#vigil series 2

[breathedeep-namaste]

Merry Christmas, Darling

Summary: Amy Silva and Kirsten Longacre looking at lights with Poppy and exchanging Christmas presents. Takes place between seasons one and two. Fluff!

“Aye, this one is actually my favourite!” Kirsten turned up the dial of the car radio as Shane McGowan’s distinct voice began crooning, it was Christmas Eve babe, in the drunk tank…

“You’ve said that about the last three songs!” Amy laughed as she lightly clutched the steering wheel. Kirsten ignored her, fully committed to the cheeky Irish tune.

“Merrrrrrrry Christmas, I looooove you baby…” she sang, exaggeratedly, reaching out and squeezing Amy’s knee. Amy rolled her eyes playfully, but reached down and gave Kirsten’s hand a squeeze. It was impossible not to find her girlfriend endearing. “Oooh, Pops – look at those!” Kirsten turned around so that she could watch Poppy’s face as the young girl spotted an over-the-top display of rainbow lights, complete with a robotic waving Santa Claus and Rudolph with a bright red nose.

The three of them had been driving around for about thirty minutes now, slowly making their way slowly but surely back to Morag and Gordon’s to drop off Poppy for the rest of the holiday. cheerful chime of laughter filled the car as they drove Poppy back to her grandparents' house. Poppy sat in the back seat, her eyes shining with the magic of Christmas lights outside the window. The little girls eyes twinkled in the sparkling lights as she ‘ooh’ed and ‘ahh’ed at the display. They passed it and a couple more, before the road went dark as they approached the more rural stretch towards Poppy’s grandparents.

"I wish I could stay with you tonight," Poppy said with a pout, though it wasn’t entirely serious. The little family had had a brilliant day – building a gingerbread house, watching Christmas films, eating sweets and finally, exchanging gifts. Poppy had been to pick out a few presents with her grandparents, things that a little girl would be inclined towards for a parent – a scented candle, some slippers for each of them and a small canvas pouch with a rainbow embroidered onto it “because Fred at school says that rainbows are for gay pride”. But their most cherished gift from the young girl had been the card – a family portrait on coloured paper that showed both women, Poppy and Cat drawn in crayon. “Merry Christmas Mums” it read across the bottom. While they were preparing for joint custody beginning in the new year, with Poppy getting ready to move in with them in the first week of January, it still felt surreal to Kirsten that she’d be accepted so willingly.

Amy looked back at Poppy through her rear-view mirror, a gentle smile on her face. "I know, sweetheart. We wish you could stay, too. But hey, guess what? This time next year, we’ll all be together. Maybe even in a new house, with Christmas lights of our own…” the brunette said thoughtfully. Though they were initially moving Poppy into Amy’s flat, the couple already had plans to work with a realtor and find something bigger and more suitable for Poppy.

Poppy's eyes widened with excitement, and she clapped her hands. "Really? Promise?"

Amy nodded, her heart full. "Promise. Cross my heart." She brought one finger up to her chest and drew an ‘x’, though Poppy couldn’t see. Kirsten watched Amy lovingly from the passanger seat, listening though she was still softly singing her (3rd) favourite Christmas song to herself. Her eyes widened involuntarily as the song began to reach it’s less festive (or child-appropriate) middle verse – her hand shot up to the volume dial and she turned it down completely, plunging the car into silence for a long moment before she and Amy exchanged a knowing glance. Tentatively, Kirsten turned it back up, hoping she’d missed the profanity, just in time for Kirsty MacColl to sing ‘you cheap lousy fa-‘ at full blast. Amy and Kirsten erupted into laughter, Poppy largely oblivious anyway. “Favourite song, huh?” Amy quipped, raising one eyebrow.

“Aye,” Kirsten laughed. “Still a classic.”

They took a more direct route home after dropping off Poppy, Christmas music still playing softly as Kirsten sang along and Amy drove. They had been together for most of the year now, as well as parts of last year, before Kirsten had ended things, but this was their first Christmas together. They’d spent much of the festive season exchanging stories and traditions – Kirsten’s love of Christmas music of course was now well established, Amy’s grandmother had passed down a recipe for minced pies that they’d assembled with Poppy, ready to bake in the morning. Kirsten’s Dad had always insisted on watching ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ on the night of Christmas Eve, and playing a game of poker with their extended family. She’d only insisted Amy continue one of these traditions with her, and Amy had picked up the film on DVD so that they could watch it that evening.

“Did your family ever open a gift on Christmas Eve?” Amy asked, turning down the Christmas radio just slightly and glancing over at her partner.

“Nooooo,” Kirsten scoffed playfully. “Mum was very insistent that we wait for St. Nicolas. Christmas Eve was for mass with Nan, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ and listening out for reindeer.” She grinned at the memory. “Why, I didn’t think you did?”

“No we didn’t,” Amy agreed, nodding subtly. “But… if you don’t have any objections… maybe we could start a new tradition?” Then, softly chuckling to herself. “I’m just not sure I can wait until tomorrow,” She squinted her eyes slightly, playfully scrunching her nose. “My gift is pretty good.”

“Oh Amy Silva, don’t let anyone tell you you aren’t modest,” Kirsten joked. She leaned back against the passenger seat, wiggling a bit and lifting her hips to stretch out her legs, suddenly impatient and eager to get home. “Aye, we could do that. My gift is pretty good too.”

Amy didn’t say anything in response, but she reached down and gave Kirsten’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“After the movie though. Can’t have you falling asleep on me,” Kirsten quipped. Amy had confided in her a few weeks prior that she hadn’t actually seen the Christmas classic, finding it too long and falling asleep the last time she’d given it ago, though that was long before Kirsten. She tended to prefer daft Christmas comedies and was amusingly partial to Bad Santa.

“Deal.” Amy agreed, and they drove the rest of the way home in comfortable silence, besides Kirsten’s quiet humming to the radio.

“We’ll take a cup of kindness dear,” Kirsten sang along softly with the final scene of the movie, planting a soft kiss on Amy’s temple as the woman shifted in her arms, blinking with heavy eyelids. She hadn’t been sleeping, she had actually quite enjoyed the film – but it was nearly midnight and the emptied glass of Bailey’s over ice now sitting on the coffee table hadn’t done her any favours. Kirsten gently traced circles on Amy’s hand, feeling the weight of the moment – new traditions forming, a quiet anticipation before they would exchange their gifts. Amy turned around in Kirsten’s arms, resting her chin on the other woman’s chest.

“Shall we?” she said softly, her eyes tracing an invisible line between Kirsten’s own and the Christmas tree.

Kirsten nodded, carefully separating herself from girlfriend so that they were both seated.

“Who goes first?” she asked, quizzically eyeing up Amy. “At home it’s always the youngest,” the red head grinned.

“Be my guest then,” Amy smiled, amused but resigned, gesturing towards the tree. Kirsten brought herself to standing, shaking out one of her legs that had slight pins and needles after two hours and ten minutes curled up on the couch. Once comfortable, she headed straight for a particular spot under the tree and picked up a square box slightly smaller than her palm. She sat down again, playing with the box in her hands for a moment before handing it to Amy.

“Oh I hope you like it,” she mumbled, suddenly nervous. Christmas was important to her, though she knew she was likely overthinking it.

“I will.” Amy said confidently, leaning over to Kirsten and kissing her gently before refocusing on the gift. Kirsten’s eyes lingered over the other woman with anticipation.

Amy carefully unwrapped it, revealing a square shaped jewellery box underneath. She raised her eyebrows, wondering just briefly what may lay inside, though she didn’t draw out the moment. Gently she pulled off the lid of the box, revealing two delicate necklaces. The first was a dainty gold gain with a round pendant, engraved with a Poppy. And just below was another gold chain, this one adorned a combination of small round beads and longer but equally subtle tube-shaped ones which Amy instantly recognised as morse code for “I love you”.

“Wow, Kirsten,” Amy looked lovingly from her gift to her partner, her eyes reflecting the depth of appreciation she felt. Not just for the gift, but for a partner that knew her so well, and made her feel so loved. "It's perfect. So… us.” she whispered with a contented smile, savouring the moment. Amy then leaned even closer to Kirsten, resting her head briefly against Kirsten’s shoulder. Kirsten returned the affectionate gesture, tilting her head down towards Amy’s before turning it and moving her fingertips to the other woman’s chin, gently lifting it.

With her other hand she reached over to the necklace, tracing the morse code with her finger. "I love you,” she said simply, pressing her forehead to Amy’s. She let her eyes linger, holding Amy’s gaze for a few seconds, adoring her warm brown eyes. “Merry Christmas,” she whispered before tilting her chin up and meeting Amy’s lips with hers. Her hand moved from Amy’s chin to gently cup her face and eventually softly clutching at the back of Amy’s neck as the kiss deepened.

After a few moments Amy slowly pulled away, kissing Kirsten just to the right of her lips, then on the cheek, before finally sitting back.

“My turn,” she ran her hands across her own thighs, taking a deep and slightly nervous breath. She was confident that the present she had chosen was a match for Kirsten’s lovely gesture, but there was still something about it that made her almost shy, which wasn’t an emotion she felt often anymore around the other woman.

Amy got down onto her hands and knees in order to reach underneath the Christmas tree to the very back, where she picked up a small, conspicuously shaped parcel. She’d hidden it so as not to raise questions in Kirsten’s mind. It was a ring, yes, but not of the diamond variety. Still, she and Kirsten were about to embark on the most serious phase of their relationship yet – they had lived together already for several months, but bringing Poppy into the picture. Starting a family, officially, was something they discussed often. She wanted Kirsten to have a symbol of the commitment that she felt and saw returned in the way Kirsten was so willing to raise Poppy with her, to be a Mum alongside her.

“Here,” she whispered, placing the box onto Kirsten’s lap before pulling herself back up onto the couch beside her. She placed her hand on Kirsten’s leg, squeezing it gently with anticipation and gently moving her fingers across the woman’s inner thigh.

Kirsten sucked in her breath, noticing the slight change in Amy’s demeanour and the size and shape of the box. Without saying anything, she lifted it off of her lap and began to unwrap it. She looked at Amy before opening, eyes wide and unsure. Amy nodded, indicating that she could go on, which did confuse Kirsten slightly. If Amy was proposing, she wasn’t making it very clear.

Kirsten tilted the box open herself, revealing a delicate gold band. It was a simple yet elegant piece, and Kirsten ran her finger over it, once again meeting Amy’s eyes.

“It’s… not an engagement ring,” Amy said slowly, watching Kirsten’s face for any indication of disappointment, but it didn’t come. Kirsten’s eyes were patient and kind. Loving. “But it is a promise.” She reached up to her own chest, just as she had earlier with Poppy, and drew an ‘X’ over her heart. “I love you, Kirsten. Our little family… it is everything to me. And I wanted you to have a symbol of that.”

Touched by the sentiment, Kirsten slipped the ring onto her left hand, then fanned out her fingers and presented her hand to Amy. “I love it, Amy. And I love you.”

Amy let out her breath, which she hadn’t realized she had been holding. A wave of relief washed over her as she released the worry that Kirsten would be dissatisfied. Amy had always been unsure about marriage, even before falling for Kirsten. Poppy had always been rooting for her to marry Ioan, and she carried a certain amount of guilt that she’d always had a bit of a mental block about the idea. Since meeting Kirsten, everything she’d known about herself had been challenged. And while she was fairly confident that one day she would marry the other woman, and absolutely certain that she would be with her forever, this felt like the right gesture for them, for now.

Amy wrapped her arms around Kirsten’s shoulders, pulling them both down against the back of the couch. Kirsten turned her body so that she could lay against Amy’s side, hand on her chest, still admiring the ring. She had accepted Amy, for all of her, a long time ago. She knew what a big deal this was for her, engagement ring or not. That was what made it so endearing.

“Merry Christmas, Amy…” she said softly, pointing with a finger to the clock on the wall which showed it was now past midnight.

“Merry Christmas darling,” Amy replied, kissing Kirsten’s forehead as they lay in the glow of the Christmas tree, fingers tracing down her partner’s arm. “To many more…”

[tekdiver]

Vigil - Series 2 💥 | BBC - Trailer

[cradle-view]

Vigil Season 2 Release Date, Cast, Plot, & More

Fans of the hit BBC drama Vigil are eagerly anticipating the release of Vigil series 2. For the second season of the BBC ratings success, Suranne Jones and Rose Leslie are taking to the skies, and nine new cast members will be joining them, including Dougray Scott and Romola Garai. In this post, we will discuss everything you need to know about the Vigil season 2 release date. When is Vigil…

[occidentaltourist]

bbc: Some sweet #Silvacre content for your FYP ❤️

[nightinngales]

[robsheridan]

[Update: Apocalypse in Pink part 2 is out now]

Before Barbenheimer, there was “Apocalypse in Pink,” the August 1983 theme of fashion/culture magazine SPECTAGORIA. The issue’s controversial imagery of Barbie-esque models attempting to stay gorgeous and glamorous amidst nuclear annihilation sought to, in the words of editor/photographer Sera Clairmont, “revel in the morbid absurdity of the new American condition,” an “anxiety vibrating underneath all our plastic smiles.”

“It’s The Hot Pink Cold War,” Clairmont wrote in her introduction. “It’s ‘Material Girl’ on the radio and ‘WarGames’ at the drive-in. It’s ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ interrupted by the emergency broadcast signal. We’re told to look sexy, dress fashionable, make money, and spend money, but be sure we’re just the right amount of terrified about the bomb. Get that Malibu dream home, keep working on that perfect body, sip cocktails by the pool in your little pink bikini and watching the stocks go up — but STAY VIGILANT! and for God’s sake vote Republican, because that dream home could melt into a pink plastic inferno at any given moment. Just don’t stop smiling as the blast liquefies your skin into bubbling ooze like a Barbie doll in a microwave - it’s bad for the economy.”

***Continued in PART 2***

---------

NOTE: This is a work of fiction created by me. This alternate reality horror story is part of my NightmAIres narrative art series (visit that link for a lot more). NightmAIres are windows into other worlds and interconnected alternate histories, conceived/written by me and visualized with synthography and Photoshop.

If you enjoy my work, consider supporting me on Patreon for frequent exclusive hi-res wallpaper packs, behind-the-scenes features, downloads, events, contests, and an awesome fan community. Direct fan support is what keeps me going as an independent creator, and it means the world to me.

[spacecowboybriony]

I’m in love with Suranne Jones again 🤷‍♀️

[notjustjavierpena]

Ok so someone said Pedro is so husband in Gladiator 2 and I was wondering if you would possibly do a Marcus and pregnant!wife fic?! Please 🤍

Restless

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: This was so fun to write and I hope you like it! Just fyi, this is not a part of my series Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.

Summary: Being heavily pregnant makes it hard to sleep.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: Pregnant reader, kisses, a general devoted to his wife

Word count: 1k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60543115

Restless

Since entering the final stages of carrying your child, nights in bed have been restless. You lay awake most of the time, drifting off on your side only to wake up not long after with a foot pressing against your ribs. It is a strange paradox how something so unpleasant can offer you comfort at the same time, serving as a reminder that your baby is healthy and strong. You’ll take watching the sunrise each morning if it means knowing that they are well, even if it means exhaustion from the lack of rest. 

Tonight is no different. You are yet again caught in the realm of the awake, carefully turning over from side to side as you beg God Somnus to show you mercy and grant you some sleep. However, just as your eyes start to flutter closed, you are startled awake by another swift kick to your insides. 

“You are as restless as your father,” you speak quietly and with affection to the life within your belly, pressing your hand over the spot. You glance at Marcus as you say it, already aware of how he is stirring from his slumber because the littlest of things can rouse him. After all, he is a light sleeper, old habits making him as vigilant in bed with you as he is on the battlefield. 

“Another night on slumber’s battlefield?” Marcus asks while sleep still clings to him. His voice is rough, rumbling through his chest as he speaks. 

You nod with a sigh, reaching for your husband’s hand to guide it to rest on your belly. His voice joining yours has woken up the baby even more, and they seem even more enthusiastic in announcing their presence to their parents, “It seems like your child is preparing for a campaign of their own. Feel.”

“My child?” He asks with a fond smile, another jab at his palm making him gently trace patterns across your belly. 

“During nights like these, they’re your child,” you tease lightheartedly and earn a gentle smile, a twinkle in his eyes. 

“I suppose that’s fair,” he chuckles quietly but it is interrupted by another spirited kick. He sucks in a breath, talking quietly as if mostly to himself, “Every time I do this… I still can’t believe—“

“Neither can I,” you say dreamily and rest your own hand on top of his. You guide his palm over the curve of your swollen belly, “But they’re really in there. Feel this. Here’s their back and this… this must be the foot that’s keeping me from sleeping.”

Marcus’ calloused palm is warm as it skims across your stomach, feeling its way around to picture the growing bundle inside of you. His eyes are filled with uninhibited wonder, a joy that seems to be more frequent on his face after Goddess Juno granted you this blessing so soon after your union. He shifts on the bed to bend down and kiss where he has just felt a particularly enthusiastic kick. 

“Listen to me, little one,” he murmurs softly against your skin, “Your beautiful mother is doing all the work bringing you into the world and into my arms. The least you could do is grant her some rest.”

“I don’t think it’s going to happen. I think they’ve inherited some of your rebellion,” you begin but Marcus looks at your face with feigned outrage. He crawls up to hover over you. 

“Their rebellious spirit is directly from you,” he argues with a charming smile, palms flat against the bed on either side of you. In return, you reach up to cup his face and drag him down for a sweet kiss. He smells like olive oil and metal from his armor, proof of him being in the sun all day during today’s training session. He should be exhausted but he kisses you like he isn’t. 

“Then you should know how to tame them just like you tamed me, General,” you bite back with a mischievous expression, a high-pitched giggle interrupting your attempt at an attitude because Marcus maneuvers you onto your side again, this time facing away from him. He crawls up behind you, scooping his arm underneath you so he can cradle your full belly with both hands. 

“Close your eyes,” he tells you, splaying his hands on you until the warmth of his touch starts to calm everything in your body and mind, “Focus on your breathing. In and out. Slowly like the tide.”

You can feel the gentle change in the room, both Marcus and the baby falling into sync with you as sleep comes knocking for all three of you. He talks in a quiet whisper even on the verge of slumber, his chest rising and falling against your back while your belly mirrors it, “That’s it. You’re safe, my love. My heart, my strength, my guiding light.”

“Tell me about our baby,” you murmur softly, eyelids growing heavy until you capitulate and close them. 

“Our baby,” he begins, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, “Will be as beautiful as their mother. When they laugh it’ll be with your laugh, and when they smile, everyone will think of you in an instant. Perhaps, they will be granted the courage of Mars. Or perhaps the wisdom of Minerva, a real strategist.”

His hands continue their slow and gentle pattern over your stomach, lulling you even closer to the edge of sleep. You relax further into his embrace, letting his words wash over you as he continues, “And as for me, I hope they will inherit my heart. I hope to pass on my sense of duty and purpose. They’ll be honorable, stand firm, and protect the ones they love.”

“Marcus,” you say without knowing why. 

“They will be loved,” he adds as if it is the most true of all, his forehead resting against the back of your head, “Loved beyond comparison, beyond comprehension. By us and even the Gods themselves, and they will never doubt this. They will find it to be as certain as Sol and Nox ensuring each day and night.” 

