#which summoned Mr bitch

[aberranthought]

This is 100% when you’re playing hide and seek and you find a super awesome spot and that one guy also wants to hide in this super awesome spot after you already found it and it doesn’t work and the seeker gets both of you

[satansdarlin]

Marigold margins

Chapter two

Ceo!Tim Drake x assistant fem!reader

Notes: hammered this out when I was supposed to be sleeping! Also I'm twenty now :0! Not beta read this time so excuse any grammar errors. Comments and reblogs are always appreciated! Tell me what you think! I love to hear your thoughts

Warnings: talk of the loss of a parent, toxic work environments, talk about how a sugar daddy relationship can be toxic (not in this one tho!), referenced past cheating (all my homies hate Josh and Alexia), straight up attempted murder (cause that bitch knows you don't know how to swim), sickeningly sweet love confessions, Thomas being a bit of a cockblock but we love him.

Word count: 10k

Rating: T

Playlist

The restaurant was a world apart from anything you'd experienced before. Gotham's most exclusive Vietnamese restaurant wasn't just a dining establishment – it was a temple of culinary artistry. Crystal chandeliers cast soft golden light over tables draped in pristine white linens, each setting a carefully curated masterpiece of silver and crystal.

You felt like an imposter.

Your pale yellow dress – the nicest thing in your wardrobe, carefully selected after three panicked phone calls to your sister – suddenly felt woefully inadequate. The other patrons looked like they'd stepped out of a high-fashion magazine, all carefully tailored suits and designer jewelry that probably cost more than your entire year's rent.

The hostess – impossibly elegant in a tailored red silk uniform that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe – looked you up and down with a gaze that made you want to shrink into yourself.

"Name?" Her tone was crisp, professional, and utterly intimidating.

"I'm, um, here with Timothy Drake?" The words came out as a question, your confidence evaporating under her scrutiny.

Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched. "I don't believe we have—"

"There you are." Tim's voice cut through your mounting anxiety like a warm knife through butter. He appeared beside you, immaculate in a charcoal suit that looked like it had been tailored by angels. His hand settled on the small of your back – warm, reassuring, possessive.

The hostess's demeanor changed instantly. "Mr. Drake, your table is ready. Right this way."

You found yourself guided through the restaurant, feeling like you were floating. Tim's touch was steady, grounding you even as your mind raced. The other diners seemed to part like a sea, heads turning in recognition.

"Sorry about traffic," you mumbled, fingers nervously smoothing the fabric of your dress.

Tim leaned in, his breath close to your ear. "I could have sent a car," he murmured. "One of the company's autonomous vehicles would have—"

"And that," you interrupted, finding a spark of your usual banter, "would be even more unprofessional than this, Mr. Drake."

The nickname made his eyes dance with amusement. "We're not at the office," he said, pulling out your chair with a fluid motion that spoke of years of practiced elegance. "Just Tim. Please."

As you sat, you couldn't help but marvel at the contrast between you. Tim moved through this world like he was born to it – which, technically, he was. You, on the other hand, felt like an actress who'd wandered onto the wrong set.

The menu was a work of art, more like a leather-bound book than a list of dishes. Golden-edged pages revealed delicacies you'd only read about, prices conspicuously absent – a sure sign that if you had to ask, you couldn't afford it.

"Have you ever had real Vietnamese cuisine?" Tim asked, his menu folded casually beside his plate.

You shifted uncomfortably. "Define 'real'?"

His laugh was soft, meant only for you. "Not from a food truck or a strip mall restaurant."

"Hey," you mock-protested, "those are cultural institutions!"

A waiter appeared, as if summoned by magic. Crystal water glasses were filled, a wine list presented to Tim with the reverence usually reserved for religious texts.

"The 2015 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, sir?" the waiter suggested.

Tim's fingers brushed yours across the table. "What do you think?"

The wine probably cost more than your monthly salary. You swallowed, suddenly feeling very out of your depth.

"I'm more of a craft beer girl," you admitted.

Tim's smile was blinding. "Good. Because I am too. Though don't tell my family."

Something in that moment – his genuine smile, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room – made all the elegance around you fade into background noise.

"So," you leaned forward, "tell me something real. Something the tabloids don't know."

