues he disclosed to me was that he had gotten an autism diagnosis in April and I can see how not being 100% clear and verbal in my communication may have been the root of the issues here, given that he was undiagnosed autistic for most of the time I knew him.

Anyway, was my lack of communication an asshole move?

What are these acronyms?