“I like that,” you smile sleepily, barely awake anymore. 

“Me too,” you hear him say just before sleep finally claims you, his voice a calming echo that tells you he’s telling the truth.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[vhaos-chaotic-writing]

(TFE) Starscream being a parent to the Terrans

Hear me the frag out - I've been watching the series (I'm rn at the 11th episode) and I'm loving it. It's a good show! I just fell in love with the found family trope, the Terrans are so damn adorable and when I saw Starscream (even when it was for just like 3 seconds) I went apeshit.

(★ ω ★)

And of course - I need to write about my favorite character taking the role of a parent because I can't just keep with the Hashtag and Starscream father-daughter scenarios!

WARNING: Fluff! Megastar, Starbee and Opstar hinted (yeah), Starscream being a parent even when he denies being it. Headcanons on how seekers act (?) Long ass post ngl

So, imagine Starscream was given the opportunity of 1) Not being locked up again, 2) Stay with the Malto family and 3) In general the opportunity to show he can have a change of spark just like Megatron did.

Why was he given the opportunity? When Optimus and Megatron saw how Hashtag and Starscream bonded after that near to death experience with the Dweller, and the sole mention of either Starscream leaving or being taken back to G.H.O.S.T HQ, had Hashtag begged to not take away Starscream, hugging him tightly and said seeker also get in a defense stance as he held back the young terran, both former leaders finally accepted and, after talking with both the Malto family and G.H.O.S.T (who begrudgingly accepted the situation), Starscream was welcomed into the Malto family's home.

Of course - conditions were placed on the table: Starscream was not allowed to leave the Malto family's territory without any type of vigilance and had to help around in the family. With a few complains and groans, the seeker accepted, smiling as Hashtag celebrated happily.

Aaand from there on, the seeker started to show how he was taking a parental role with the young terrans, as if it was natural.

Of course, the first one to recieve this treatment was Hashtag - the young terran was nearly always with Starscream, talking his audial off about anything and everything. But the seeker didn't mind. Of course, he still made some snarky comments here and there, but from time to time was invested in whatever his daughter Hashtag told him about. Hell, one time Optimus saw how Starscream gently snuzzled his helm against Hashtag's, optics closed as he... purred? And Hashtag was all happy, smiling and giggling at the small affection before she left with her siblings to another class with Bee.

Seekers snuzzled their sparklings. It made Optimus' spark giggle.

"I... thought you weren't one to snuzzle another bot."

Starscream yelped to then hiss at Optimus. "You saw nothing, Prime!" And quickly left to lock himself inside of the barn.

(. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)

Next ones to start bonding closely with the seeker were Thrash and Twitch. Twitch started to try and get better at her flying abilities and was often asking Starscream to teach her more - and Bee accepted since, well, he couldn't fly and the seeker was perfect to teach anything related to flying. The young femme terran always seemed to smile brighter whenever the seeker praised her for having done correctly her training and, even when the seeker always procalimed not liking hugs... hugged her back if she gave into her bursts of affection. With Thrash it was different - the young mech terran seemed to look after the seeker to find comfort whenever Mo, Robby, Dot or Alex were not around. And Megatron once got to hear Thrash and Starscream talk.

And Megatron has never heard Starscream speak so... softly to someone else before.

"It's just - I still sometimes feel like... we do not belong! And... and I'm scared Optimus and the others are going to be disappointed in us. That we are going to fail... to our small family." The young terran confessed, hugging his legs against his chestplate, sitting by the seeker's side.

Starscream gently wrapped one arm behind the terran to pull him close. "You shouldn't feel bad for feeling like... you are not enough. It is quite normal."

"Really?"

"Yeah - I've always felt that way back with my old team, and even back at my original home in Cybertrone." The seeker explains, to then look down at the terran. "But, be easy with yourself, Thrash - you are doing more than I've ever done or any of us have done. You do belong somewhere - to earth, to your family. You are doing an amazing job at becoming a greater Cybertronian-terran."

"You... really think so?". And it seemes like Starscream affirmed silently, as Megatron heard Thrash giggle and when he peaked a little, he found Thrash hugging Starscream. "Thank you, dad - I mean, Starscream!" and soon the terran left when Mo called for him, smiling brightly.

Starcream... chuckled. His optics held such fondness it made Megatron blush. He forgot how beautiful Starscream's calm expression was...

(✿◠‿◠)

On days later - Bee has been witnessing a silent bonding between Starscream and Nightshade, the latter following Starscream whenever he was going when none of them had tasks to do or anything in general to do.

Has also catched the seeker telling stories about Cybertron and Vos, his original home, to Nightshade and the other terrans. All the young terrans held surprised and awe expressions on their faceplates - and Bee saw just how truly happy Starscream seemed to speak about his culture and about their old home.

And has even seen Starscream aid Nightshade inside of their lab, teaching them new things and do, just like he has done with Hashtag, Twitch and Thrash, gently snuzzle his helm against the terran's.

"I'm proud of you, Nightshade." Oh, the sight made Bee's spark twirl.

(｡･∀･)ﾉﾞ

Starscream won't say it out loud, but his spark always feels warm whenever Jawbreaker acts as a small protector whenever Optimus or Megatron visit the family. The terran has seen how Starscream becomes tense and more irritable whenever either former leaders are visiting.

"Can you please stop being a hard to deal bot with and speak with me?" Megatron asks, following Starscream who keeps his helm up, arms crossed over his chestplate.

"I ain't going out on a small walk with you, I have better things to do!" Starscream said, finally turning to look at the bigger mech.

Before Megatron can say anything else, Jawbreaker is already between them, arms wide open as if protecting Starscream.

"Jawbreaker?"

"S-Starscream said he does not wish to speak with you!" Jawbreaker said, forcing himself to stand strong. Megatron was a little bit confused, but was soon frozen at seeing Starscream smile warmly, placing a servo on Jawbreaker's helm.

"My young knight." The seeker said jokingly but fondly, and the young terran smiled proudly as he looked up at the seeker. Starscream's smile disappeared as he looked back at Megatron. "So! If you are done being a dense mech, leave! Hmph!" The seekers turns around to keep walking, not before taking Jawbreaker's servo and the terran happily followed him. Like a sparkling does following its carrier or sire...

＜（＾－＾）＞

"Daaad!!!" A chorus of happy cries are heard as 5 terrans hug the seeker.

"W-what did I told you about calling me that?!" The seeker complains as the young terrans laugh cheerfully. But the seeker smiles fondly and tries to hug all the youngs as he gently snuzzles his helm against any helm he can reach, forgetting the three mechs who were watching the whole thing.

Oh, to say at least, Optimus', Megatron's and Bee's sparks were in love with the father-children scenario.

Vhaos out!

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (vi)

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, mentions of hauntings and the paranormal.

A/N: i need to start editing beforehand this series honestly takes to long to edit omg this was supposed to come out 2 hours ago. also thanks so much to @ginevranights for the one tweet in here, and @thebisexual-disaster for calling bucky babygirl because it was incredibly funny to me

Previous part || Series masterlist

Everyone is besotted with the cat.

It makes sense– everyone hates Bucky and will dance with glee upon his downfall. This is all his opinion, of course. The truth is that it is a cat and exists and everyone is thrilled. 

Sensing his awful vibes towards her and the constant suspicion he thinks of her with, she decides she likes sitting outside his room at the early hours of the morning and screaming for him to open up.

Once he does, she strolls in leisurely, takes a look around and then strolls back out. Everyday. On the clock. An alarm clock that will cough up a hairball in front of his door should he not open it to her. 

Also turns out she doesn’t have brown spots, the cat was just dirty. She’s pure white and you’ve taken to calling her something to do with snow or blizzards or something. 

She is his mortal enemy. Bucky doesn’t stop to think that his biggest problem being a feud with a cat is possibly an indication that his life has gotten significantly better. 

As with every week, you bang on his door on Friday morning.

Bucky, who's just fallen asleep after the stupid cat ceremoniously woke him up that morning, does not find this ritual as entertaining as you do, but his opinion has rarely held weightage in matters such as his sanity or his sleep schedule. 

He does considr for a whole day that you and the cat are in cahoots to ensure he is as miserable as possible. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility– Sam talked to birds or and Clint talked to lizards or whatever.

You yell something incomprehensible to him. Bucky yells something back. The world keeps spinning, nothing changes.

Other than the sinking feeling on his chest, that was a bit more pronounced than usual, to the point where it’s a bit hard to breathe.

He pries open one eye, ready to name five things he sees, four things he hears, three things he touches.

The stupid cat smacks him in the face. 

He shoves her off his torso, and along with her, the sinking feeling also reduces. 

After a very useful day of staying in bed no less than three attempts to get back to sleep, Bucky sneaks out of the tower when dusk begins to fall to hopefully get some rest on the park’s grass.  

It’s a nice evening out, the sky was painted a burnt orange, and the air wasn’t too chilly. He could even stop for a burger on the way back to top off a lovely nap. 

But even a gorgeous sunset is not enough to distract him from his heightene awareness going off.

From the corner of his eye, he sees a black van trailing slowly behind him.

He picks up the pace, jogging past a street food vendor and a newspaper stand, and the van only speeds up to keep up.

Soon enough, Bucky breaks into a sprint, ducking into an alleyway and waiting until the van drives past him before stalking back out, eyes vigilant.

Whatever. Stalker be damned, he was going to go to the fucking park. And get a burger. 

But the second he makes a turn on the street corner, the same black van pulls right up to him, not leavning even two feet of space between it and him.

Bucky, annoyed and with 80 years worth of boredom with this schtick, scowls as he yanks open the damn door, ready to just punch and move on with his day.

“Get in loser, we’re going out,” you call from the driver’s seat.

He growls, letting the handle go. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? I literally told you in the afternoon that I’m picking you up and you starting running from me, you baboon,” you exclaim. “Is that what you’re wearing in this video? Did you not do your laundry?”

Alright, so maybe it was on him to figure out what you actually yelled at him through the door earlier in the day. That doesn’t stop him.

Nostrils flaring, he continues to ignore you. “Who the fuck does this? Why do you have a van?”

“Style,” you insist. “We’re gonna be late, now come on. We’re leaving.”

Sensing that this conversation had reached a standstill, Bucky employs his next best technique.

“Where?” he demands.

“You’ll find out when we get there. Now get in,” you pat the spot next to you before pulling up your phone. “We’ll get there in about an hour–”

“No.”

Your neck cranes slowly to look at him incredulously. “The fuck you mean ‘no’?”

“You could be kidnapping me.” He stands with his arms crossed, tone defiant. 

“Right,” you snort. “You seen yourself? Food laws say I need a cooling truck to transport that much beef around.”

Bucky feels his mouth opening and shutting almost immediately, a strange feeling creeping into the tips of his ears.   

He clears his throat. “I’m not getting in the car unless you tell me where we’re going.”

“I’m not fuckin’ kidnapping you Bucky,” you say, loudly. “And even if I wanted to do it– which I don’t, because you can be so annoying sometimes– you’d never see it coming.” 

“How would I know?” He’s offended that you only think he’s annoying sometimes when he’s been working very hard to make sure it’s a constant feature of his. “Who’s to say there’s not some guy in there with a gun–”

“A gun wouldn’t do shit when you’re so thick in the head–”

“And then SHIELD’s gonna have to shell out the ransom–”

“SHIELD would pay them to keep you.” 

“Oh, so you are kidn–”

“Get in the car,” you say loudly before sitting upright, and turning your attention to the windshield again. “Or don’t. I don’t give a shit.”

He narrows his eyes at you grabbing the steering wheel, while your telekinesis moves to close the door on him.  

Bucky sticks his metal hand between the door and the car, and pries it back open before climbing in. 

“Now what,” he mumbles, arms still crossed over his chest like he’s throwing a tantrum. He even refuses to put the seatbelt. Rebellion. 

You don’t answer, and the car doesn’t move.

When he looks over at you, you have a triumphant, smug smile on your face.  

“What,” he bites. 

You tsk. “Reverse psychology. Always works with children.”

Bucky immediately grabs at the handle, but the locks immediately click into place and you step on the pedal and send the van flying down the road before he has a chance to throw himself out. 

The car pulls up to a mansion. 

All the windows are closed and covered in newspaper, giving him no indication as to what was inside. The lawn was mostly brown, with weeds taking up more space than grass and dead flowers lining the fence. 

“There’s gotta be like 5 bedrooms in that thing,” you note, as you both make your way towards it. “How many ghosts do you think are in there?”

“Zero,” Bucky states plainly. 

You continue to talk like he doesn’t exist. “A house that big, there’s gotta be a ghost butler in there. Maybe a ghost maid.”

“None.”

“Five ghost maids, one for every room, and maybe a cook–”

Bucky starts speed walking, leaving you behind to admire the structure looming over the both of you, only illuminated by the streetlights outside.  

Bucky knocks hard on the door, annoyed that it was getting colder and that he was stuck in his stupid running shorts in a house that definitely had no heating for the evening. 

Eventually, you end up beside him, talking as he keeps his sight fixed right ahead. 

Checking your phone to confirm the address, you mumble absentmindedly to him, “This kid tweeted us like fifteen times in the last week, this is gonna be a sick surprise. I love meeting my fa–”

“A surprise?” Bucky jerks his head towards you. “You didn’t tell him we’re coming?”

“Well no,” you lower your phone, “because that would give the ghosts some warning and we–”

His eyes nearly bug out of his head. “We can’t just go into some random kid’s house and film–”

“He’s hardly random, he’s been bombarding our inbox–”

Your defence is cut off when the door creaks open painfully, slowly, like it was letting out its last dying breath.

“Woah,” you whisper, eyes wide. “Ghost door.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky mumbles.

“Hello?” you call out.

When no one replies immediately, Bucky shoves his hands into his pockets, ready to leave. 

Instead, you shove him to the side, taking his pace in front of the house. He offers no resistance, only a growl in annoyance. 

You clear your throat, before calling loudly, “Hewwo–”

A dark hooded figure springs out at breakneck speed from behind the door, arms raised high, legs wide. 

You don’t look fazed at all, staying entirely still, only with one eyebrow raised.

“Right,” you say. “You must be Jason.”   

“Yuh,” he answers.  

“Where are your parents?” Bucky demands immediately, choosing to ignore the full body cringe his own words give him. 

“Indianna or something, man. I dunno?” The door trembles open a bit more, giving you a clearer look at the guy. “Do you guys wanna come in? It’s cold.”

You take a step inside the huge foyer, almost steretoypically complete with a cascading staircase and big paintings of people on horses and stuff.

 Jason eventually peels the hoodie away from his face, shoving his arms inside the sleeves and spinning it around so he was wearing it the right way. 

“This is Bucky, by the way,” you introduce before beckoning to the man who had refused to move all this while. “Come on, babygirl.”

Bucky does not look wowed with the theatrics as he stands there, arms folded tight across his magnificent chest. 

Jason looks at you. “Is babygirl coming?”

Bucky inhales sharply while you stifle a laugh. “Do not call me that.”

“Oh, he loves it when people call him that, he’s just super pissy because he didn’t get enough attention today,” you coo. “Get in here Bucky.” 

He glares at you with enough intensity to set the house on fire.   

The kid looks like he’s in his early twenties, with shaggy brown hair that hides sleepy eyes, bad posture and a clean shaven face.. His hoodie is paired with grey sweatpants and yellow flip flops that were about one size too small for him. 

“Why’d you tweet at us?” Bucky questions, wondering what he had to do with anything.  

Jason juts his chin up contemplatively. “What do you guys do again?”

You stare at him to avoid how Bucky was staring at you. 

“We hunt ghosts and help old ladies cross the street.” You flash him a smile. 

“Cool.” Jason nods appreciatively. “I don’t have an old lady here.” 

Your eyebrow twitches. Bucky would have taken great joy in your awkwardness had he not felt entirely exasperated by the whole exchange. 

“Well, Jason, you DM’d us about the ghost in the house,” you communicate even slower. “The one that was being rude?”

“Oh, right,” he drags out. “You’re the people from YouTube. Avengers. I didn't think y’all were real, lol.”

“What the fuck.” Bucky mumbles to himself, because there was no way this guy said ‘LOL’ out loud.  “Did you just invite us inside your house without knowing who we are–”  

“Yes, we’re those people,” you interrupt, pulling out a card from your fucking sleeve. “The Graveyard Shift crew, ready and at your service.”

“Since when do we have business cards?” Bucky presses.

“Ignore him, he’s an intern.” You drop the card onto Jason’s hand. “Anyway, we’re the best rated ghost hunters within a twenty yard radius. Maybe even thirty, but I don't wanna get too ahead of myself.”

“Radical.” He flips the card back and forth without actually reading anything. Bucky wonders if he was looking for pictures. “Aren’t you supposed to have like, tech and people and stuff?”

“Some of us have performance anxiety–” you give Bucky a side eye and he rightfully looks absolutely incensed. “So, I’ve got a camera following us at all times and I’ve got all the tech we need.”

Bucky suddenly feels very aware of something hovering behind him, and it takes an incredible amount of self-restraint to not instinctually slap it out of existence.

He whips around to find a camera floating mid air, aimed directly at him almost like it is waiting for a reaction. While weird, it was still better than the stupid GoPro on his head that elongated his forehead to a sixhead.

“And I’ve got a REM Pod, a spirit box to pick up sounds when they talk to us, a water gun full of assorted waters from different beliefs for one gigantic spirit burning milkshake–” you list rapidly and Bucky cannot even tell where the fuck you’re pulling these things out from. “So, we should be good to go.”

Jason doesn’t look bothered at all, as he drags out, “Cool, lol.”

Bucky almost feels offended on your behalf by the little twerp. 

“Hold this,” you instruct, pressing the spirit box into Bucky's chest without giving him a choice. “Ready whenever you are, but before we start I just wanted to ask– why’d you come to us for help? I’m sure you have plenty of options.”

“Oh,” the guy says, wiping his hands down the side of his sweatpants. “You guys are Avengers and stuff…”

He doesn’t add anything else, watching you both like it was obvious. 

When neither of you offer an answer, he continues “I mean, no one else seemed to like, know kickboxing and shi–”

“I’m sorry– kickboxing?”

“Or like, karate.” He lifted his shoulder in a half shrug. “Whatever you guys are into, I don’t really care what style of combat it is.”

When it finally clicks, Bucky snorts. “You want us to fuckin’ fight your ghost?”

“Yeah, like a punch or something, I guess.” Jason looks too serious. “He’s being a real bitch dick.”

You exhale steadily. “First of all, how do you know it’s a ‘he’?”

Jason shakes his head, and his hair falls directly into his one eye, leaving you to only look at the other. “I’m pretty sure it’s my uncle.”

“Your uncle?” 

“Well yeah,” the guy responds, “this is his house. He built it and decorated it and shit.” 

You stare at him in disbelief. “You didn’t mention that in the brief.”

Bucky looks at you. “You got a brief?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s my uncle’s house, I guess,” Jason continues when you wave Bucky off. “He, like, kicked the bucket a few years ago. Like, totally died off.”

Bucky’s eyebrows knit together. 

“We weren’t, like, close or anything but I guess he didn’t have any other relatives which figures, because he’s a pain in the ass, but I’m the next male heir or whatever, so I got it.”

“Male heir,” Bucky repeats slowly, wondering which fucking TV show he’s walked into.

“A 6BHK in this economy is a fuckin’ castle,” you shush him, turning to Jason again. “Didn’t you bother renovating or anything?”