His eyes glinted with a promise of secrets about to be shared. Tim leaned back, a challenge dancing in his eyes. "Something real, huh? Most people think they know me – Timothy Drake, Wayne heir, tech prodigy. But nobody knows the real me."

The waiter returned, setting down an array of dishes that looked more like art installations than food. Delicate rice paper rolls, a steaming pho that sent wisps of aromatic steam into the air, garnishes so precisely placed they looked like they'd been positioned with tweezers.

"I was seven," Tim began, picking up his chopsticks with the same precision the chef had used to arrange the meal, "when I first taught myself computer programming."

You raised an eyebrow. "Most seven-year-olds are playing video games. You were writing code?"

"Not just writing," he corrected, a hint of that boyish enthusiasm breaking through his polished exterior. "I was trying to hack my parents' computer to prove I could do it."

A laugh escaped you – loud, unrestrained, completely inappropriate for the refined setting. Several nearby diners turned, but Tim's eyes never left you.

"Did you succeed?" you asked, leaning forward.

His smile was pure mischief. "Of course I did. Took me three days. My mother was both furious and secretly impressed."

You took a bite of the rice paper roll, trying to look elegant and immediately realizing how difficult that was. A drop of sauce landed on your dress.

"Shit," you muttered.

Tim slides a napkin toward you, but there's something soft in his eyes. "It's just a dress," he says simply. "Not like the world will end."

It wasn't just a napkin. It was a perfectly pressed white linen napkin that probably cost more than your dry cleaning budget for a year. You dabbed at the spot, acutely aware of how out of place you felt.

"Your turn," Tim said. "Something real about you that nobody knows."

You hesitated, twirling your chopsticks. "I... can't actually use these very well."

His laugh was unexpected. Full. Rich. The kind of laugh that made other diners turn and smile, even if they didn't know the joke.

"tell me something actually real," he prompted again, his eyes holding a mix of curiosity and challenge.

"When I was in college," you admitted quietly, a mischievous edge creeping into your voice, "I may have orchestrated the complete academic downfall of six guys from Gotham University."

Tim's laugh burst out unexpectedly, sharp and surprised. "You got them expelled?"

"They had cut up photos of my sister Indi from magazines," you exclaimed, a fierce protectiveness blazing in your eyes. "Hung them in their dorm with these... disgusting annotations. No one makes gross comments about my sister without consequences."

Your voice was matter-of-fact, but there was a steel underneath that made Tim's eyes widen. He leaned closer, fascinated.

"What did you do?" he asked, genuinely intrigued.

A small, dangerous smile played across your lips. "Let's just say their academic records became... quite complicated. Plagiarism allegations. Lost recommendation letters. Academic conduct hearings." You shrugged. "By the time I was done, they were lucky to transfer to community college."

Tim's laughter was a mix of shock and admiration. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."

"Wise choice," you winked.

The conversation hung between you - a delicate balance of humor and intensity. Tim's fingers traced patterns on the pristine white tablecloth, his next words carefully chosen.

"Most people think I'm just the tech genius of the Wayne family," he said softly. "But my first love was actually marine biology."

You blinked, caught off guard. "Marine biology? Really?"

"Spent an entire summer when I was fourteen volunteering at the Gotham Aquarium," he admitted, a soft vulnerability replacing his usual polished exterior. "I wanted to save every single sea creature. Drove my family absolutely mad. I still have a boat bruce bought me for it."

The waiter returned, setting down two steaming bowls of pho. The aroma was intoxicating – star anise, beef broth, fresh herbs creating a symphony of scent that made your mouth water.

"What changed?" you asked, watching Tim expertly manipulate his chopsticks. "Why didn't you become a marine biologist?"

His smile turned slightly rueful. "Reality of the Wayne legacy, I suppose. Family expectations are... complicated."

You understood that. Family expectations were a language you'd spoken fluently your entire life. The weight of unspoken rules, inherited dreams, and silent sacrifices - you knew that terrain intimately.

"My turn, huh?" You traced the rim of your water glass, your voice soft but steady. "My father died when I was fifteen. Lung cancer - a delayed consequence of a Joker gas attack years earlier. Most people don't understand how something like that lingers, how toxicity can take years to kill you."

You looked up, meeting Tim's gaze directly. No apology in your eyes, just a raw, unvarnished truth.

"He made me promise something before he died," you continued. "Not just me, but all my sisters. 'Never stop fighting for what you want most in life.' Not in a motivational poster kind of way. But like a mission. A directive."

Tim's hand moved across the table, his fingers barely touching yours. Not a gesture of pity, but of connection. Understanding.

"Some legacies are survival instructions," he said quietly. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of solidarity.

You appreciated that he didn't say "I'm sorry." Those words had lost meaning years ago.

"Want to know something else?" Tim's smile shifted - part mischief, part vulnerability. "I've been wanting to ask you out for months."

"No way," you laughed, the sound low and disbelieving. "Me? Of all people?" Your eyebrow arched, a challenge dancing in your eyes. "Absolutely not."

Tim's smile didn't falter. If anything, it deepened - a mix of amusement and something more profound. "Oh, but yes way," he countered, his fingers still intertwined with yours. "The universe works in strange ways."

You'd heard that before. Gotham was a city of strange ways, of unexpected connections.

"The truth," Tim continued, leaning closer, "is always more complicated." His voice dropped, intimate. "You're the first person who's ever looked past the surface. Who sees beyond the Drake heir, beyond the Wayne successor. Who sees just... me."

The words hung between you - vulnerable, honest, dangerous.

The food arrived like a distraction, a symphony of colors that seemed almost too artful to disturb. Delicate rice paper rolls that looked like they'd been crafted by an artist, not a chef. Steam rising from a soup that promised complexity. Crisp pancakes that looked more like small architectural models than something meant to be eaten.

"Eat," Tim encouraged, his eyes never leaving yours. "No nerves required."

Your chopsticks felt awkward, clumsy. Tim's movements, by contrast, were fluid - each motion precise, economic. A dancer's grace, a programmer's efficiency.

The first bite exploded across your tongue - layers of flavor so complex they almost seemed impossible. Nuanced. Unexpected. Nothing like any Vietnamese food you'd experienced before.

"Good?" Tim asked, and the word was loaded with something more than simple curiosity.

"Incredible," you admitted. And you weren't just talking about the food.

Outside, Gotham's night was falling. City lights began to sparkle - a million stories unfolding in the darkness. But inside this restaurant, in this moment, there was only the two of you. The elegant space. The extraordinary food. And a connection that felt like it was writing its own unexpected story.

The evening was drawing to a close, and the last thing you wanted was for it to end. The tension between you and Tim was electric - professional boundaries blurring with each passing moment. One more hour, and you'd be dangerously close to crossing lines that couldn't be uncrossed.

Gotham's night air bit through your jacket as you stepped outside, the city's chill a stark contrast to the warmth of the restaurant.

"Metropolis," you said softly, a statement and a promise. Your feet shifted, reluctant to create distance between you.

Tim's gaze was warm, understanding. But there was something else brewing beneath the surface - a careful consideration you recognized instantly.

"I spoke with Bruce," he began, each word measured. "About us. About potential... complications."

You tensed slightly. The unspoken implications hung between you - this could work, or this could spectacularly fall apart.

"A contract," Tim continued, watching your reaction carefully. "Not what you're thinking. An NDA. A way to protect both of us. Professionally and personally."

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it. "A contract? Like some kind of corporate romance clause?"

Tim's laugh matched yours - nervous, excited, slightly ridiculous. "Something like that. Bruce thought it might provide a framework. Protection."

"Romantic," you deadpanned, but your eyes were sparkling.

"Bruce was never known for his romantic sensibilities," Tim shot back.

A soft silence settled between you, the city's background noise a distant hum. Tim's hands were tucked into his coat pockets, but you could see the tension in his shoulders - a mixture of hope and uncertainty.

"So," you said finally, your breath creating small clouds in the cold Gotham air, "a contract that essentially says what, exactly?"

Tim's smile was equal parts nervous and calculated. "Mutual discretion. Clear boundaries. Protections for both of us if things become... complicated." He paused. "Bruce suggested it might help us navigate the professional complexities."