“Clearly not,” Bucky mumbles, because he may have only known Jason for a grand total of a few minutes, but he really doubts that it was he who picked out redwood furniture and gold trimmings. 

“Nah, I don’t care. I usually spend all day doing gigs at my friend’s house but he told me I can’t keep throwing ragers there every night so I wanna do that here but he’s just being a big baby about it,” he explains all in one breath.

“What gigs?” Bucky asks curiously.

“I’m a DJ who specialises in acoustic EDM,” he says, chest puffing in pride. 

“Of course.” Bucky nods in return. 

Jason turns to you. “Didn’t think you guys were coming, not gonna lie.”

“You just do that whole door opening show to everyone?” you ask, amused.

“Uh, no, I just heard you guys arguing outside and thought it’d be funny,” he says. “I got you guys good, lol.” 

“Well, not me,” you counter, “but Bucky, for sure, pissed his pants a litt–”

“Anyway, here’s the keys. I’m out,” Jason cuts in. “It’s my last three performances at Rick’s house.” 

He tosses the key at babygirl’s Bucky’s chest, who instinctively catches it with ease.  

“You’re just giving us the house for the night?” Bucky stares at him incredulously. 

“Yuh. There’s, like, beer in the fridge if you want. No one delivers here ‘cause someone snitched that this place is haunted, which was kinda fucked. So there’s ramen in the fridge too if you’re hungry.”

“Why is there ramen in–”

“See y’all later, lol,” he takes off without another word. 

Bucky’s left staring after the guy who just strolls down the garden and out the gate without a second look.

“I think I want to adopt him.” Your gaze trails after him, before you crack your knuckles. “Alright. Let’s get this guy’s bitch dick uncle.”

The longer Bucky spends in the house, he can tell with absolute certainty that someone loved this place deeply. It is styled and decorated with the flair of a passion project, even though it currently looked like it dreamed of being a landfill when it grew up. There were cobwebs everywhere and several dust bunnies in every corner, and also many crushed cans of beer all around the floor. 

The previous owner had taste for sure. Bucky’s not sure if he’d appreciate Jason turning it into the newest hotspot for his ragers. Whatever that meant. 

“How long are we going to be here?” he asks, swiping a finger across the table. 

“Why, you got something to do?” you pause before adding, “Or someone to do?”

He sends you a jaded glance. “None of your business.”

“You literally called me the love of your life.” You scoff from your corner of the room. 

“You called yourself that,” Bucky reminds monotonously. 

“And you have never denied it.”

“I’m denying it right no-”

“Bzzt, too late. Anyway,” you announce. “Your hot date will have to be postponed, I fear. We are not leaving until we get some sort of proof.”

“Two hours.” Bucky holds up two dust coated fingers.

“I’ll buy you a pretzel.”

“Three hours.” His middle finger goes up in solidarity. 

You grin. “More than enough. We’re gonna make you a believer, babygirl.”

True, and surprisingly enough, an hour later, his whole life changes. 

“Holy shit,” Bucky can’t quite believe his eyes either, stomach turning. 

“What?” You’re somewhere behind, stupid machine held up as you spin around like a ballerina waiting for something to do something and make a noise or some shit. He doesn’t know. 

Bucky has tucked the spirit box behind his ear like a pencil, arms gripping the doors.

“What the hell,” he trails off slowly, eyes glued to the sight in front of him, hypnotising.

“Did you find something?” you whisper-yell, and the camera whizzes past you into his line of sight.

Bucky swallows the bile in his throat. 

“When he said ramen’s in the fridge, I didn’t think he meant he boiled a fuckin’ bucket full of noodles and just left it in there. What the fuck.” He grabs the aforementioned bucket and lifts it into the air. “Who does this? What the fuck?”

You let out a huff, lightly stomping yor foot. “Be so serious right now.”

“Are you crazy? Look at this.” Bucky spins it around to look at it from every angle. “It’s got ‘Jason’s ramen’ written on it. Who the fuck else’s would this be?”

“You’re supposed to be looking for ghosts,” you insist. “That is demonic behaviour. It’s not the same.”

“I’m lookin’ for snacks,” Bucky puts the damn bucket back and ignores it to look through the rest of the fridge. “There’s nothing here. What does that kid eat?”

“If you’re looking for snacks, you gotta look in the mirror,” you hum hopefully. 

“Hilarious.” Bucky’s voice comes back muddled from the several bottles of beer in the fridge. 

“I’m sorry, you’re right. It’s not useful.” you correct, “You said you’re looking for snacks, not a whole meal.”

He stops briefly. Bucky’s not sure what to do with all this strange attention you give him. It makes him feel all sorts of ways and he doesn’t like it one bit. 

“Whatever,” he mutters, continuing to scavenge. 

“Woah, calm down there, Prince Charming.” You snicker. “Give a person a warning before pulling out all your best lines on me like that.”

“You’re supposed to be working, not flirting,” Bucky responds, feeling the same burn at the tip of his ears from that evening. 

“When I was in the events business, multitasking was considered a valuable and necessary skill.”

Bucky stands up so fast he nearly hits his head on the fridge.

“What’s with all these random jobs you keep saying you’ve done?” he questions. “They told me you went on the run a long time ago and that’s where you met Nat.”

Your face changes, features becoming more solemn. He doesn’t know what’s going on, because he’s never seen you this serious before, not even when you guys were hanging out in the library. 

“Bucky,” your voice drops a few octaves, straight and steady. “Answer me this honestly.”

He feels a bit defensive because it almost feels like he’s fucked up somehow.

“What?” he questions. 

You watch him for another second before taking a step toward him, observing him closely.

“Did you really ask people about me?” 

He straightens up ever so slightly. “Why?”

You look at him gravely. “I got one more question.”

You take another step, reducing the space btween you to almost a ciminally low amount. Bucky’s sure he can hear your heartbeat. 

You watch his eyes look into yours intently, a flciker or doubt there.

You open your mouth, voice low and strong, “When will you admit to yourself you’re obsessed with me?”

It takes a second for it to register, and almost instantly he shoves you away, only to have you break into a laugh. 

“You’re so fucking annoying.”

“You have a crush on me,” you sing, “why else are you going around asking your friends about me? Do you want them to put in a good word? You gonna ask them to deliver your handwritten note to me?”

“Fuck right off, and then fuck off some more,” he barks, grabbing a beer from the front of the line. 

“Don’t worry, Buck, I think you’re the cutest guy in our whole grade, no competition,” you drawl, grinning at the pissed expression on his face. 

Bucky swerves around you to beeline to the kitchen island to drink his stupid beer in peace. He thinks that his retirement age is actually nearing. 

A house like this, with a room for Steve and another guest room for whoever wanted to visit. Possibly a dog. There wasn’t musch left in life to do, so he may as well spend the rest of it out in the suburbs in quiet. 

A few seconds later, you break the silence with, “But to answer your question: I did go on the run. I just did all those jobs while I was running.”

He turns to you, noting that while your face was light, it seemed like there was sincerity and truth in what you were saying. 

“Why?” he asks, voice gruff.

You shrug, half a smile on your face. “Why not? I met Nat when she broke down the door of my accountancy office on one of her missions. I threw some staplers and hit a guy with a printer, and from then on, whenever I needed help or she needed my freaky little powers, we’d reach out. Years later, she asked if I wanted to come join, I was bored and now here we are. I’m a nepo baby, if you kinda think about it.” 

Bucky looks at you, but says nothing. 

“Anyway, brief history aside, I’m going upstairs. There’s nothing here other than your bitchy aura and bucket ramen.” The camera spins around to follow you.

Bucky simply ignores you as he swipes all the garbage off the counter and onto the ground so he can lean against it, alone with his beer and new information to process.

However, a loud creek, unmistakable and intense, comes from the floor above. 

You look at Bucky. He doesn’t look the least bit bothered, instead using his metal hand to pop open a beer he fished out of the damn fridge. 

“Can you shut up,” you hiss when he drinks a little too loud for your liking. 

“What,” he asks through a mouthful of beer as he drops the bottle cap onto the counter.

Another creek reverberates loudly through the house.

You make a face at him, somewhere in a mix between excitement and anticipation. 

“Is that supposed to mean something?” he inquires.

“Two creeks in the last minute,” you insist, like he’s stupid. 

He scoffs. “So? It’s an old house, if you breathe too hard the floor’s gonna fall off.”

“It is literally not that old. And second, it’s too much of a coincidence.” You make way towards the stairs, beckoning for him to follow. “And take the spirit box out of your hair, we need to catch if it’s saying something.”

“You're not gonna catch anything because it’s not going to speak because ghosts are not real.” He takes a large swig. 

You ignore him, leaving in search of the sound.

Bucky takes a second before following you anyway, bored out of his mind and with nothing really to do.

“You comin’ in?” he asks from inside the spacious room, beer in hand. 

“I didn’t even buy you dinner yet and you’re already inviting me into your bedroom.”

“Jesus Christ. Stay outside then.”

The room has a strange, musty smell. Bucky, sick and tired of the ebay this kid has been living, drags open the window to let some fresh air in, going so far as to tear a large hole through the newspaper to let the moonlight into the room. 

“Someone keeps moving the furniture back and forth, there’s scratches all over the floor,” you observe, pointing to the ground near the table and the bed. 

“Uh huh,” he says, tossing the spirit box onto the table before taking another swig, ducking out of the way of the camera. 

You scan every corner with the machine in your hand. Bucky wanders around aimlessly for a second before usefully sitting on the bed, leaning against the pillows. 

“You gonna take your shirt off next?” you question. 

Bucky rolls his eyes, taking another sip from his bottle. “Pay attention. Your demons are trying to talk t-.” 

The bed immediately lurches from underneath him, scraping loudly against the wood. 

“What the fuck–” he exclaims, getting right back up, heart in his throat for a damn second. 

You stifle a laugh.

“I’ve had enough of you today.” He puts the damn bottle down on the nightstand. “I’m leaving.” 

“We didn’t even light the candles yet, you can’t–”

The bed scrapes back into place again, but this time Bucky is prepared and done. 

“Stop doing that,” he snaps, “you’re ruining the flo–”

“I didn’t do that,” you tell him, eyebrows and hands raised, “That definitely wasn’t me.”

“Hardy har har. You didn’t push the bed, you didn’t climb the tree in the cemetery, you didn’t conjure up hallucinations of my–” He stops himself abruptly.

It’s too late, though. You very much caught it. 

The look you give him is peculiar. “Hallucinations of your what?” 

“Nothing,” he utters. “Got my wires crossed. Nothing to do with you.”

“Okay,” you drag out, giving him one more uncanny look before turning your attention to the bedpost. “Anyway, I promise you the second one was definitely not me. There’s something else going on here.”

Bucky is starkly sent back to fifteen minutes ago and his thoughts of retirement as he watches you crouch by the floor.

He was too old for this. He was not right for this. The three second glance at his dead sister and his entire life had gone lopsided. Honestly, he could probably handle like two or three more episodes of this nonsense before tapping out completely. 

“I can sense something,” you announce.

“I can sense something too,” he murmurs absentmindedly to himself. “It’s called bullshi–”

“Be quiet, I want to see if we can talk to the guy in the room.” You hold your hand up. “Hey Jason’s uncle. You here?”

He watches, unamused, as nothing changes. No machine beeps, nothing creeks.

“Bucky, you scared him away.” You turn to him, hands on your hips. “You used your big bitch face and you scared away th–”

He launches a pillow at you. It lowers to the ground without ever touching you. 

“Go eat some bucket ramen and maybe you’ll be less bitchy.” Your face lights up, and he can tell you’ve gotten another stupid idea. “Jason’s uncle, are you hungry? Do you want something to eat? Human blood? Metal arm?”

Silence.

“No pretzels for you,” you tsk, but let go of the idea anyway. 

“Maybe your ghost boyfriend likes them, why don’t you ask him?” He pulls out his phone to book himself an Uber. “And since he literally doesn’t talk and you don’t shut up, it’d be a great ma–”

The same pillow he launched at you gets thrown back at him. He simply ducks out of the way, and it hits the nightstand, toppling the bottle over.

“Now look at what you did,” you accuse, pointing at the bottle with the camera following suit. 

“The fuck? I didn't do shit–” Bucky stops speaking when something nudges his leg. 

The bottle that initially had clattered to the ground quite a feet away from him was now by his foot.

“Interesting,” you muse.

“What?” he questions immediately. “That a bottle rolled? It’s a bottle. They do that.”

“Uh huh. Come stand here then.” You jut your thumb out to a few paces away. 

He rolls his eyes but takes a large stride towards you.  

Annoyingly, the bottle rolls right along with him and lands up at his feet.

“Ghost,” you nod along certainly. 

“Why isn't it doing that then?” he argues on instinct, and then his mind catches up, forcing him to take a step back and wonder why the fuck he was still in the house. 

Once again, he genuinely believes that this should be enough. Ghost hunted for a few episodes, read a few stories. He thinks his numbers should be up and that would be convincing enough for Maya to let him get away from the series, especially if he played his 80-years-of-imprisonment card right.  

“You're right.” You peer at him before turning your head up to the ceiling. “Please, ghost man. Please, I’m begging you, hit this man. Plea–”

Bucky feels something smack lightly against the back of his head before falling to the ground.

A second later you erupt into cheers and he turns around to look at the culprit.

A crumpled up piece of paper.  He bends down to pick it up, finding nothing special about it other than some random scribbles. Probably some more of Jason's junk. 

“Ghosts are real and they hate Bucky Barnes, baby!,” you cheer. “Ohh, I’m gonna make so much money. Babygirl, you are a poltergeist magnet. ”

“It’s a piece of paper and the window is open,” he groans, tossing it back onto the ground, where it dances around, proving his point. “The wind carried it over and it touched my head.”

“Right. The wind.” You roll your eyes. “You’re like, fifteen feet tall, only God can see the top of your head.”

“That doesn’t mean any–”

“Hush, I’m thinking. Quiet, human Burj Khalifa.” You hold your hand up. “Let’s see. The ghost knocks on furniture when we were downstairs. It shoves the bed and rolls a bottle around on the ground when we’re arguing and right when you’re leaving, it throws a piece of paper at you. What could it all mean?”

“I got it.” BUccky straightens up. “Holy shit, I think I know what it means.”

“What?” you ask, wonder and mystery. “What does it mean?”

“It means that my Uber’s here,” Bucky replies in the same tone and mystery. “You’re insane. I’m leaving. Bye.”

“Ugh, you’re such a loser. If I turn up dead, you’ll have been the last person to see me alive.”

“I’ll see you at home.” He shoves his hands into the pocket of his shorts before turning on his heel. 

“I do not have a home.” you say, reaching to grab the piece of paper he discarded and shoving it into your bag; 

“Okay, see you on the news, then.” He kicks the damn bottle out of the way before heading out the door. “I’ll make sure they use a real nice picture of you.”

“Bitch–” you begin, when something catches your attention

The bed creeks loudly, reflexes instantly sending him into fight or flight. 

Bucky turns to you to cuss you out again for the nth time that evening, but you’ve also got a look of confusion painted all over you. 

“Hold on,” you say strangely, voice thick with theorising, “I think I actually figured it out.”

When Jason finally makes his way back to the house two hours later, his hair is littered with stray bits of confetti and his eyes are smudged with eyeliner. He’s got a smoothie cup full of glittery red liquid and a straw, and what looks like little bits of fruit floating around in there. 

“Looks like the gig was a rager,” you comment. 

“Nah this wasn’t from the gig. I got lost,” he dismisses, and then refuses to expand further. “Anyway, you kicked his ass, right?”

You look at Bucky, who is standing with his arms crossed over his chest, bitch face on full blast as he looks pissed in the corner.

“Your uncle– he decorated this house himself, right?” you prompt. 

“Yeah.” Jason says, taking a sip from his unidentified liquid. “He got a bunch of shit custom made.” 

“Right.” You nod. “And when you came in here, did you shift the furniture around?”

“Yeah, lol, it was mad ugly,” Jason divulges, taking one large last sip before dropping his cup onto the ground. “Mine’s way better.” 

“Have you considered that maybe… your uncle doesn’t like that?” you try gently, eyes following the cup as it clatters gracefully onto the ground. 

Bucky talks to himself under his breath, the same as when you told him that the only time spooky shit had happened was when he dropped bottle caps, shifted beds out of their original places, left behind bottles and other paper. But he doesn’t contradict you. 

“I see,” Jason says. “What’s wrong with moving furniture again?”

Bucky wonders how the guy made it to this age. “Maybe he just doesn’t like you moving his shit around. Not that there’s a ghost at all.” 

“Hmm,” he says, following along. “So I stop moving the bed and other stuff, and he’ll stop being such a bitch?”

“And maybe he doesn’t like you leaving trash around the place?” you eye the cup, completely understanding where the uncle was coming from. 

“Okay,” Jason says again. 

“So you’ll stop?” you proposition slowly.

He shrugs. “Nah, I like it better this way.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky exhales.

You hold back an audible groan. 

“You could, like, punch him to get him off my back. Like, all the way off my back,” the guy suggests instead. “Like, sucks for him that he’s dead, I guess, but it’s like, my house now.”

You stay quiet and wait. 

Sure enough, the cup from earlier bumps into his leg in silent fury.

He stares down at it, giving it a kick. It rolls away before rolling right back with malice. Bucky narrows his eyes at it, too tired at this point to even complain. 

“This house is weird, man,” Jason declares after fifteen rounds of kicking it and watching it roll back. 

“Look–” you sigh. “You could just stop littering, and he’ll stop messing with your layout.”

“And take out the trash more than once a month,” Bucky adds from under his breath. 

“Life’s all about compromises. You get his house for free and he gets a clean house to spend his afterlife in.”

“No such thing,” Bucky adds.

You send a glare his way.

“I see,” Jason contemplates, as if it’s the toughest decision on earth to pick up his crushed soda cans. “Yeah, okay.”

A second later, the cup finally stops trying to assault his now pink flip flops. and comes to a standstill. 

The both of you peer at him.

“What?” he asks. 

Your gaze drifts down.

It takes a very long second for it to click.

“Oh ‘Kay,” he says, bending over to pick it up and place it back on his table, looking at you for confirmation, to which you nod. 

It stays in its place. 

“Radical,” he says. 

No one says anything further. The bed doesn’t make a noise either. The air is almost dropping with awkwardness. 

You clear your throat. “Well, that concludes it then. Pleasure meeting ya.”

“You too.” Jason gives you a thumbs up, following it with a peace sign. 

“Bye,” Bucky says curtly, turning to walk out the room.

“Oh! Here’s our business card, in case you or anyone else you–”

Bucky spins you around by your shoulders and drags you out of the room with him. 

On the way back, you sort through all the footage from the evening while Bucky drives the van back. 

Thankfully, it has been relatively quiet the entire time, except for the soft sounds of the radio and the buzz of the heater. Bucky tunes out for most of the ride, one hand on the wheel and the other propping up his head.  

“Huh,” you comment out of the blue. “That’s fun.”

“What?” he asks inattentively . 

“I guess his uncle really was hungry,” you consider. 

Bucky simply keeps quiet and waits for you to go on if you choose to.

“Piece of paper that he threw at you–”

“Piece of paper that the wind picked up,” even his entertaining of you has a limit, but he isn’t paying much attention. 