You appreciated the directness. In Gotham, in your world, nothing was ever simple. Relationships were chess matches, and Tim was proposing a detailed playbook.

"And if I want to play?" The question hung between you, loaded with possibility.

"Then we play carefully," Tim responded, his voice low. "Very carefully."

The streetlights cast a golden glow, creating a bubble of intimacy in the middle of a city that never truly slept. Gotham watched, perpetually curious, perpetually waiting.

“I can do careful,” you hummed sweetly and stood on the tips of your toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek making him flush red in the face. You heard a honk and looked over and saw scarlet's car. “That's my ride. See you in Metropolis, Mr. Drake”

“I'm never going to get you to just call me Tim all the time, am i?” His voice filled with mirth and teasing as he smiled at you.

“We will see, sir” you chirped, giving a mock salute before going off to your sister's car.

.

.

.

"That should be everything," Scarlet declared, setting down the final box in the spacious Metropolis penthouse. She let out a low whistle, surveying the room. "Quite the setup your boyfriend arranged."

"He's not—" You sighed, catching yourself, maybe you were, you werent sure. "Tim just needs me close for our work."

Scarlet's eyebrow arched, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Right. Just work."

You rolled your eyes, recognizing the familiar teasing. "You sound just like Indi and Dick."

Her laugh was soft, but her gaze grew serious. Stuffing her hands into her pockets, Scarlet studied you with a mixture of concern and pride. "You sure you'll be okay out here? It's a hell of a long way from Gotham."

The concern was layered—part sisterly protection, part lingering grief. You both knew how much had changed since your father's death.

"I need this," you said quietly. "A fresh start. Away from... everything."

"Away from Josh," Scarlet corrected, her tone hardening. "I still offer to break his kneecaps, by the way."

"Calm down, Vito Corleone," you chuckled.

For a moment, Scarlet looked less like the fierce small business owner and more like the sister who had helped raise you. Her fingers traced the edge of a nearby box—an old nervous habit from childhood.

"I worry," she admitted. "Ever since dad..."

You moved closer, placing a hand on her arm. "I know. But I'm not alone. I've got you. Indi. Petal. Mom. And now, this opportunity with Tim."

Moisture gathered in Scarlet's eyes. "You're going to do amazing things. I know it."

The hug was tight, filled with the familiar scents of lavender, flower shop soil, and citrus cleaning products that defined Scarlet.

"How's the shop? How's Harkin?" you asked, sensing she needed to shift focus.

Her smile transformed her entire demeanor. "Growing like a weed. He's 'helping' me arrange flowers—which means creating beautiful, chaotic messes."

"Sounds exactly like his mother," you teased.

"Careful," Scarlet mock-warned. "I have connections with every florist in Gotham. I could make your professional life very interesting."

You raised an eyebrow. "Weaponized flower arrangements?"

"Not a threat. A promise."

Laughter dissolved the remaining tension. Outside the penthouse windows, Metropolis awaited—a canvas of new possibilities.

"Call me," Scarlet insisted as she prepared to leave. "Every. Single. Day."

"Yes, mom," you retorted, the affection clear.

After she departed, you stood amid the boxes—each one a symbol of transformation, of escape, of hope.

Your phone buzzed.

From: Tim

Everything settled in?

To: Tim

Almost. My sister just threatened to weaponize flower arrangements if I don't call her daily.

From: Tim

Remind me to never get on her bad side either.

A smile played on your lips. Metropolis wasn't just a new city. It was a new beginning.

.

.

.

The weeks blurred together, each day more demanding than the last. You could feel the tension building—in your jaw, in Tim's posture, in the very air around your work.

You were on a call, your tone clipped and professional, when Tim entered the room. His face was a map of stress, fingers rubbing his temples. Their eyes met—a silent acknowledgment of the mounting pressure.

The phone call was a masterclass in professional restraint. Your voice, crisp and controlled, sliced through the potential client's growing agitation.

"Mr. Drake's schedule is completely booked," you stated, each word precisely calibrated. "We cannot accommodate additional meetings at this time."

Tim watched from the doorway, a silent observer to your professional ballet. The muffled sounds of argument filtered through the phone's speaker—frustration, desperation, the kind of negotiation that happened when someone was used to getting their way.

"I understand your concerns," you continued, a razor's edge of patience threading through your tone. "If you could provide a more comprehensive proposal, I'd be happy to review it for potential future consideration."

Another pause. Your fingers drummed a subtle rhythm against the desk—the only outward sign of your mounting irritation.

"No," you said firmly. "Mr. Drake maintains strict boundaries regarding business communications. Discretion is paramount in our work."

When you finally ended the call, the silence felt like a physical thing. You exhaled—long, controlled, a study in professional composure.

Tim's chuckle was low, tinged with exhaustion. "Problems?"

Your smile was wry, weathered. "Just another client who believes the rules don't apply to them."

The subtext was clear. The Metropolis transfer—once a promising strategic expansion—had become a crucible of unexpected challenges. New clients, competing interests, a constant barrage of professional obstacles had transformed their work into a high-wire act of precision and patience.

"I'm starting to think Samantha might have been right about the market volatility," you admitted, shuffling papers that seemed to multiply with each passing moment.

Tim's jaw tightened. The mention of Samantha was a deliberate provocation, and he knew it.

"We're not giving her the satisfaction," he responded, the words clipped.

You raised an eyebrow, a challenge masked as curiosity. "Competitive?"

"Always," he said. But beneath the professional veneer, a hint of his younger self emerged—that brilliant, driven individual who'd never backed down from a challenge.

"Coffee?"

It wasn't a question. It was survival.

The break room was a sanctuary of sorts—a small pocket of relative calm in their storm of professional intensity. The coffee machine gurgled, filling the space with a rich, bitter aroma that spoke of long nights and endless negotiations.

Tim's phone buzzed. The caller ID read "Dick"—a name that immediately sparked a warning look from Tim.

"Don't," he said, catching your inquisitive glance.

"Don't what?" Innocence personified.

"Whatever matchmaking scheme Dick and Indi are plotting." No real heat in the words. Just resignation.

Outside, Metropolis stretched beneath gray skies—a city of perpetual motion, of opportunities hidden behind concrete and glass. Much like the relationship developing between you and Tim. Professional. Intense. Something more.

"We're going to make this work," you muttered. A promise. A prayer.

Tim looked at you—truly looked. Past the stress. Beyond the tense shoulders and dark circles. He saw potential. Resilience. Something profound.

"Together," he confirmed.

The word hung in the air. Weighted. Promising.

Your phone buzzed. Scarlet, as always, a lifeline.

From: Scarlet

Coffee count? Eating actual food today?

You showed Tim the message. He laughed, a sound that broke through the professional tension.

"Indi's more responsible sibling" he observed.

"Careful," you warned. "She weaponizes flower arrangements."

As if summoned by the conversation, a delivery arrived. A small, elegant bouquet. The card read: "Survive. Thrive. Love you."

Something soft passed over Tim's expression. A vulnerability quickly masked by professional composure.

"We've got this," he said quietly.

And for the first time in weeks, you believed him.

.

.

.

The first true glimpse of Timothy Jackson Drake's anger wasn't a explosion. It was precise. Surgical. Triggered by a rumor that threatened everything you'd both been building.

A coworker's casual observation. You and Tim, lunch, appearing more familiar than strictly professional.

The storm was just beginning.

The voices filtered through Tim's office door, muffled but unmistakable.

"Mr. Drake, we aren't saying personal relationships are forbidden, but consider the optics."

You continued typing, each keystroke a measured rhythm of professional composure. But you were listening. Always listening.

The arrangement between you and Tim was a delicate architecture. Not a relationship, not exactly. Something more calculated. Less romantic, more strategic. Bruce's recommendation hung over everything—a non-disclosure agreement disguised as professional courtesy.

Tim took care of things. A Prada handbag here. Covering unexpected expenses there. You weren't naive enough to call it love. You were pragmatic enough to recognize opportunity.

Inside the office, Tim's voice rose—a razor's edge of controlled fury.

"My assistant's performance is exemplary," he stated. Not a defense. A declaration.

You knew the game. Every interaction choreographed. Lunches that could pass as strategy meetings. Texts that whispered professional necessity. Gifts positioned as performance incentives.

The door opened. Tim emerged—professional armor firmly in place, save for the microscopic tension in his jaw.