“It’s got letters on it,” you shove the sheet in front of his eyes, forcing him to swerve on the road in an instant. 

“I’m driving,” he hisses, shoving it aside swiftly. “Do you want us to die?” 

“Yeah, yeah, but look at it,” you insist, only to hold it close to his face again. “Does this mean anything to you? It did hit you across the head.”

He refuses to believe you at first, but the second he glances at it, it’s unmistakable.

‘PB&J’ written messily across the page, small letters, lines jagged like someone was struggling to write with their non-dominant hand.

“That’s nothing,” he dismisses quietly, “He’s a college kid. They live on that shit.” 

“Or maybe someone in the afterworld really misses their PB&J,” you hum. 

Bucky doesn't answer, because the alternative is worse. The alternative means something is going very, very wrong. 

 But you don't seem to pay him any heed, going right back to sorting through footage. 

It’s probably why you don’t notice that his one handed grip on the steering wheel gets tighter, and his face quietly drains of colour. 

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

to keep up with updates for this fic and others, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications!

Next part

[studiogrimm810]

Speak of the Devil

pairings/characters: sam winchester x gn!you, dean is also there

summary: you are taken by lucifer for over a week and sam damn near looses his head. when you are finally rescued, the trauma of what was inflicted on you has left it's mark and it's up to sam and dean to keep you put together

warnings: torture, ptsd, flashbacks, abduction, graphic depictions of said torture

word count: 4,571

A/N: soooo, i had this idea come to me in a dream but also i'm just obsessed with trauma bonding lolol,,i've realized that this idea is too complex (and comforting) to just do once/one part so i think i'm going maybe work on a part 2 or maybe even a part 3 (eventually) for this one as well...okay, thats all, thanks for reading my rambles!!! <3

———————

The nights were the hardest for Sam, everything so still, calm, settled- it made him itch. He ached for you, but there was only so much he could do.

Dean was in auto-pilot, trying his damnedest to get any info on your whereabouts but he always came up short.

All either of them knew was that Lucifer had you and that was enough to make Sam sick to his core. He knew damn-well what the devil was capable of, he spent over a century learning of just that, so to think of the person he loved succumbed to even a fraction of that made him irrational.

It has now been over a week since you were taken and the boys are finally following up on their most helpful lead at the moment, pulling up to an empty hospital in a desolate neighborhood of Denver.

The building was a classically looking rundown hospital- windows shattered, paint chipped, doors broken in. The sight made Sam’s skin crawl. Usually, he wouldn’t be so affected by the sight of an eerie building but to think this is where you’ve been all this time rots his insides.

Sam takes the lead on this one, wasting no time to break through the front doors and let his eyes scan through the halls. Dean doesn’t say a word as he just lets his little brother storm the halls. He does make sure to be extra vigilant, hoping to catch anything Sam might miss on accident.

They make their way through halls and up staircases, ducking into every room for any hint of you.

The maze of halls inevitably makes Sam’s internal compass spin haphazardly as he starts to lose his placing. Standing at the end of one hallway that spans out into two new hallways, he’s frozen. Dean almost bumps into him as Sam stands still, his hands shaking but body stiff.

“Sammy?” Dean tests, trying to peek around him to get a read on Sam’s face. “Hey,” he calls more sternly this time, placing a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder to spin him towards Dean. “Talk to me.”

Sam turns to face his brother, his features melted into complete helplessness and loss.

Dean knows this look all too well.

His baby brother needs him.

“I don’t know where to go- I don’t-,” Sam shakes his head, his glossy eyes darting between Dean’s own. Dean’s features remain stiff as he takes in his brother's pain, clenching his jaw.

“They’re here, they have to be, and we’ll find them,” Dean states, commanding it to be true. Sam’s heartbreaking contort of painful fear makes Dean’s fury build, to think that not only did someone mess with you, but also his baby brother. It was enough to fuel out just enough confidence to not break down for Sam. “C’mon, pull yourself together,” Dean barks after a reassuring squeeze to Sam’s shoulder, his support being physical and not vocal.

Dean now takes the lead, choosing to go to the right. Sam follows close behind, his breaths so shallow that he doesn’t think his lungs are getting the proper amount of oxygen, but it doesn't seem to matter to him right now.

Another series of halls and rooms digs a deeper pit of dread between the brothers, but Dean refuses to quit for his brother.

They make their way to a staircase that leads to the top and final floor of the building. This has to be it.

Dean sneaks up the stairs carefully, looking up the hall to see a beam of light coming from a room on the far end. Dean turns his head to look down the other side to see nothing out of the ordinary. He quietly steps into the hall and motions for Sam to follow and stay quiet and close to the wall.

When Sam sees the beam of cool light his stomach flips with hope. He could almost feel that it was you in that room.

Halfway there, the brothers hear voices and Dean immediately signals for them to stop.

“He’ll kill ya, I’m tellin’ ya,” a masculine voice warned, which was followed by a more feminine groan of annoyance.

“He would never notice,” the second voice counters, seemingly as a whine.

“Just shut up,” the first voice sounds completely annoyed and down with their partner.

Dean inches closer, step by step, until he reaches the doorway and leans in just enough to see two figures that the voices are coming from. One is sitting in a chair in the far right corner and the other is standing next to a bed while fiddling with a small dagger.

That’s when Dean sees you.

You’re neatly tucked into the bed, a clean and tidy hospital bed with icy white sheets draped over most of your body. Your arms are laid out on top of the blanket, one having a drip of some liquid stuck in your arm. Your face is completely peaceful and devoid from any discomfort.

Dean presses back into the wall and looks at Sam, giving him a curt nod and signaling to get ready. Once Dean gets out his demon blade, he checks to make sure Sam is ready and then he attacks. Storming in and grabbing the farther guard, pressing the blade to its throat and scowling up at him.

“Why did you take them? Who are you!?” Dean roars, keeping his face a stone of anger as he seethes. The man with the masculine voice under Dean’s hold just scoffs with a cocky smile.

“I’m just workin’ a job, bitch means nothin’ ta’ me,” he licks his teeth, sizing up Dean.

“Who do you work for?” Dean emphasized with a mocking sneer. Both him and Sam needed confirmation that it was actually Lucifer who took you.

“I’m not at service to tell,” the man exaggerates with a sarcastically snooty eyebrow raise, trying to sound smart and ‘proper’.

“Too fuckin’ bad,” Dean wastes not time stabbing the man deep through his chest and watching as the skeleton underneath flickers like an electric surge of burnt orange and yellow.

Sam is quick to pin the demon he has to his chest so that Dean has a clean shot to her chest as well, killing her in the same fashion.

The body’s slumped to the ground with smoke rolling out of their mouths and eyes as their corpses are now just an empty shell. Neither brother cares to give a second glance since you’re still hooked up to some IV drip and completely unconscious.

“Hey, hey,” Sam coos, gently cupping your face in his hands, already shedding a few free tears. “C’mon, baby, can you hear me?” Dean grabs the bag to examine it but can only tell that it’s a clear liquid with no labels or indicator. Dean reaches down and carefully pulls the needle out of your arm and presses a piece of the blanket underneath you to the small bead of blood that follows.

The most bizzare thing about this whole setup is the lack of physical evidence of anyone hurting you. The only blemish they could see was the small bruise that surrounded the mark of the needle that Dean just removed. Both of them thought that after you had been gone for so long you’d at least be somewhat damaged, but why would someone take you just to keep you asleep in some abandoned hospital?

What was the purpose?

Somehow this was more terrifying to Dean.

Sam still hadn’t really taken the time to look you over or assess your situation, he was too busy with trying to wake you up.

“Sammy, they’ve been drugged, they’re not gonna wake up just yet,” Dean said softly, realizing Sam needs this moment, “we need to get them out of here.”

Sam sniffles and nods softly, not taking his eyes away from your closed lids.

“Can you carry, ‘em?” Dean asks, looking over his shoulder to make sure they’re still alone.

“Yeah,” Sam’s voice comes out hoarse, his shoulders burdened with worry and ache deep in his chest.

“C’mon,” Dean urges, turning to keep a lookout while Sam gets you situated. Thankfully, you’re fully clothed underneath but Dean avoids you both to preserve your privacy.

As Sam peels back the blanket he’s especially relieved that you’re still in the same clothes he last saw you in, somehow you looked even neater though. The shirt you wore had always had a small tear at the bottom hem but you refused to stop wearing it- now that tear was gone. So were the scuff marks on the knees of your jeans and even your hair looks silkier than usual.

He tries to push away any reasoning of why you seemed pristine.

He instead scoops you up and tucks you close to his chest the best he can, placing a soft kiss to your forehead and following Dean out. He murmurs soft reassurances and praises to you even if he knows that you can’t hear him, he still hopes that you can.

“You’re okay now, I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he kisses you again, keeping his eyes ahead of him and darting around to make sure there are no immediate threats to you.

Sam doesn’t let go of you even when they get to the Impala, even when he and Dean settle on making it a straight shot back to the bunker. Sam doesn’t care if he gets uncomfortable or too stiff because he cannot let go of you, even if he wanted to.

He settled in the car to still have you placed in his lap, arm still cradling your back and other drapes over your legs, holding you close and keeping you secure.

Dean steals glances back at his brother, Sam has barely looked up from you. Occasionally, a few tears fall and Sam will start sniffling, but then it fizzles out until he’s completely silent again.

Hours of driving and you’re still not even responsive and that continues to make Sam sick but he shoves those feelings down because he has to focus on getting you back in your bed at the bunker.

That’s his next step, getting you set back up in your own bed.

That’s all that matters right now.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he’ll always remember the way that Dean beckons him awake- his voice softer than Sam has ever heard him before.

And that makes him feel a little worse, if he’s being honest.

Sam settles you back up in his arms and cradles your stiff body out of the Impala. He blindly follows Dean, now keeping his eyes down on you, silently praying that you’ll just wake up already.

Once he gets you completely settled in yours and his shared bed, an overwhelming sense of dread washes over him.

“Please, baby,” his words interrupted by a stifled sob and he reaches a hand up to cover his mouth, “just wake up,” he begs softly, pushing some hair out of your face and running his thumb over your cheekbone.

He would wait by your side until you finally did just that.

———

White hot. A rod of white hot pierced your stomach for what felt like the hundredth time. It twisted, wrapping your intestines up like a fork in spaghetti. You scream out in pure agony, your eyes lolling open to look down at the rusted pipe that’s lodged in your abdomen. You cry out, biting your lip and sobbing at the sight of your blood dripping out of the end of the hollow cylinder.

Your stomach looked like a pile of ground meat, flooded with blood and singed skin, the stench flaring your nostrils.

You see a hand wrapped around the exposed end and you follow it up to see burning red eyes staring back at you with a hungry smile.

Lucifer himself had subjected you to his torture for what felt like weeks and you were starting to give up any hope at being rescued.

He pulls out the pipe and flicks your blood off the pipe with a laugh that ripples up your spine like clawing bites. He spins his other wrist and just like that the pain is gone- your stomach completely patched over with fresh, unharmed skin.

He pulls back the pipe to hover it over an open flame and then he moves it to leave rings of burns along your exposed skin.

The pain- it’s too much, it’s too much.

You tug against your chains, hoping it’ll just come loose and unravel you out of this nightmare.

As you look back into the Devil's eyes, everything seemed to fade around the glowing red, like a light at the end of a tunnel. The eyes merge into one beam and they slowly dissolve into bright white.

The sounds of his laughter echo and the hold of the chains wrapped around you loosens.

You feel heavier.

You feel… awake.

Your head is strictly iron weight, keeping your body pressed into the soft cushion beneath you.

Soft.

It’s actually soft and you could cry.

Warm.

Oh, it’s warm too. Your fingers instinctively curl into the sheets under you, holding on tight so that you don’t float away from this sliver of paradise that Lucifer has seemed to slip you in.

You refused to question his methods because the peace you felt- no, the bliss was definitely something you’d take advantage of.

You hear your name being called and the sound spikes you out of your trance and sends your heart out of your chest.

There’s some rustling sounds and your name is called again and you feel absolutely hopeless. You can’t go back, please- please. You just got here, you just started to feel okay.

A large hand cups your face and you snap your head away with a sharp inhale, pushing past the heavy weight in your bones and letting your adrenaline surge your movement.

“Woah- hey, okay,” the voice says softly but you don’t even entertain it with patience. You get your eyes open and look around the room quickly. Upon realizing your hands are free from chains, you sit up and hold them to your chest, wrapping your wrists with your own fingers to bind them protectively. Your hair falls in front of your eyes and you refuse to move your hands away from where they feel safe so instead you try to flick away the stands so that you can see.

Your heart is racing and ears ringing, disorienting you further. You barely recognize the eyes staring you down- Sam?

Your chest heaves with frantic breaths as you stare up at him, back pressed to the bed frame behind you. You look around and see that you’re in your room at the bunker.

What? Is this real?

Sam freezes at your reaction, holding his hands out trying to reassure you that he’s not a threat.

“H-hey, it’s okay, you’re okay,” Sam nods, keeping his eyes glued to yours. You make no effort to move, this all just feels wrong.

You look around the room to find you’re both alone. Where’s Dean? If this were real, wouldn’t he be here too?

The door creaks open.

Speak of the… too soon.

Dean's head peeks in to check on Sam but he becomes fully alert when seeing the urgency of Sam’s stance.

“You’re awake,” Dean breathes out relieved, wanting to progress further and hug you but as he takes one step too close your back presses further into the wall behind you with a small whimper.

Your whimper cracks away at Sam’s chest.

“What-?” Dean starts to say but he can’t finish the thought.

“Honey, it’s just us, we’re not gonna hurt you,” Sam shakes his head, letting his eyes look over you for any signs of physical distress.

You swallow thickly as you look between them, a lump building in your throat as you try to choke back a sob. You continue to look around, unable to comprehend where you just woke up from, was it all just a dream?

“A-Am I dreaming?,” you breathe out, your voice unsteady and wavering. Sam and Dean share a quick glance but Sam returns back to you with a frim shake of his head.

“No, sweetheart, you’re awake, this is real,” Sam assures, tilting his head down to keep his eyes level with your unsure ones.

“Awake?” You echo, letting your eyes flick down a bit as you try to gather your thoughts. You look back up at him.

Him.

“S-Sam-.”

“Yeah, baby, it’s me,” he nods, wanting to inch further but too afraid that he’s going to scare you further, but the way you break down- slumping against the wall- he can’t help himself. He reaches out for you and wraps his arms around you, pulling you in close.

You unhook your binding hold on your own wrists to wrap around his neck. He just lets you cry as he rubs a free hand up your back.

“You’re okay, sweetheart, you’re okay,” he murmurs into your ear. You pull away to look at him again and let out another sob- this one of pure relief. You smile up at him, barely believing this is real but know that deep down it really is.

“Sam,” you exhale, holding his face in your hands so you can really feel him. “H-how did you find me? Where even was I?” You question, wanting to know why the transition from Lucifer’s torture to this felt like waking up from a bad bad dream. 

“Denver, we found you in Denver,” Sam explained, smoothing down some of your hair and appreciating your waking form with every flicker of his senses. “You were kept in some room and had been given medication to keep you asleep, I don’t know how long you’ve been out but we found you almost 20 hours ago,” Sam’s face saddened at the memories but forced those away to focus on how you’re right in front of him now.

“What? I’ve been here for almost a day?” You ask, brow pinched in confusion. Sam nodded.

It didn’t make any sense, you JUST saw Lucifer.

“What about… Lucifer.?” You ask, almost whispering, “where is he?” You asked, starting to feel on edge. You push away from Sam enough to look behind you and all around.

“Woah- okay, you’re safe. Lucifer isn’t here,” Sam says, startled by your sudden shift.

“N-no, he’s here- he has to be,” you stutter, your hands starting to shake and you instinctively bind your wrists to your palms again.

Sam swallows but keeps a firm hold on you, his own past trauma bubbling back up from its hidden pot that he keeps stashed miles away from his regular train of thought. His mind raced through the thousands of scenarios that the Devil put him through and to think of you experiencing just one of them made his heart ache.

“Hey, no one but us is in this bunker,” Dean steps in, trying to be the face of reason for the two under his care.

“What happened?” Sam asked, not acknowledging Dean but just wanting to hear from you. You look up at him, trying to organize your thoughts.

“No,” you shook your head, backed away and rubbed your forehead with your hands, “No, he- I just saw him, he has to be here-.”

“Honey, I promise you that you’ve been here for almost a day and no one else has come through. It’s just us,” Sam explains, his hands on your thighs as he tries to continue to assure you that you’re safe.

“But I just saw him,” you whisper as if you can’t believe it, your eyes drift as you try to shuffle through your thoughts and memories of the past few weeks.

“You’re okay, I promise,” Sam says, keeping his eyes locked on you, “Are you hungry? Thirsty?” At the mention of food, your stomach growls.

You nod softly and Dean offers to get some food for you three, hoping that giving you two some privacy will help calm you down a bit.

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam nods at his brother, simply sparing him a momentary glance so that he can keep his focus on you. After Dean leaves, closing the door behind him, Sam asks you another question, “what happened during that week?”

Your confusion is evident as you bring your eyes back up to his, “week? Have I been gone only a week?”

“Yeah, well 9 days technically, but we found you without a scratch,” Sam explained. You could see the dormant fear of what the hell happened to you during that time, “the way we found you was as if you were being preserved.”

You shake your head, not completely understanding.

“No, Sam, he’s been torturing me- constantly,” your words tremble and you continue to rub your own wrists to keep yourself grounded. “H-he would hurt me and hurt me until he needed to erase it all to start over again, h-he wouldn’t stop,” you shake your head, your words spewing out like a fire hydrant cracked open by the ram truck of emotions that went at it full force, “a-and it was weeks, Sam, it felt like weeks and he wouldn’t stop,” you choke out, rubbing your wrists raw.

Sam doesn’t know what to say but he’s worried about the burn you’re giving yourself on your wrists so he reaches out to gently hold your forearms, hoping to separate your hands.

“Y-you’re okay, now, baby, you’re safe,” Sam tries to keep his composure, trying to be strong for you.

“Sa-Sam, the things he-,” you couldn’t even get the words out but Sam practically read your mind. He quickly pulled you into a tight hug, keeping his arms around you protectively. His insides tremble with a whirlpool of fear, regret, trauma, pain, love, and god- so much more that he can’t even focus on right now. But his bones refuse to let him shake, keeping a sturdy hold on the love of his life and hoping that it offers some sense of security or comfort.

“I know, baby, I know,” he spans his hands out as wide as he can to cover every possible inch of your back. “You’re okay, he’s not here anymore, you’re safe,” he lets his palm run up and down the top of your back, right over your spine, and usually this would calm you but once he got too close the nape of your neck you recoiled away, tensing up and refusing to let his hand meet the skin.

He has to force bile back down his throat because he immediately knows why you had that reaction. Something that Lucifer would do to Sam in the pit was grabbing the back of his neck and piercing the scruff to a hook in the cage. Lucifer would often tease the method by tickling up Sam’s neck and digging his nails into the skin, just the thought makes Sam dizzy again. Has Lucifer done the same to you? Sam thinks, forcing his hand back down the span of your back to hold the spots where he only felt safe being touched after his time with Lucifer.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your head. You continue to shake in his arms, trying to piece together why you and Sam have different explanations for your time missing.

You both stay like this for a while, Sam not wanting to let go and you not wanting him to. You end up tangled together on the bed in a peaceful silence. You really didn’t want to talk about what happened or really even think about why or how it did. You were more than content to be in Sam’s arms again, pressed to his chest.

The sound of the bunker door opening made you flinch, worried that it could be anyone or anything. Sam’s hold on you tightens softly, letting his fingers grip your hip a bit deeper.

“It’s okay, honey, it’s just Dean back with the food,” Sam's voice low and sweet. “Let’s go eat, hmm?” He pulls back his head to look at you better. You’re hesitant to leave the safety of your room but you’re crazy hungry so you nod and sit up. Sam keeps his eyes on you as you push up and go to stand. He feels like he needs to constantly keep an eye on you, afraid of what will trigger you out of nowhere.

The two of you meet Dean in the kitchen, Sam keeping his hand on your lower back to guide you through the halls of the bunker.

“Got you a bacon burger with all its greasy goodness,” Dean smiles, hoping his attitude can help lighten up the tension a bit. The small smile that blesses your lips rewards him of that.

Sam pulls out a chair for you, the side of the table that is closest to the corner of the room so you don’t have too much free space behind you.

Despite the hunger gnawing at your gut, you can only pick at your food. You eat a few fries and tear off pieces of your burger. Sam worries when he sees this, but he understands how difficult it must be for you right now so he doesn’t comment on it.

Dean has just polished off his food and Sam made it halfway through his before calling it quits but you’ve barely made much of a dent. Dean gives Sam a silent question, asking if they need to discuss anything now or if it should wait. Sam doesn’t honestly know, but due to how tired you already seem he thinks he’ll just help you to bed and talk with Dean later. That way they can come up with a course of action and recovery for you.

“Are you tired, honey?” Sam asks after wiping his hands with his napkin and setting everything aside. You nod, pulling your eyes up from where they’ve been planted to your plate while you ate. Your eyes plan to go to him but they land on a messy figure across the room with glowing red eyes and that same awful smile that’s burned into the backs of your eyelids. You jump back, your chair scraping the tile on its way to the wall behind you, you take a quick gasp of air and your fear fuels hot tears to your eyes.

Dean instantly looks back to where your eyes lead and so does Sam, standing to guard you from whatever threat it is you see, but they only see the far end of the kitchen where the stove clock flashes the time and nothing seems out of the ordinary. Sam snaps back to you to see you frozen in fear.

“Baby? What is it?” He asks, crouching down to your level and reaching out for your hands.

“H-he’s here, it’s him,” you stutter, gripping your wrists tightly again. Sam looks back out into the room to see absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

“Who? Honey, there’s no one there,” Sam shakes his head, scanning over your face for any hint of what’s going on.

No, that can’t be right. You see him. You can actually see him. You drag your shaken eyes to look up over at Sam, mouth slightly agape and tears dripping down your cheeks, “y-you can’t see him?”

———————

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>pictures are not my own, i have the originals linked here (pinterest) >>check out my other works here

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

The Witch's Bodyguard

(2) I hide and cower in the corner, conversations getting hard

Actress!Wanda Maximoff x Bodygaurd!Fem!Reader

Summary: Wanda has to do an interview and is a little anxious about it

Word Count: 1.5K

Warnings: None this is just a set up and establish chapter

A/N: I'm so glad you're all looking forward to this series!

Taglist: @dorabledewdroop @rroyale-109 @wandanat01 @scarlizziee @nixxnsworld

@snoozingredpanda @wandamaximoff-simp @mrsromanovaa @sweet--escape17

@natashamaximoff-69

Your fist collided with the sand filled bag, stopping it dead in its tracks. Breathing hot and heavy after a two hour workout. You grabbed for your towel, sitting down to wipe away the sweat from your face as the feeling of a cold water bottle hit the side of your neck.

“I heard you finishing up so I figured I'd bring some water.” You hear Wanda say from behind you. Your tumbler is forgotten beside you as you take the bottle from her. You'd been here only a week, but Wanda quickly learned you're a creature of habit. The early wake up time, workouts that lasted the same amount each day. She was taking notice of the little things.

“Thank you. We have to go out for that interview soon, right?” You ask as you receive a nod. Your eyes flicked down to her hands. Her fingers fidgeting with the rings on her other hand. You could tell she was nervous, but it wasn't your place to say anything so you simply stand up. “I'll be ready in 10. Is Bucky ready?” Your voice is firm, commanding, but devoid of any unnecessary inflection. Bucky's reliability is another aspect of your job that you've come to depend on. Wanda simply nods as the two of you leave the at-home gym.

You head back to your room in the house, taking a quick five minute shower before dressing in your army pants, boots, and a plain white top. You also put on your bulletproof vest and holster your pistol.

As you swiftly gear up, the weight of the bulletproof vest is a familiar comfort against your chest. You've worn it through countless missions, and now it's become a staple of your attire as Wanda Maximoff's bodyguard. The pistol snug in its holster feels like an extension of your body, a tool of protection that you've trained with extensively.

Exiting your room, you find Wanda pacing in the living room, her nervous energy palpable. Bucky stands nearby, his posture relaxed but alert, a testament to his own years of military training.

"Ready to go when you are Ma’am," you state, your voice steady and authoritative. Wanda nods, her eyes briefly meeting yours before she gathers herself. She's still adjusting to having a constant shadow, someone who anticipates her needs before she even realizes them. You can sense her wariness, the uncertainty lingering beneath her composed façade.

As you escort Wanda to the awaiting vehicle you place your hand on the small of her back. A small gesture to reassure her that you’re here. You keep a vigilant watch on your surroundings. Every passerby is a potential threat, every noise scrutinized for signs of danger. It's second nature to you, this constant state of alertness, but you can see how it unnerves Wanda, the way she glances around nervously.

During the drive to the interview location, Wanda remains quiet, lost in her own thoughts. You respect her need for space, allowing her the silence she seeks while remaining vigilant for any potential threats. Bucky engages in small talk, attempting to lighten the mood, but you remain stoic, your focus solely on the task at hand.

Arriving at the interview venue, you scan the area, assessing the security measures in place. Satisfied with your observations, you usher Wanda inside, your presence a silent reassurance amidst the chaos of flashing cameras and eager reporters. Your hand once again finding it’s place on the small of her back.

Throughout the interview, you remain at the perimeter, a silent sentinel watching over Wanda's every move. You catch the subtle shifts in her demeanor, the way she navigates the questions. To most people she probably looked normal, but to you it was obvious she was anxious as she waited for questions to come her way with her other coworkers. She fidgeted with her rings again as she looked over the crowd. When she catches your eye you can fully see the panic and you do something that surprises you both. You make a silly face and she starts smiling with her brows furrowed. So you make another and get a chuckle out of her. It made you happy to be able to ease her tensions.

As the interview draws to a close, you guide Wanda and Bucky back to the vehicle. Once safely inside, you exhale a silent breath of relief, the tension slowly dissipating from your shoulders. You looked over at Wanda you also seemed to be much more relaxed now that it was over.

======

You sit in the dim glow of the fire, the crackling flames casting dancing shadows across the room. The warmth seeps into your bones, a comforting embrace after the long day's work. With a book in hand, you delve into its pages, immersing yourself in a world far removed from the reality of your duties.

The rhythmic tapping of keys fills the room as Wanda works diligently on her laptop, her focus unwavering. You steal a glance at her from time to time, noting the furrow of her brow as she concentrates. There's a sense of determination about her, a drive to excel in everything she does.

The silence between you is companionable, each lost in your own thoughts yet connected by the shared space. It's a rare moment of tranquility amidst the chaos of your lives, a chance to simply be without the weight of the world pressing down upon you.

As the night stretches on, the fire burns lower, casting elongated shadows that dance along the walls. You reach for your cup of tea, the warmth seeping into your hands as you take a sip. The aroma of chamomile fills the air, soothing and calming.

Eventually, Wanda closes her laptop, the soft click of the lid echoing in the quiet room. She stretches, a contented sigh escaping her lips as she settles back into her chair. You close your book, marking your place with a gentle touch before setting it aside.

"Long day," Wanda remarks, her voice breaking the silence. You nod in agreement, the events of the day still fresh in your mind. Despite the challenges, you feel a sense of accomplishment, knowing that you've kept her safe once again.

"But a good day," you reply, your voice low yet filled with assurance. Wanda meets your gaze, a hint of gratitude shining in her eyes. In that moment, you realize that despite the differences between you, there's a mutual respect that binds you together. "Time for bed?" You ask, but Wanda shakes her head, making you raise an eyebrow.

"A little longer." Her voice is soft. "Just want to relax without work for a bit. Let my mind shut off." She looked at you, eyes looking so tired. Like she could fall asleep in her chair as she curled up her legs and rested her chin on her hand to look over at the fire.

You let her be, picking your book back up to read a little more. It was only a few minutes until you heard her breathing even out, looking up from your book to find her asleep. A small smile on your face. This seemed to be a thing. Half of the week Wanda was falling asleep somewhere other than her bed and you'd have to take her to bed.

You lift Wanda effortlessly, her slight frame feeling feather-light in your arms. She stirs slightly as you gather her, her grip tightening instinctively as she nestles closer to you. Her warmth seeps into your skin, a comforting presence amidst the quiet of the night.

As you ascend the stairs to her room, you navigate with ease, your steps sure and steady. Wanda's soft breaths tickle the nape of your neck, a gentle reminder of her vulnerability in this moment of repose.

Reaching her bedroom door, you push it open with a gentle nudge, the soft click echoing in the stillness of the night. The room is bathed in moonlight, casting a silvery glow upon the familiar surroundings.

Carefully, you lower Wanda onto her bed, tucking the covers around her with a tender touch. She sighs contentedly, her features relaxed in sleep. For a moment, you simply watch her, the moonlight casting shadows across her peaceful face.

With a sigh, you turn away, leaving her to her dreams. It's become a routine, this silent vigil over her rest, a duty you've come to embrace with quiet determination.

Exiting her room, you pause in the hallway, your gaze lingering on the closed door. In the stillness of the night, you can't help but feel a sense of protectiveness wash over you, a silent vow to always keep her safe.

With one last glance, you continue down the hallway, the echo of her soft breathing lingering in your mind. As you settle into your own room, you can't help but reflect on the complexities of your role as her protector, the unspoken bond that binds you together even in the darkest of hours.

And as sleep finally claims you, you find solace in the knowledge that for tonight, at least, she rests easy under your watchful gaze.

[callsigns-haze]

His Shadow: Chp 8

masterlist part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7

Azriel, secretly juggling his responsibilities and personal life, maintains a hidden relationship with YN, who works at a pleasure house in the Hewn City. She was his light, his love, his passion. Yet being his darkest secret is a hard role because life in the Hewn as a young female isn't the easiest as the two of you hold an even dark secret yet to be told...

Pairing: Azriel x reader

This series contains mature themes: Explicit depictions of violence, including physical and emotional. Themes of secrecy. Descriptions of difficult relationships, including strained familial and romantic dynamics. Mature sexual content. Themes of power, control, and manipulation within complex interpersonal relationships. Discussions of parenthood and the challenges associated with it, including postpartum experiences

For the next few days, Azriel didn’t leave YN’s side. He sat vigil in the quiet room at the River House, his eyes constantly watching over her, his heart heavy with worry. Her chest rose and fell softly, her face pale but peaceful in sleep. Her once-strong frame seemed so fragile now, broken ribs bandaged beneath the blankets, a splint wrapped around her sprained wrist.

Madja had been diligent in her care, informing him of her injuries: a mild concussion that would keep her in a daze even after she woke, fractured ribs that would need time to heal, and a strained wrist from where she had fought off the men. But it was her voice—or the lack of it—that weighed on him the most. The brutal strangulation had damaged her vocal cords, and Madja warned him that when she finally did wake, it would take several days before she could speak again.

Azriel’s heart clenched at the thought of YN not being able to voice her pain or fear. The memory of her being strangled on the floor, fighting for her life while Knox remained hidden, haunted him endlessly. He’d seen so much in his long life, witnessed horrors and fought battles, but the sight of her so close to death shook him like nothing else ever had.

Madja had been kind enough to offer healing spells to speed her recovery, but Azriel insisted on being there for everything. Every time she adjusted the bandages on YN’s ribs, every time she checked her breathing or felt for swelling, Azriel stood close by, offering silent support.

On the third night, Madja stopped by with her usual clinical efficiency, though her expression was more sympathetic than usual. "Her body is recovering well," she told him softly, taking his stoic silence as permission to continue. "The concussion is minor, and the ribs, while painful, will heal with time. But her voice... it may take several days for her to speak again. The trauma to her throat was extensive. She’ll need time."

Azriel nodded, his jaw tight. He’d been expecting it, but hearing it aloud made it all the more real. “I understand,” he murmured, his voice hoarse from lack of sleep and constant worry. He reached out to smooth a hand over YN’s hair, careful not to disturb the splint on her wrist. “I’ll be here when she wakes.”

Madja gave a small nod and left the room quietly, leaving him alone with her again.

Azriel looked down at YN, his chest tightening at the sight of her bruised throat, the faint purple marks still visible beneath the bandages. He wanted nothing more than to hold her, to tell her she was safe now, that he would never let anything happen to her again. But for now, all he could do was wait.

Knox, who had been in the care of Feyre and Mor during these long days, was brought to visit often, and each time Azriel held him, it grounded him in a way nothing else could. Knox’s small, innocent presence was a reminder of why they fought so hard, why they endured so much.

In the dim light of the room, Azriel kept vigil, his shadows swirling around him in a protective haze as he watched over his mate and his son, determined to stay until YN opened her eyes again and could feel the safety of his presence once more.

---

Azriel sat in the corner of the room, Knox cradled in his arms, the baby squirming slightly as he rocked him. His expression was tense, jaw clenched, as he waited for Rhys and Cassian to speak. He already knew what was coming—the questions, the confusion. They’d finally figured out what he had kept from them all this time.

Rhys broke the silence first, his voice calm but direct. "We need to talk about YN."

Azriel didn’t look up. He kept his gaze on his son, knowing there was no more avoiding it. “What about her?”

Cassian leaned forward, frowning. “We know she’s got a deal with Kier. A bargain.”

Azriel’s grip tightened slightly on Knox, but he kept his expression neutral. “Yeah.”

Cassian shot him a sharp look. “And you knew? How long?”

Azriel sighed. "A while."

Rhys crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t think to tell us? You’ve been hiding this from us the entire time?”

“It wasn’t my secret to tell,” Azriel said coldly, meeting Rhys’s gaze now. "And it’s more complicated than you think."

Cassian scoffed. "Complicated how? She’s tied to Kier’s pleasure house. Why?"

Azriel shifted Knox in his arms, trying to stay calm. "It started when she was seventeen. Her best friend killed someone in self-defense. The Hewn City is split between the elite and the ones trying to survive. YN was part of the latter. Her family had nothing."

Rhys’s expression tightened. He remained silent, waiting for Azriel to continue.

"Kier stepped in," Azriel said, his voice clipped. "He gave them protection, kept them from being dragged into a trial or worse. But there was a price. He granted YN an education, helped her family. And when she came of age, he bound her to the pleasure house."

Cassian cursed under his breath, disgust clear on his face. “That bastard.”

Azriel nodded, his jaw tight. “She’s stuck. She doesn’t want to be there, but Kier holds the power. If I push too hard, he’ll make her life hell.”

Rhys leaned back in his chair, his expression hard. “And you’ve been dealing with this alone? Not telling us?”

Azriel’s tone was sharp. “I didn’t have a choice. If Kier knew I was involved, he’d use it against her. He’s waiting for an excuse to tighten his grip on her.”

Cassian ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “We could’ve helped.”

“She didn’t want help,” Azriel said firmly. “She didn’t want to be seen as weak. And if you had known, Kier would’ve caught wind of it. He’s not stupid.”

Rhys crossed his arms, tension rolling off him. “So, what now? You’re just going to keep letting her work there while Kier pulls the strings?”

Azriel’s eyes flashed. “I’m working on it. But if I make a move, it has to be calculated. Otherwise, he’ll ruin everything.”

Rhys sighed, rubbing his temples. “We need a plan. Kier can’t keep his hold on her forever.”

Cassian’s voice was gruff but sympathetic. “We’ll figure this out. But next time, don’t shut us out, Az.”

Azriel didn’t respond, his focus returning to Knox as he rocked the baby slowly, his mind already churning with thoughts of how to protect them both.

Rhys and Cassian exchanged a look, understanding the gravity of the situation, but knowing they had no choice but to trust Azriel’s instincts—for now.

---

The room was bathed in soft, dim light as YN slowly stirred, her eyelids fluttering. Her body felt heavy, weighed down by the pain radiating from her ribs and the dull ache in her throat. Every breath was labored, shallow, as if the air itself was too thick to pull in. Her eyes finally opened, the world blurry for a moment before the room came into focus.

Azriel was there, sitting in the chair beside the bed, his dark eyes trained on her with an intensity that was almost overwhelming. He had been waiting for this, for her to open her eyes, for the confirmation that she was still with him. The second he saw movement, his breath hitched, and he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clenched together as if bracing himself.

“YN…” he whispered, voice cracking slightly, the relief in his tone palpable. He looked exhausted, dark shadows under his eyes and tension radiating from every muscle, but his expression softened the moment she focused on him.

She tried to speak, tried to form words, but nothing came out. Her throat felt raw, burning with the effort. Panic flashed in her eyes, her lips parting again, but all she managed was a faint rasp, her voice entirely gone.

Azriel was at her side in an instant, his hand gently cupping her face. “Shh, don’t try to talk. It’s okay,” he murmured, his thumb brushing her cheek tenderly. His touch was warm, grounding her in the moment, anchoring her as the panic began to subside. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m here.”

Her gaze met his, and in that silent exchange, a thousand emotions passed between them—fear, relief, sorrow, love. She lifted her hand slowly, the movement weak and shaky, and placed it over his. The gesture was small, but it said everything she couldn’t.

Azriel’s jaw clenched as he fought to hold back the flood of emotions. Seeing her like this—so fragile, so hurt—it tore at him in ways he couldn’t describe. He had been terrified, truly terrified that she wouldn’t wake up, that she’d slip away before he could even hold her again. Now, with her fingers weakly gripping his, it took every ounce of control not to break down right there.

“You’re safe,” he whispered, leaning closer, his forehead gently pressing against hers. “I’ve got you. I won’t let anything happen to you. Ever.”

Her eyes welled up with tears, but she couldn’t cry, not fully. The tightness in her throat, the pain in her chest, wouldn’t allow it. But the emotion was there, heavy and unspoken between them. She blinked, the tears slipping down her cheeks, and Azriel wiped them away gently, his thumb moving across her skin with the lightest of touches.

For a long moment, they stayed like that—Azriel’s forehead resting against hers, his fingers brushing her cheek, his other hand gripping hers tightly as if letting go would mean losing her all over again.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were glassy, his voice softer. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that?” He tried for a smile, but it faltered. “Don’t ever do that again.”

She managed a faint nod, her chest rising and falling with labored breaths. She wanted to tell him everything—that she was okay, that she didn’t blame him, that she was so damn grateful to have him there. But the words wouldn’t come, and all she could do was squeeze his hand in response.

Azriel’s eyes flickered to the bruises on her neck, and his expression darkened. He wanted to kill the men who had done this to her, wanted to rip them apart piece by piece. But right now, all that mattered was her—keeping her safe, keeping her close.

“Rest,” he whispered, brushing a kiss against her forehead. “I’ll be right here when you wake up again. I’m not going anywhere.”

He settled back into his chair, his hand never leaving hers, watching her as her eyes slowly fluttered shut again. Even in sleep, her face was tight with pain, her body too still, too fragile. Azriel watched her for a long time, every protective instinct roaring within him, and made a silent vow to never let anything like this happen again.

She had fought for her life, and now, it was his turn to fight for hers.

---

Two weeks had passed, and YN had begun to feel like herself again, at least physically. Her voice, once stolen by the brutal attack, had gradually returned—soft and weak at first, but stronger with each passing day. Azriel, however, had been relentless in his overprotectiveness. He had insisted that she remain in Velaris, far away from the dangers of the Hewn City, and had forced Madja to write an official medical letter to her employer, explaining that she was unfit for work for an extended period. He had even gone as far as delivering the letter himself, leaving no room for argument.

Now, YN sat on the balcony of their guest quarters in Velaris, the warmth of the afternoon sun bathing her in golden light. The balcony overlooked a peaceful garden, filled with vibrant flowers swaying gently in the breeze. She cradled Knox in her arms, the baby’s tiny body relaxed against her as she cooed and tickled him lightly under his chin. His sweet giggles filled the air, his small Illyrian wings fluttering ever so slightly in his excitement.

"Shh," she whispered with a soft smile, trying to soothe him back to sleep. “Come on, little one, it’s nap time.” Knox’s bright, curious eyes blinked up at her before slowly starting to droop, his body going limp as he fell into that peaceful baby slumber. YN continued to rock him gently, her fingers brushing through his dark hair, and she let out a contented sigh.

As she focused on the baby in her arms, she didn’t notice Azriel slipping quietly out onto the balcony behind her. His steps were silent, a skill he had perfected over centuries, and he took a moment to simply admire the scene before him. YN, looking healthier now, her hair loose and glowing in the sunlight, holding their son as if the entire world revolved around the tiny bundle in her arms. The sight filled his heart with a warmth he hadn’t known he was capable of feeling.

Without a word, Azriel stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her into a warm, protective embrace. YN let out a small gasp of surprise before her body relaxed into his, the familiar weight and scent of him instantly soothing her. She tilted her head back slightly to look up at him, her lips curving into a soft smile.

“Didn’t hear you coming,” she whispered, her voice now smooth but still carrying a hint of the recovery she’d undergone.

“I didn’t want to disturb such a perfect moment,” he murmured against her ear, his breath warm on her skin as he pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her neck. His hands slid down to rest over hers, cradling Knox together.

“He’s finally asleep,” YN said softly, her eyes drifting down to their son’s peaceful face. “You know, you’re going to spoil me with all this protection,” she teased, though there was no real heat in her words.

Azriel chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through her back as he held her closer. “I’ll never stop protecting you. Or him.”

YN leaned her head back against his chest, closing her eyes for a moment, savoring the feeling of being wrapped in his arms. “I know. I feel it every day.”

They stood in silence for a while, the only sound the soft rustling of the trees and the occasional cooing of Knox in his sleep. It was peaceful, something YN had rarely known before Velaris, before Azriel had come into her life.

After a few moments, Azriel gently kissed the top of her head and leaned down to whisper, “Rhys and Cassian are coming down soon. They want to talk to you.”

YN’s body tensed slightly in his arms, and she opened her eyes. “Talk to me?” she asked, her voice carrying a slight edge of concern.

Azriel sighed softly, pressing another kiss to her temple. “They’ve been worried. They know about your... connection to Kier and the pleasure house. They want to make sure you’re okay and figure out how we can... keep you safe.”

She let out a long breath, her grip on Knox tightening a little as she thought about the conversation to come. “I don’t like being a subject of discussion.”

“I know,” Azriel murmured, his hands rubbing soothing circles over her arms. “But they care about you. They just want to help.”

YN nodded slowly, her mind already racing with how much she should tell them. The last few weeks had been difficult enough without having to explain her past and the dangerous web of alliances that had kept her bound to the Hewn City for so long. But if anyone could help her break free, it would be Rhys and Cassian—Azriel’s family. Her family, too, in a way.

“Alright,” she finally said, her voice steady. “I’ll talk to them.”

Azriel kissed her once more, lingering for a moment before stepping back. “Thank you,” he whispered, his gratitude evident in the way his voice softened. He reached down and brushed his thumb gently over Knox’s cheek, the baby stirring slightly but remaining asleep.

“We’ll figure it all out,” he promised, his hazel eyes filled with determination. "Together."

Rhys and Cassian approached YN with a heavy seriousness in their demeanor. The peaceful atmosphere of the balcony shifted as the weight of the conversation settled between them. Azriel stood by YN's side, his gaze locked on her face as he sensed her unease, but this was a necessary conversation. If they were to free her from the clutches of the pleasure house, this was the only way.

Rhys was the first to speak, his voice gentle yet firm. "YN, we’ve been discussing your situation with Kier and his... assistant. We know you’re bound by that bargain, and we’ve been working on a way to break it. But there’s only one option that we can see.”

Cassian leaned forward, his large frame looming slightly as he crossed his arms. “We’ve come up with a plan, but it’s not going to be easy. Kier’s assistant—the man who controls your bargain—is going to be the key. He’s one of your clients, correct?”

YN swallowed hard, already feeling a pit forming in her stomach. She nodded slowly, her fingers tightening around Knox, who slept peacefully in her arms. “Yes,” she said, her voice quieter than usual. “He requests private sessions. He’s... powerful.”

Azriel’s jaw clenched beside her, his hands itching to destroy the man who held so much control over YN’s life. Rhys, sensing Azriel’s rising anger, continued in a calm, measured tone.

“We believe that the only way to break this bond is through him. If you can get close enough, distract him when he calls for you again, we can move in. Cassian and I will take care of his guards, and Azriel will handle him. But we need you to keep him occupied—long enough for us to get inside.”

YN felt her heart race, her palms growing sweaty as she tried to process the enormity of what they were asking. The thought of being alone with that man, knowing what was about to happen, made her stomach churn. Worse still, the prospect of murder, something she had been entangled with before, clawed at her mind. The memory of her friend’s desperate act of self-defense still haunted her, and now they were asking her to be part of something similar.

“You want me to distract him while you... kill him?” YN asked, her voice trembling slightly as the reality of the plan sank in.

Rhys nodded solemnly. “It’s the only way, YN. If he’s dead, the bond will be broken. You’ll be free.”

Azriel stepped closer, his hand resting gently on her back. He could feel her flinch at the word "kill," and it sent a pang of guilt through him. He hated that this was the only option they had, hated that YN would have to face this darkness again. But he also knew that they couldn’t keep living like this—constantly looking over their shoulders, bound by a deal that held her captive.

YN stared down at Knox, her mind swirling with a mixture of fear and hope. On one hand, this was her chance—her chance to be free from the pleasure house, from Kier’s cruel control, and to live a life with Azriel and Knox without constantly fearing for their safety. But on the other hand, the thought of being involved in another killing, even indirectly, was enough to make her chest tighten.

Cassian’s voice broke through her thoughts. “We’ll be there the whole time. You won’t be alone in this.”

Rhys knelt down beside her, his gaze soft but unwavering. “I know it’s a lot to ask, and I wish there was another way. But we’ll make sure you’re safe, YN. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

Azriel knelt beside her, his hand moving to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear she hadn’t even realized had escaped. “I won’t let him hurt you,” he promised, his voice thick with emotion. “But this is the only way to end it.”

YN swallowed hard, her throat dry as she nodded, more to herself than to them. She had survived so much already—being bound to that awful place, the attack on her apartment, and the struggles of her past. If this was what it took to be free, then she would face it. She would do whatever it took for her son, for the life she wanted to build with Azriel.

But the weight of the decision settled heavily on her shoulders, and she knew this would not be an easy path.

“I’ll do it,” YN finally whispered, her voice cracking slightly as she spoke. “But... I’m scared.”

Azriel’s grip on her tightened, his forehead resting against hers for a moment. “I know,” he murmured. “But you’re strong, YN. You’re stronger than any of us.”

Rhys stood up, exchanging a glance with Cassian before looking back at YN. “We’ll make the arrangements. When he calls for you again, we’ll be ready.”

YN nodded, though her body felt like it was moving through quicksand. The thought of going back to that place, knowing what would happen, made her feel sick. But deep down, she knew there was no other choice. If she wanted freedom, if she wanted to protect Knox and Azriel from this life, she would have to face this head-on.

Azriel stayed beside her as Rhys and Cassian left to make their plans, his hand never leaving hers. He could feel her trembling slightly, and it broke his heart to know what she would have to go through. But they would get through this together—he would make sure of it.

“I love you,” Azriel whispered, his voice filled with all the emotion he could never quite put into words.

“Me too,” YN replied, her voice steady but her heart racing.

And as she sat there, holding her sleeping son close, YN steeled herself for what was to come. This was her chance to be free—to finally break the chains that had bound her for so long. And no matter how much fear and uncertainty filled her, she knew she would face it for her family.

For Knox. For Azriel. For herself.

One more chapter and then MWAHAHAHAHHA YALL ARE GONNA HATE ME!

[brandileigh2003]

Older wolfstar fic recs: (older in age that is)

let me know what I missed and self recs are welcome (also as always check tags for each one to protect yourself)

~~~please give these authors love, fandom engagement with writers is down and it means more than you know. ~~~

**And I know older is relative term bc most of these wolfstar are in their 30s I do believe. But. They have more life experience than in Hogwarts or uni.

--orange juice (i've been ready for you to come home for so long) by raggedypond: divorced parents of teddy with one bed at his graduation

-Honey If I'm Not by @brigid-faye divergent post war where remus left, jily lived, and wolfstar only reconnects years later by chance. (Also has a Sirius pov)

---used my best colours for your portrait by @littleoldrachel lie low at Lupin's with flashbacks exploring remus' life

-Looking for Moony by Writer_INFJ_2w1: meet and fall in love birthday party

-Flight of Destiny by @lucigoo lesbian wolfstar meet on plane (Luci also has several others where they're older and lots of beautiful fics

--Aging Gracelessly by orphan_account: texting fic

--the mayors of simpleton by fruity_individual divorced wolfstar get back together, raising teddy

-Second Generation by MsAlexWP single parents, getting back together. The sequel is so perfect too! It's a Nice Day for a Wolfstar Wedding

-the sea is a good place to think of the future by peachyybabe (second in series is mcd but this one is open ending)

-Of Memories and Milk Thievery by moonymoment raising teddy, get back together

--Birthday Blues by YouBlitheringIdiot @blitheringmcgonagall :Sirius is turning sixty and he is appalled...

--Give Quarter to Old Men - @krethes series

--dear your holiness by mollymarymarie

--The Postwar Chronicles by @sliebman10 post canon series

-Vigil Strange I Kept by whitmans_kiss explores effects of lycanthropy

--ten reasons (to go to michigan) by @greyeyedmonster-18 remus headed home, trying to move on from divorce

--Prettiest Star Verse by Raging_queer

-I didn’t sign up for this by Moonystoastandmarsbar divorced wolfstar

-Of Protein Powders and PTAs by @squintclover and @tracingpatternswrites rivals to lovers

-An Infinte Ocean by orphan_account raising teddy strangers to lovers

--The Road Not Taken by @mollymarymarie

-extra credit by MsAlexWP rivals to lovers

-Baby On Board by aqua_myosotis

-Of Memories, Bitter and Sweet by MsAlexWP memory loss

**luci's recs

-my love, take care of yourself by littleoldrachel

-How to romance a guy with (terrible) poetry by BayleyWinchester

-Teddy Plays Matchmaker by grow_as_we_go

-The Front Step Surprise by R33sesPieces

**Recs from others** (I haven't read all these yet but wanted to include)

--Just what the doctor ordered by WrappedUp (be aware there is age gap)

--The Lab by de_sire again an age gap

-Till We Have Arrived Home Again by prouvairing divergent post canon raising harry

-The Patchwork of Us by TracingPatterns

-The Things I Did by Lolo_row

-The Phoenix Agency by LupinsChocolatePraline

-The Fall by EuripidesTrousers

-Pages of You by wolfpants this is drarry main but apparently background wolfstar is really good

-Just Like Heaven by the_prettiest_w0lf_star: mechanic Sirius and librarian Remus

-soloorganaas

-impishtubist

***Self rec***

--Memories of You: mcd exploring memory loss

--Through the Years: Sirius thinks about the past and how handsome his husband is while holding their granddaughter.

--DN(R): Lie low at Lupin's era where they discuss decisions Remus made in the lost years.

**also- the wolfstar librarian is always a great resource make sure to give some likes on posts: 30yo and Up part 2 Bring Black Back Back from the Veil Lie Low at Lupin’s Post Azkaban Grimmauld Place

--Feel free to check my other rec lists, as well as the rest of my fics

--also ... This is list of canon divergent fic recs: post-azkaban, bring back black, lie low at lupins. Lots of same fics but I might not have all in both places.

[gothcsz]

Dangerous Woman | Javier Peña x Fem!Reader | ~9k wc | Part 2 of the Fantasize series | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: Javier does something that warrants a second visit.

Tags: stalking, lots of dirty talk, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v sex (we're taking it raw), some plot snuck into the porn (sorry not sorry), spanking, light slapping, slight breeding kink..., some physical descriptions but overall it's pretty vague, no use of Y/N, reader is a photojournalist, reader speaks spanish, we're altering canon timeline just a bit, other shit i’m probably forgetting.

A/N: primas (gn), we're back to being delusional! thanks so so so much for all the lovin the boy is mine got like i'm on my knees for each and every one of u fr 🧎🏽‍♀️ hehe i do plan on posting a final part to wrap this up btw. love the dynamic between these two 🖤 did javi match your freak?! did he match your nasty?!

DIVIDERS CREDIT: saradika

You quit going to his apartment entirely. He expects you to meet him there again, and while the urge to return and take things all the way is enticing as hell; you keep yourself from doing so.

Well, technically, you did go by one time and that visit was the reason why you swore the rest of them off.

You watched from the front seat of your car, further down on the other side of the street, as he rested his forearms against the railing; a lit cigarette between his lips while he stared off into the distance.

Your handsome man who somehow looked sexier under distress. Even from how far away you were you could see those defined, prominent wrinkles between his brows.

He was waiting for you. Looking out into the city and wishing that you were prancing your way back to him.

You wondered then if that was a new ritual of his. If he stood out on his balcony every night in hopes of seeing you again. It made your heart soar and goosebumps to erupt along your skin. 

But you want to drive him crazy with your absence, to have him question if what happened that night in his bedroom was as real as it felt. Gaslighting himself into believing it was all just a dream, something his conscience had made up to relieve him temporarily of the hardships of his job.

Part of the sick enjoyment you get comes from your cat and mouse game, with you being the gamemaster. The one who sets the rules and decides when plays are allowed to be made.

You want him to be vigilant, to shine a light against every shadow that crosses his path in hopes that it’s you, the sexy little thing that’s been preying on him for longer than he knows. 

You want to edge him with the anticipation of your next move.

This move won’t happen until further down the line. Things have been tense in the circumstances that overlap both of your careers. Government distrust grows more and more by the day, the drug traffickers get richer by the second.

You just haven’t had the time to follow him as thoroughly as you have been.

Which is why you sunk your claws into someone in his inner circle, a Neil Stoddard that works directly beneath your agent. It had taken you a few tries, causally bumping into him at the market or during a morning jog, until enough rapport was built and you finally convinced him to feed you information on DEA operations.

He was hesitant at first, but you’ve been told that you can be very persuasive; always knowing exactly what to say, which cadence to use and how to shift your body language to match the conversation. Showcasing your skill, you manage to get just about every little detail that you can from the younger agent before anyone else.

It benefits you both in your career and in your efforts to keep tabs on him.

You wonder if he thinks about you in the same way you do him. Does he constantly replay that rainy night in his head? Does he fuck his fist and close his eyes to think of you, the mysterious woman who broke into his apartment just to get on her knees for him? Swallowed his soul in its entirety and then disappeared off into the night?

Fuck, you hope so, because with each day that passes–– you fall deeper in love with Javier Peña.

You’re walking home from work one day, an extra pep in your step at the good news that one of your projects from graduate school is being looked at by some big name publishers back stateside. The excitement of getting your work published by a well known and reputable paper further inflates your ego and the passion that you have for your career.

So you decide to buy something nice for yourself, a materialized pat on the back for being so good at what you do. You enter a quaint antique store that’s nestled in the small plaza a few blocks from your apartment building, eyeing some of the merchandise they have on display.

You’re contemplating whether you want to purchase a set of stained glass table lamps when a distinct glint catches your attention from the corner of your eye.

You turn to see a beautiful engagement ring on display behind the glass counter, its shimmer immediately drawing you to it. You set the lamps down carefully, walking over to the counter to get a better look at the piece of jewelry.

The ring’s silver band is elegantly slender. Intricate filigree work adorns the outer surface with delicate patterns of vines and tiny flowers that spiral gracefully around it. 

At the center sits a stunning marquise cut diamond, its facets catching the light in a soft, romantic sparkle.

You stare at it in awe, imagining it around your finger after he slips it on, still on one knee, while those captivating brown eyes of his stare up at you in nothing but pure love and adoration.

His fiancée. His wife.

Calling the attendant over, she happily lets you try it on incase it needs to be resized.

It doesn’t. It fits just right, making your hand look very lovely. You wriggle your fingers, giggling as it catches the light.

You purchase it, obviously, having her place it in a small, velvety box that you slide into your bag as you thank her for her help; leaving the shop just to walk a few stores down to where they sell lingerie.

There, you buy a new outfit–– this one much more risque than the leather dress that’s neatly tucked away in your closet.

With a small dent in your account, your career on the path of blossoming, and your delusions for him reaching another peak; you go home and plan your next move.

Stoddard tells you about the raid planned to capture Miguel Rodríguez and the fake out involved, since the last time they had targeted him–– bureaucratic bullshit had gotten in the way and prevented the arrest. Something involving the man hiding in the walls and a DEA agent using a sledgehammer to get him out.

Apparently there’s a mole within the Colombian government that’s making it hard to bring the narcos to justice. What’s new? Amidst all this, he mentions how the boss is going to stay behind while everyone else in the department travels to Cali.

This bit of information piques your interest but you keep your reaction neutral. The velvet box in your bag is burning a hole through the leather, reminding you of its existence. You haven’t worn the ring since you tried it on, saving it for the perfect moment.

Like the one that’s just manifested itself.

You get the details of this operation, specifically paying attention to the times so you know at what pace you’ll have to work with.

If your calculations are correct, he’d be all alone in the office well into the night.

You’re an adrenaline junky, clearly, since the idea of sneaking into a government building just to seek pleasure from the DEA attaché has your entire body crackling with electricity.

You thank him as you go your separate ways. The raid is in two days, which will give you more than enough time to get prepared.

Getting ready mellows you out entirely, the only nerves you feel are those of excitement at the prospect of seeing your agent tonight. You’re currently in the bath, your favorite candle lit and on your second glass of wine.

It’d be a massive win for him if they’re able to follow through with the plan. Two of the head honchos in cuffs and behind bars, even if it was the lax walls of a Colombian prison.

Surely it warrants some kind of reward. You did tell him that he’d see you again whenever he did something that was worth your presence. Worth your body.

It could have come sooner, but between the disappearance of Guillermo Pallomari, Christina Jurado’s kidnapping and then Franklin Jurado’s death; fate had other plans.

He just couldn’t catch a break. For his sake, you hope they’re able to get that motherfucker tonight.

Finishing up in the bath, your skin is smooth like the delicate petals of a flower and you smell like a candy shop, all hydrated and plump and ready to be ravaged.

You go through the motions of doing your hair and makeup, this time aiming for a bolder look.

Sharp cat eye liner, classic red lip, thick lashes. You want to mimic the sultry models you see in the high-end magazines.

Dolling yourself up for him is part of your foreplay. You enjoy watching your own transformation, going from a steadfast journalist to a seductive minx at the wave of a makeup brush.

Would he find you attractive? Not your feline alter ego but the real you. The one that camps out in her car more often than not to stalk him, fast food wrappers littering the seats. The woman who broke into his apartment and masturbated using his pillows. The woman using his subordinate to get information about him and his highly classified work operations.

Would the illusion break after so many encounters? Would the allure of your salacious activities dim until that fire is completely smothered with the reality of what you’ve been doing?

Would he even want you if he knew the truth?

You stare at your reflection in the vanity mirror, not even realizing your eyes have glazed over with tears at these thoughts. Your heart aches at the nonexistent rejection.

No, snap out of it. Now is not the time to be thinking of this shit.

Shaking your head, you swiftly get your act together and change into your outfit for the night.

The lingerie set is the epitome of classic elegance with a sexy edge. It consists of a bra, panties, and a garter belt, each piece meticulously designed to celebrate your natural curves and skin tone.

The bra is a balconette style, the cups a luxurious black lace with intricate floral patterns, sheer enough to tease yet opaque enough to leave some things to the imagination. The underwire provides a gentle lift, enhancing the shape of your breasts, while the straps, adorned with tiny satin bows, add a touch of femininity.

The matching panties are a cheeky bikini cut. The front panel is made from the same black lace as the bra, with a subtle scalloped edge that sits gently against your hips. The back is a sheer mesh, offering a tantalizing glimpse of skin with a small satin bow at the waistband. Your ass looks so good.

The garter belt is the pièce de résistance, tying the entire set together. It sits high on your waist, cinching in to create an hourglass silhouette. Four straps extend down, each finished with satin ribbon accents to hold up your thigh-high stockings securely.

You add the accessories: diamond earrings gifted to you by your grandmother, your simple black stilettos and finally–– the ring you purchased at the antique store.

Now in front of a full length mirror, you can’t help but run your hands all over your body. Fuck looking like the high end models from Vogue–– you resemble a god damn Playboy star; sexy enough to warrant your very own centerfold in the magazine.

Maybe you should invest in some bunny ears. Try and be a conejita for one night.

This is what you’d wear on your wedding night, you think, eyes not leaving your reflection as the ring twinkles beneath your bedroom lights. You wouldn’t even wear it in white, the black lace an homage to the erotic start of your relationship with the DEA agent. Your husband.

Your cat mask sits on the bed, right next to your polaroid camera. After you finish eye fucking yourself, you crawl onto the matress and slip it on; obscuring your face in the sexiest way possible.

With all the fuckery he’s had to deal with as of late, you decided you were going to leave some souvenirs behind. A few visuals for him to look at during lonely nights instead of lolling around on his balcony like a neglected puppy.

You begin taking the photos, contorting your body into different erotic positions, getting the best angles. It all comes to you naturally, you’re good behind and in front of the camera.

After a dozen or so snaps of your tits, your ass, your thighs and some cheeky ones of your pretty cunt, you let them develop and take the mask off, putting on a basic satin slip dress to hide your lingerie. 

You were going to be out in a more public space, you didn’t want to risk something happening and for that to leave you basically naked in the streets of Bogotá.

Tossing your belongings into your bag, you drive to the embassy, parking around the back to keep your vehicle hidden from any prying eyes. How ironic. 

The familiar trench coat sits on your shoulders, tied close to keep your naughty outfit out of sight. Your bag hangs from the curve of the inside of your elbow, the kitten mask nestled at the bottom, just waiting for you to don it once more.

In this moment, you feel like one of those cliché romance tropes: surprising your husband at work with skimpy clothes under a fucking coat.

You snort at the realization, but you’re kind of loving this.

When you push open the door to the building, you notice how quiet and empty it is. At the large front desk, an older officer straightens his posture at your entrance.

“Identificación, por favor.”

You bite your lip, praying to god that this works, and dig into your bag to pull out your press lanyard. It has your name on it, what paper you work for along with a photograph that was taken your first day on the job.

You hand it over and he eyes it then you suspiciously, taking in your done up appearance.

“I’ve got some photographs developing in the lab here. Lost track of time at the office which is why I’m stopping by so late. I’ll just be in and out, no worries.” You explain in English with a gentle lilt, hoping that your status as an American will sway him into letting you up.

He hands you back your lanyard. “I’m not supposed to let anyone who isn't employed here in after a certain time. Lo siento, señorita. Regresa mañana.”

Your eye twitches in annoyance at the denial, your skin prickling with frustration.

You have to see him tonight. No matter what. This senile idiot isn’t going to stop you.

“I didn’t want to do this…” You begin with a sigh, leaning forward against the desk and your coat opens up just enough for him to get a good look down your cleavage, “But I’m also here to visit my fiancé, mi prometido.” You bring your left hand up for him to see the ring that adorns your finger, “He’s been having some tough days and I wanted to surprise him. I’m sure you know him. Javier Peña.”

Now this gets his attention, snapping his gaze from ogling your cleavage to meet your eyes.

“Ah, si, Javier Peña. El jefe de la DEA.”

You nod, seeing his resolve dissipating, and he lazily waves his hand, signaling that you’re good to go up.

“Muchas gracias señor, que tenga buena noche.”

Fuck. Yes. Your nerves morph into excitement as you step into the elevator, hitting the button that goes to his floor.

Pretending to be his to a complete stranger has put you further into a mood, feeling your pulse quickening at the idea of doing it again. Of deceiving the world, warping reality to play into your delusions of being happily engaged to a man who doesn’t even know what you look like.

The elevator comes to a stop, the silver doors opening up to a narrow hallway with various rooms and offices on either side. If you recall correctly, his is further down the hall which is perfect because you need to set your belongings down before making your grand entrance.

You find a place for your things behind the stairwell door, knowing that’s how you’re going to make your escape tonight. You didn’t want to walk past the security guard again and you didn’t want to give him enough time to chase you down into the elevator.

You strip the satin dress, stuffing it into your bag and leaving you just in your undergarments. The polaroids you took are nestled into an envelope and put into the pocket of your trench coat once you have it back on, pulling out your mask and gently bringing it over your face. You apply one final stroke of red lipstick and slip the mesh gloves over your fingers before sneaking your way down the hall.

You press your back against the wall, the tap of your heels muted due to the carpeted floor. Fluttering your eyes close, you force your brain to focus on sound— trying to discern if he is here alone or if he has company.

After a few minutes of listening, you come to the conclusion that he is alone so you just barely poke your head around the corner, eyes scanning the dark room.

It looks like a typical office. Desks sprawled about, a bigger one at the front which you assume to be the secretary’s. The usual fluorescents are dimmed, bathing the room in a transparent darkness.

Across the space is his personal office. It looks like a giant fishbowl at the end of the room, giant windows lining every wall. The blinds are open, giving you a good view of him sitting at the edge of his desk, the phone pressed up to his ear while his large hand nurses a glass of his favorite amber liquor, the familiar cigarette hanging from pointer and middle finger.

You hum diligently. How is he always so fucking handsome?

With catlike suaveness, you move across the room and closer to his office, noticing that the door is ajar, giving you the opportunity to listen in on the call.

Your eyes flit up to the analog clock that hangs on the opposite wall. They’re about to move in on Miguel. 

The tension of this moment, the pure suspense does nothing but aid you and your sexual desires. Whatever news he gets, whether it’s good or bad, you’ll be here to console him… with open arms, and open legs, and an open mouth.

Now that you’re closer, you get a better look at him in his typical work outfit. Rolled up white button up, midnight blue slacks and a loose tie. You wonder if he took off the jacket recently or if he’s been walking around like this for a few hours.

Small details like that matter to you. 

You can’t make out the garbling coming from the phone, but you do see the way he exhales and how his shoulders drop. He closes his eyes letting his wispy lashes fan across his skin. Tension rolls off his body in pure relief as he hears that Miguel Rodríguez has finally been arrested and Salcedo was able to get his family safe. 

He returns the phone to the receiver after a few moments, his thick fingers dragging along the plastic and the simple action has a puddle gathering in your panties.

Standing, he makes his way to the large window that overlooks the downtown area of the capitol, the bustling nightlife illuminating the black night sky.

His back is to you, much like the first time you did this dance, smoke from his cigarette curling around him as he takes lengthy drags in self reflection.

You just watch him, once more under his spell while you remain crouched in the shadows.

He’s been through so much, you know this. All the shit with Escobar, getting into bed with drug dealers and murderers just to catch him, only to be taken off right at the end then returning to finish off Cali. 

God that must have been so… depressing. You wish you would have known him then, before the job molded him into more of a cynic.

You just want to comfort and hold him. To love him with every molecule of your existence. 

Don’t worry, mi amor, I’m right here.

With that, you make your appearance, slowly standing and opening the door further.

The shift in the air at your presence has the hairs on the back of his neck standing and he turns his head to the side, catching your silhouette from his peripheral.

“Hola, gatita.”

His voice is smooth and it drips straight to your clit.

“Hey handsome.” 

You close the door behind you, leaning against it as he fully faces you. His brown eyes scan you from head to toe before he moves to sit in the large chair behind his desk, stubbing out his cigarette against the overfilled ashtray.

“You know…” He grunts out, resting his forearm atop of his head lazily as he leans back, “I prayed tonight’s operation would play out as planned. Not because of the metaphorical nail in Cali’s coffin, but in hopes that the win would lure you out.”

“Is that so?” Your heart is racing at his words and his evident craving for you. You try not falter as you slowly make your way around his office, shutting the blinds as you go.

There’s six windows. You’ve got five more to go.

“Mhm,” he hums, glossy eyes following you around the small space, “I just got confirmation that Miguel is in cuffs. On his way to Bogotá. And not even a few minutes later… well, here you are.”

“Here I am…” you flirt, moving on to the next window.

Then the fourth… third…

“How did you know?”

Only two more until you’re secluded in a little bubble of privacy.

“Call it a woman's intuition.”

His jaw ticks, not liking the answer but also not making a fuss out of it. Yet. He wants to enjoy you tonight, to become the keeper of time so he can drag out the hours and devote himself wholly to you. 

He’s missed you entirely too much. It’s a different feeling, this yearning that nips at him. Hardly ever does he think twice about the women he sleeps with.

But there’s something about you and how you popped up in his life so suddenly. How you turned his world on its head.

A kitten size hole has been left in his heart since you left him on his bedroom floor like a toy you weren’t interested in playing with anymore. 

You finish shutting the blinds, turning to face him as he manspreads himself out on his leather chair, rubbing his palm along his clothed thigh. It makes you want to pounce on it, to rub your wet pussy all over him in the same way you had gotten yourself off on his pillow.

You can practically feel his muscles contracting, the slight flex snapping a sharp orgasm out of you. 

“How are you going to thank me tonight, gatita?” His demeanor is vastly different than last time; he’s exuberating some of that dominance you know he possesses.

You remain silent, your gloved hand digging in the pocket of your coat as you pull out the envelope with your pictures in it, bringing it up to teasingly wave around.

His name is neatly written in cursive against the paper and his brows raise in surprise. He hadn’t expected an actual, tangible token of appreciation.

“This is for all your troubles. I know how hard it’s been in your world recently.”

He doesn’t know what to make of that. Granted, anyone can observe that his job is fucking difficult without knowing the specifics.

But it’s the way you said it, as if you know more than what you should.

You place the envelope in between your teeth, some of your red lipstick smudging against it as your gaze remains locked on his. Your hands make work of the belt that’s kept your trench coat closed, tugging at it until it’s undone. 

The air is charged in pure lustful electricity as the fabric falls from your shoulders and pools around your feet.

“Congratulations on your arrest, agente.”

The grip on his whiskey glass tightens, golden eyes turning an onyx color as he drinks in your scandalous appearance like a man who’s been denied the basic necessity of water his entire life.

“You’re killing me here, bebita.”

You giggle, scrunching your nose beneath the mask and the sound of your flirty laugh has his lips pulling up into a small smile. 

“Come closer. Let me get a better look at you.”

You comply obediently, placing one foot in front of the other before he abruptly stops you.

“Gatea como lo hiciste la última vez.”

Oh shit, your legs turn into jello at the command and immediately you fall to your knees, feeling the scratchy carpet through your stockings. 

“Good girl. Me encanta cuando haces caso.” He praises and you moan softly, crawling towards him on your hands and knees, the envelope still between your teeth.

He takes a sip of his drink, still lounging and keeping a cool demeanor, yet not relenting with the heavy stare he’s laying on you.

His eyes make out every curve of your body, how the shimmer from your lotion makes you glimmer like a shooting star. If he could close his eyes and make a wish right now, he’d wish to know who you really are.

You stop once you’re in between his legs and he stares at you for a good long minute before leaning forward, finishing off whatever was left of his whiskey and setting the empty glass aside.

His thumb and index fingers pinch your chin, moving your jaw to tilt upward so he can look down into your lovely eyes. The pair he sees every time he closes his own.

“Let’s see what you’ve brought me.”

He pulls the envelope from your mouth, your saliva leaving it damp but he doesn’t give a damn.

He opens it up, eyebrows quirking at the sight of the polaroid photos as he carefully analyzes each and every single one.

You’re hanging on to every reaction he gives, the way his eyes map every inch of your figure and how you photographed yourself for him.

It’s there, in the pictures, that he sees it. The ring. His brows pull together in confusion, his gaze flickering down to your hands that are resting on your thighs.

“Let me see your left hand, baby.”

The statement has a warmth blossoming in your stomach. You’re certain he can see your heartbeat pounding against your chest.

Tentatively you bring your hand up, resting it on his knee. 

He sets the photos on his desk then delicately removes the glove, calloused fingers taking your hand in his as he eyes the beautiful ring.

“This wasn’t here last time… ¿te comprometiste, gatita? Been giving that dirty mouth and pussy to someone else, hmm?” He places a kiss on the diamond, his dark eyes now boring into you.

Your thighs clench together at the intensity of the moment and you shake your head earnestly, wanting to dispel those thoughts from his mind entirely.

There is no one else. Just you.

“No. It’s all for you Javi. I just—” Your words get jumbled up, lost on your tongue as the sexy facade slips for a moment while you try and find the right words to explain your possessive, matrimonial fantasy to him.

“All for me, huh?” He’s getting a kick out of your nervous state, dropping your hand and motioning for you to give him the other as he takes the glove off of it too.

“All for you. I’m yours.” You say in a shaky breath, “This ring… it’s my way of pretending that it’s all real… that you’re mine too.” That you want me the same way I want you.

Silence cloaks the both of you, his face set in an unreadable expression.

“You don’t have to pretend, gatita. It can be real. Just let me see you.” He goes to unmask you again but you turn your head to the side to keep him from doing so.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It won’t be fun anymore.” Translation: I’m fucking scared that you’re not going to want the real me.

“So? We could have so much more fun without all this.” His pointer finger traces the lacey cat ears, “Not that I mind this. It’s sexy as hell.”

You look at him again, seeing the sincerity in his stare but you just can’t bring yourself to do it.

“No,” you repeat, a little harsher, “And if you try to take it off again I will disappear and you will never see me again.” 

You rise from the floor, trying to regain some of the control that’s slipped from your grasp. His jaw sets, hands coming up to grip your waist, pulling your body to him until his curved nose runs along your belly.

You gasp softly.

“Tan mala mi gatita bella. Luckily for you I like to work for it.”

He begins to place open mouthed kisses all over your midriff, biting the garter belt and pulling on it so it snaps back onto your skin with a delicious sting.

Your head falls onto your shoulder, enjoying the feeling of his lips. You bring your fingers down to run through his hair, enjoying how silken it is.

His strong hands move from your waist around to your ass, digging his nails into the supple skin while he kneads it, groaning at how soft you are. 

“Didn’t get to touch on this pretty body last time. M’not gonna make that mistake again. Bend over the desk, muñequita. Ahora.” He slaps your ass harshly and you squeal, feeling a fresh wave of wetness soaking your folds.

He relinquishes his hold on you, rolling his chair back to give you room to situate yourself in the position he wants to see you in.

You bend at the waist, your heels making the posture look extra sensual as your breasts press against the wooden surface. 

You hold your breath, anticipating what he does next. 

He gets up from the chair, his touch light as a feather as he traces from the top of your spine down to where the arch in your back is. His hands then go to grip your wrists, moving them so they’re pinned at your lower back.

“Gonna have to keep those pretty pictures on me at all times, gatita. Can’t risk someone else seeing what’s mine. I’d have to kill them.”

His possessiveness further turns you on, and now you want for those pictures to fall in the wrong hands. Just to see how he’d react.

He leans over you, placing kisses on the back of your shoulders, moving your hair to the side to expose more of your flushed skin to him. You turn your head, resting your cheek against the desk as you briefly make eye contact with him.

“That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.” You reply and he smirks, kissing the corner of your mouth.

His lips trail down the same path he just traced, working his way down until he’s kneeled behind you, his breath fanning over your sopping pussy.

Your hips twitch instinctively, the pressure between your legs becoming unbearable. You need to feel him on you, whether it’s that sinful mouth of his or those deliciously thick fingers. Something, anything.

As if reading your mind, he brings his hand up to grope your backside enticingly, running his fingers beneath the band of your stockings, your skin feeling like melting butter beneath his touch.

“Been thinking about this since you left me last time. I should have kept you from leaving, should have buried myself in between your pretty legs instead.”

You lick your lips, “Then stop talking and do it.”

He wastes no time in landing a harsh slap against your ass, the skin rippling beneath the touch and you yelp out in both surprise and excitement.

“Eres una gatita tan traviesa. Voy a tener que domesticarté nena.”

Another harsh slap, then another, then another. With each sting you feel yourself getting closer and closer to your orgasm which is a bit pathetic since he hasn’t even touched you like that and you’re already a buzzing, dripping fucking mess.

Each mewl that falls from your lips urges him to continue until he’s satisfied with the flush on each of your cheeks.

His fingers then move to fist the flimsy material of your panties, harshly tugging it until the thin fabric disappears in between your folds and the slight burn from it digging into your sensitive flesh does wonders for the throbbing at your core.

“Such a pretty fuckin’ pussy, bebita, just like I knew it’d be. Look at her, all wet for me. You like getting spanked, don’t you?”

You moan loudly, completely at a loss for words as you nod your head, cheek still pressed to the desk.

“Use your words, sweetheart. Had so much to say last time.” His palm connects with your ass again, coaxing a verbal reply from you.

“Yes Javi, fuck I love being spanked. Love feeling your hands all over me.”

He hums in content, slowly pulling down the ruined underwear off your legs until you’re fully exposed to him. “Since you won’t let me see your gorgeous face, I want you to show off this sweet cunt of yours. Spread her open for me, gatita.”

Exhaling shakily, you move your hands from your lower back until you've got a good grip on your own body, spreading your pussy open so he can see all of you.

For a split second you feel self conscious, not being able to see his reaction as you lay open and vulnerable to him.

That dissipates quickly, however, when you hear his satisfied keen then feel his nose skimming against the plush skin of the back of your thighs, kissing your wrist.

“Now I’m going to taste you.” He repeats your own words back to you, his voice low and deep and fuck are you in love with this man.

His hot, wet tongue licks the length of your slit and you can’t control the noise that you make, sighing his name out. Your skin erupts in chills when he does it again, the coarse hairs of his mustache prickling against your swollen cunt.

“Tan dulce. Dunno how you’re going to pull me off of her.”

And with that, he fully immerses himself in your pussy. He’s desperate, licking every inch of you that he can, savoring the tangy taste of your sex. He sucks onto your folds before hardening his tongue and rapidly flicking the tip against your clit. This has you struggling to keep yourself spread open for him, writhing at his ministrations.

“Oh my fucking god Javier your tongue, holy shit…” You babble, absolutely blissed out as his strong nose nuzzles against your entrance, the tip of it inside of you.

He groans, absolutely pussy drunk, rendering him a scrambled mess as he further buries his face into you, his big strong hands working your thighs, this time actually ripping your stockings.

Making out with your pussy passionately, your arousal drips from his mouth and down his jaw. He pulls back, a stringy glob of your fluids following like a cut open aloe vera plant. His thumb brushes against your clit as he spits onto your cunt, smearing his saliva all over before he slips two fingers inside you.

You clench immediately, crying out his name as his digits stretch you open. “So fucking tight gatita. You gonna squeeze my dick like this?”

Your knees just about give out at the promise of feeling his impressive girth inside of you. You hadn’t planned to actually fuck him tonight, not wanting to spoil the erotic nature of your visits by just giving him your pussy.

But now, as he’s ravishing and fingering you with such vigor and your vision beginning to blur as a sign of your incoming orgasm, you’re back tracking on that decision entirely.

You need him to fuck you. You might just die if he doesn’t.

He curls his fingers at your lack of response, the tips of them brushing up against that spot that makes you jolt, your chest rising from the desk while your thighs tighten.

“Stay put and answer the fucking question,” His free hand moves to roughly push you back down, his mouth joining his fingers on your pussy.

“Fuck yes baby. Gonna squeeze you til I milk every single drop out of that fat fucking cock.” You whimper like you’re in an X rated film, rocking your hips back against him as your stomach tightens. You’re so close.

Content with your answer, he slips in a third finger and harshly sucks your sensitive clit into his mouth, moving his head side to side. That’s enough to have you spill all over him, your body trembling while a mixture of moans and sobs and cries of his name echo out of you like a cock-obsessed woman that needs to be sedated.

Your acrylics dig into the skin of your ass, leaving crescent shaped marks on the flesh.

He continues his relentless assault on your cunt, eating you out through your orgasm. The blood rushing in your ears keeps you from hearing all the filthy things he’s chanting against your skin.

The ring looks so beautiful next to your spent pussy, querida. All mine.

Pulling his fingers from you once you’ve come down from your high, he places a final, more gentle kiss against your clit and you twitch from the oversensitivity.

“Did so good muñeca.” He rises from his kneeled position, the soft sounds of his joints popping having you blink away some of the haziness from your eyes, your body completely limp against his desk.

His hands run along the length of your body before he’s tenderly flipping you over so you’re on your back, the edge of the desk uncomfortably digging into your waist.

Noticing this, he clears some space to make room then lifts you until you’re fully sprawled out on his desk looking absolutely wrecked.

His mustache is damp with your release, lips swollen from him losing himself in the taste of you and drinking all that you have to offer him. Brown eyes remain dark, gaze swimming with longing.

“So handsome…” you mutter dreamily as he hovers over you, his thumb gently caressing the part of your cheek that isn’t covered by the mask.

“I wish you would let me get a good look at you, gatita.” He leans in, kissing your chin then your jaw until he’s trailing down onto the soft skin of your neck.

“Javi…” you sigh out, not only because his lips feel fucking divine but also because you don’t want to have this conversation again.

“I know, I know. You’ll disappear and I’ll never see you again. I got it the first time.”

He cups your breasts in his hands, gently kneading them as he licks down your sternum. He snakes a hand behind you and you arch your back, letting him expertly undo your bra.

The straps are delicately pulled down your shoulder until the garment is completely off, your nipples pebbling as the cool air of his office nips at them.

He wastes no time in wrapping his pouty lips around the sensitive peak and suckling softly. His tongue traces around your areola, grazing his teeth against your nipple which causes you to whine and bring your fingers to entangle in his hair, pressing your chest deeper onto his face.

Repeating the action on the other, he lavishes your breasts with attention from his skilled muscle. His facial hair is an added stimulant to your pleasure and your clit pulsates, body ready to have him inside of you.

You roll your hips, feeling his erection brush up against your naked pussy and your breath hitches in your throat.

It’s then that you realize that he’s still fully clothed while you’re practically naked. The only things that adorn your body are your ripped stockings and the garter belt along with your heels.

Tugging him away from your tits, you bring his face up to yours, noses brushing against each other. You can smell your sex on his lips, so you lean in to kiss him, tasting yourself and moaning.

“I need you to fuck me, agent.” Your lips brush against his as you speak, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer to you.

His chest rumbles at your request, hands antsy as he caresses and gropes; memorizing all your curves and the feel of your body.

“S’that what my gatita wants? For me to fuck her sweet little pussy?” 

Your answer comes in the form of another passionate kiss with a nod, your tongue intertwining with his then sucking on it softly.  He’s such a good fucking kisser, you could make out with him until your lungs burn from the lack of oxygen.

He pulls back, quickly beginning to unbutton his shirt in which you assist him, your french tipped nails taking over while he makes work of getting his pants undone and off.

Sliding his shirt off his broad shoulders, you pull him back down to you, lips quickly kissing all over the freshly exposed skin, savoring the warmth radiating off him.

You feel his naked cock pressing against your wet slit and your head cants back, a breathless whimper pushing past your lips while he lets out a deep groan.

“You make such pretty noises, muñeca. Wanna hear them all the time.”

He rubs his plush head against the length of your sopping pussy, collecting the wetness of your arousal.

“Gonna let me fuck this pussy raw, gatita? For all I know you’ve been spreading your legs for half the fuckin’ city.”

Your head spins, body overstimulated by his touch and the words that leave him. 

“Need to feel all of you, Javi. I think about it all the time. No one else. Just you.” You whisper out, once more clenching your thighs around his hips and rolling your own to entice him into slipping inside your tight and needy heat.

He curses, his teasing finally getting to him as he slowly sinks his thick, hard cock inside of you.

You both sigh out in pleasure in unison, your fleshy walls contracting around his length and swallowing him in, almost in the same manner in which your throat had all those nights ago. 

Every part of your body is eager to feel him somehow, your obsession and insatiable craving convoluting your being into nothing more than just something to bring him pleasure.

“Goddamn nena te sientes tan rica. Este cuerpecito está hecho para mí.”

He still hasn’t bottomed out and you feel so incredibly full. Your wet dreams have nothing against the real thing. 

“Javiiii, I need you to move. To fuck me hard and fast.” While you know having him rock into you slowly and sensually would feel better than winning the fucking lottery, you need to drop your own self respect and have him take you like the whores he’s so fond of.

He bares his teeth, straightening his posture so he’s no longer hovering over you. He readjusts your legs to sit higher on his waist.

“Was goin’ slow to give you the chance to get used to me baby pero la gatita quiere mas and I can’t help but spoil you, hermosa.”

Without warning, he snaps his hips into yours and you gasp loudly, the burn of him stretching you out adds vicious heat to your already hot cunt.

“Oh just like that Javi please…” you sob as he begins to fuck you just as you asked. Hard and fast. 

“Pobrecita. Can’t even take what she’s asking for.” He fucking pouts, mocking you and you’re certain that you’ve died and gone straight to horny heaven.

The desk moves with every thrust; pens, papers and other items hitting the floor. 

He roughly takes ahold of your bouncing tits, using them as leverage to keep splitting you open on his cock, your arousal leaving a creamy ring against his flesh and the sight has him going feral.

“Fuck this is the best pussy I’ve ever fucked, querida. So tight and fucking perfect. Bet you’ve never been fucked like this before, huh? S’probably why you came to me. Knew I would take good care of you.”

Your hands grip the edge of the desk, knuckles flushed, to keep you from falling off. The scratchy hairs on the base of his cock brush against your sensitive clit, having you shut your eyes out of pure ecstasy.

You never want this to end.

“Abre esos ojos gatita, you’re already denying me so much by not letting me see your lovely face. At least let me look into those beautiful eyes while I fuck you.” One of his hands leaves your breast, lightly slapping you to get your attention back on him.

As if it ever wavered.

Your eyes blink open, the slight sting across your cheek only bringing you closer to your orgasm.

“D-Do that again.” You plead with a small smirk, squeezing your walls around him and he grunts, slapping your face again.

You moan and he matches your smirk, basking in your reaction.

“Ay nena, eres mi dream girl. Where the fuck have you been all my life?”

His praise paired with the harsh snap of his hips driving his cock deeper is enough to have stars blinding your eyesight as your pussy tightens and your orgasm begins to shoot up your spine.

“Aqui, Javi. I’m right here baby.” Your words slur, absolutely cock drunk.

His torso looks perfectly fucking sculpted, like a god walking amongst men. Different muscles tense and jolt at his movements; you want to bite into his triceps and lick all over his prominent collarbone.

He shifts again, this time throwing your legs over his shoulders and the change in angle has you moaning out like a seasoned pornstar. He places gentle kisses against the inside of your knee, trailing his tongue against the nylon of your stockings before doing the same on the other leg.

This has your pussy feeling tighter and you watch as his own orgasm begins to overtake him.

It’s the hottest thing in the world.

Your left hand trails down the length of your torso until it’s at your pulsating clit, the tips of your fingers beginning to rub small circles against the pearl.

His dark eyes fall onto your movements, his tongue running along his teeth slowly.

“Tan hermosa, nena. Look at how that ring looks against your pussy. Do you touch yourself pretending it’s me, tu esposo, gatita?”

You nod, no longer feeling shy about your perverse delusion of belonging to him in a matrimonial sense. “Si, all the time. Think about you coming home to our house and fucking me on our bed. Ay, Javi I’m about to cum.”

His balls clench, jaw ticking as he too begins to slip into this fantasy of yours. “I’d take such good care of you baby. Make sure all of your needs are, fucking christ,” his thrusts stutter, “met. I’d do anything for you.”

And just like that, your orgasm topples over and your back archs off the desk at the intensity of it. Your vision spots, ears ringing as you douse his cock with your cum.

He fucks you through it, muffled words of praise not reaching you since you’re trying to focus on not passing out from pure bliss.

His cock twitches inside of you, feeling you come undone pulling euphoria out of him too.

“Where do you want it, gatita. You better tell me before I cum in this pussy and make you a mamita.”

Oh fuck, while the offer sounds enticing as hell, you know you need to think with a somewhat clear head so you just say, “Cum all over my clit, please.”

You don’t need to tell him twice, he pulls out just enough for the hot ribbons of his spend to messily land on your exposed clit, some of it getting on your knuckles and ring as you lazily rub it in.

He’s cursing up a storm, a tight grip on your thigh as he empties his balls all over your flesh. 

You both are left panting, his cum dripping down your fingers and pussy onto his desk. Blinking slowly, you meet his gaze and bring your digits up to your mouth, sucking them in and humming in content at the taste of your mixed release.

“Sucia,” he spits out before falling to his knees again, giving you no time to fucking react as he buries his face in your freshly used cunt.

“Javier!” You shout, literally shout, as he eats your cum and his out of your sweet pussy. Your fingers shoot down to tangle in his mussed hair, yanking on it without caring if it pains him or not. 

You don’t even realize it but you’re actually crying. The tears falling from the corners of your eyes beneath the mask and onto your cheek.

You’ve never felt this good. Never had a man, or anyone else for that manner, make you feel as sexy and wanted as the agent that’s currently in between your legs. 

When he finally stands, you’re left an incoherent mess and all he does is smirk.

“We taste good, muñeca.”

You whimper, not knowing how the fuck you’re going to recover from this and if you’ll even make it down the flight of stairs that awaits you for your departure.

Javier’s after care consists of placing soft kisses all over you, whispering sweet words to help bring you back to him. He caresses you again, this time being mindful of your over sensitivity.

He kisses along your thighs and tummy then moves up to each breast. His fingers graze along your skin and when he’s finally at your mouth, your lips meet in a kiss that surpasses any of the other ones you’ve shared with him.

Your mask makes it a little awkward at first but neither of you seem to care, too lost in the feeling of the other. It’s sensual and slow, all the unspoken things felt between the two of you being relayed during this interlock.

He pulls back, resting his forehead against the lace and plastic of your kitten mask. Your red lipstick is smeared all over his handsome face.

The lust in his brown eyes has now been replaced with something else that you can’t quite put your finger on, and that’s enough to snap you out of your trance and you gently push at his chest.

“I have to go.”

He scoffs, not moving from over you, “You don’t.”

“I do, Javi.” You say, a little more forcefully, which gets him to pull away.

Your panties and bra are on the other side of the room and you slide from the desk to retrieve them, wobbling as you go.

You’re going to be feeling him for days.

“How many more times are we going to do this? What’s the endgame here?”

You pull your underwear up your legs, cringing at how uncomfortable the damp material feels against your swollen core.

“There is no endgame. We’re just messing around.”

With your bra back on, you move to retrieve your trench coat which means you have to face him now.

He’s leaning against his desk like he had been when you first arrived, pants undone but up on his hips again.

“So that’s it? You’re just going to sneak in whenever you need a good fuck?”

You laugh dryly, crossing the room to get your coat but he grabs you by the forearm once you pass him; halting you in your spot.

“Javier,” You warn.

“You’re breaking my fucking heart, baby.”

You stare at him, wanting nothing more than to rip the mask off and confess to him how much he means to you despite this being anything but a conventional relationship.

As delusional as you’ve tended to be as of late, you know he’s way out of your league. He doesn’t go after girls like you.

Girls that are easy to dismiss and forget in the pouring rain.

“Same rules as last time: you’re not going to follow me out or stop me. Are we clear?”

He tightens his grip on your arm and you narrow your eyes.

“Are we clear?”

He’s silent but finally lets go and you don’t hesitate to grab and put on your coat.

You’re so eager to leave that you don’t notice your press lanyard has slipped out of your pocket as you’re making your way to the door.

He stands from his seated position and you brace yourself for yet another attempt at him trying to change your mind.

But it doesn’t happen. Instead, you hear the flick of a lighter and that’s enough to get you to turn the doorknob and leave without another word. 

Javier smokes the entire cigarette to calm his racing heart before he lazily begins to clean up the mess you two made in his office.

He’s lost in his thoughts, all consisting of you, until he spots the lanyard in the corner.

Picking it up, he looks at it quizzically before flipping it over. His jaw tightens once he sees your face, the familiarity of your lips and eyes luring him in.

He’s got a clear view now and it strikes him entirely, heart fluttering as he takes in your appearance. 

He reads your name, as if tasting it on his tongue, and the outlet you work for out loud. He recognizes you from somewhere but he just can’t remember where.

This is going to pick at him like an unhealed scab. But at least Javier knows who you are now.

Of course she’s a reporter. Things are starting to make more sense.

Translations:

Identificación, por favor - Identification please

Lo siento, señorita. Regresa mañana - I'm sorry ma’am. Come back tomorrow

El jefe de la DEA - The head of the DEA

Muchas gracias señor, que tenga buena noche - Thank you very much sir, have a good night

Gatea como lo hiciste la última vez - Crawl like you did last time

bebita - baby girl

agente - agent

muñeca - doll

Me encanta cuando haces caso.

¿te comprometiste, gatita? - Are you engaged, kitten?

Tan mala mi gatita bella. - My beautiful kitten is so bad

Eres una gatita tan traviesa. Voy a tener que domesticarté nena. - You are such a naughty kitten. I'm going to have to tame you baby.

Tan dulce. - So sweet

Goddamn nena te sientes tan rica. Este cuerpecito está hecho para mí. - Goddamn baby you feel so good. This little body is made for me.

pero la gatita quiere mas - but the kitten wants more

Abre esos ojos gatita - open those eyes

esposo - husband

sucia - dirty

[splinterclan]

what is the clan's relationship with the warrior code. Because they don't really seem too strict about it.

I just went and copy pasted the Warrior code from the WC Website and I'll put what percent they follow that rule after each one (never actually read the warrior code so this is fun jsjs)

1. Defend your Clan, even with your life. You may have friendships with cats from the other Clans, but your loyalty must remain to your Clan, as one day you may meet them in battle. - 100%

2. Do not hunt or trespass on another Clan’s territory. - 100%

3. Elders and kits must be fed before apprentices and warriors. Unless they have permission, apprentices may not eat until they have hunted to feed the elders. - 100%

4. Prey is killed only to be eaten. Give thanks to StarClan for its life. - 100%

5. A kit must be at least six moons old to become an apprentice. - 100%

6. Newly appointed warriors will keep a silent vigil for one night after receiving their warrior name. - 100%

7. A cat cannot be made deputy without having mentored at least one apprentice. - 90% Was lax for Moor since the clan started without any apprentice age kids, but will be 100% for every deputy after her

8. The deputy will become Clan leader when the leader dies or retires. - 100%

9. After the death or retirement of the deputy, the new deputy must be chosen before moonhigh. - 100%

10. A gathering of all four Clans is held at the full moon during a truce that lasts for the night. There shall be no fighting among Clans at this time. - 0% There's 5 clans total around, but their territories are so massively far apart it's really not feasible for them to visit each other at all (like, miles apart - Oakclan is a 2-3 day journey from Splinter's camp). Every clan interaction in the game I interpret as happening with wandering rogue groups instead

11. Boundaries must be checked and marked daily. Challenge all trespassing cats. - 100%

12. No warrior may neglect a kit in pain or in danger, even if that kit is from a different Clan. - 100%

13. The word of the Clan leader is the warrior code. - 80% ish? the clan is just way too small for there to be the separation that is required for dictatorship effect. It's more like a family where your dad "sets rules" but you know he won't beat your ass if you disobey them, but you mostly obey them anyways bc you love him (Whorlstar is their dad)

14. An honorable warrior does not need to kill other cats to win his battles, unless they are outside the warrior code or it is necessary for self-defense. - 100%

15. A warrior rejects the soft life of a kittypet. - 100% They won't go near or take food from humans - even when Cedar lived near one for a bit, he never took food from them.

So apparently they follow it pretty well? There seems to be a lot of unspoken rules in WC (like don't have kits with outsiders etc. Med cats can't have kits) That aren't on this list, so I guess they're not official? Idk xD I've said this before, but I have only read the first series of books so I don't have the fullest knowledge, but I do feel like with WC-based stories stuff like having the Med Cat get in trouble for having kits or half-clan relationships being persecuted are dumb rules anyways so I'd just rather write about something else

Plus clangen itself has no internal code for punishing that kind of stuff so it's all free game there too luckily ^^