"Pull the quarterly reports," he instructed. Not a request.

You understood immediately. Performance metrics as weaponry. A clinical dismantling of any suggestion of impropriety.

Your phone buzzed. Indi's perpetual concern.

From: Indi

You're being careful?

To: Indi

Always.

Tim's fingers flew across his keyboard—composing what you knew would be a surgical email. Destroying potential narratives before they could take root.

"Coffee?" you asked.

"Already brewing," he responded, because you always were.

The first true fracture came later. Not during the meeting. After.

His office. Private territory. The walls seemed to breathe with unspoken tension.

"I've never seen you so calm," you remarked.

Tim's response was immediate. "I'm not calm."

A muscle ticked in his cheek. Fury, precisely contained. "I'm furious they would dare question your competence. Your integrity."

You stepped closer. An instinctive movement. Grounding.

"Tim—"

The space between you was charged. Not with anger. Something more complex. More dangerous.

Metropolis stretched outside—a city of ambition, of carefully constructed facades. Much like the relationship developing between you and Tim.

Professional. Intense. Undefined.

Precisely where you both wanted it.

"They don't truly see you," Tim said, his voice a low, controlled intensity that could slice through steel. "Just another face. A convenient target."

The space between you vibrated with unspoken tension. Professional. Personal. Something impossibly complex.

His hand caught your wrist—not a restraint, but a connection. Firm. Deliberate.

"I see you," he repeated. Each word a precise instrument. A vow. “Do you know what I see? What you are?”

You knew the game. The careful dance you'd choreographed. Bruce's recommendations echoing in every interaction. Boundaries drawn with surgical precision.

"I'm the one who understands the numbers," you murmured. "The one who keeps this machine running."

His grip softened. A single finger tracing the delicate skin of your inner arm—a touch that defied every professional protocol you'd both meticulously constructed.

"The one," Tim said, "who makes me want to break every rule we've set."

City lights filtered through the office windows. Metropolis—a backdrop to your carefully modulated tension.

"Tim," you warned. A plea. A boundary.

He was close. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him. The controlled fury. The restrained desire.

"Just one moment," he said. Not a question. Not quite a demand.

The line between professional and personal blurred. Dissolved.

His kiss was precise. Controlled. A claim and a surrender wrapped into one moment of absolute clarity.

When he pulled back, you were breathless. Flushed. Changed.

"Remember," Tim said, "who you are to me."

You nodded. A return to form. To function.

"Reports," he instructed.

And just like that, the moment dissolved. Professional composure restored.

.

.

.

Performance reports became your weapon. Tim's legendary meticulousness combined with your strategic brilliance—a combination more surgical than any board meeting could anticipate.

"They're searching for weakness," Tim murmured, documents spread between you like battle plans.

The office was silent. Just desk lamps. City lights. The soft rustle of paper.

"They won't find it," you responded. Your phone buzzed. Indi.

From: Indi

Message: Heard through the grapevine you're causing board drama. Need me to come weaponize some PR?

To: Indi

Message: Absolutely not.

Tim glanced over, catching your slight smile. "Your sister?"

"Offering to commit professional warfare on my behalf," you deadpanned.

He chuckled. A rare sound these days.

The Metropolis expansion was proving more challenging than anticipated. Tech companies were circling, sensing vulnerability. The board's whispers about your relationship were just one pressure point.

"We could make a statement," Tim suggested, not for the first time.

"And say what? That we're... what exactly?" You raised an eyebrow. "Professionally involved? Personally connected?"

The space between those definitions was where you lived now.

A knock interrupted. Martin Reynolds – the board member who'd been most vocal about your "inappropriate relationship" – stood in the doorway.

"Ms. (Y/L/N)," he said, deliberately not looking at Tim, "a moment?"

Tim's hand – almost imperceptibly – brushed yours under the desk. A silent warning. A promise.

The game was just beginning.

You followed Mr. Reynolds out into the hall, who glanced around for a moment, ensuring no one was within immediate earshot.

"You wished to speak to me, sir?"

"With all due respect, ma'am, I'd like to make a suggestion." His tone was clipped and lined with a superiority that made you want to claw his eyes out. "End whatever little situation you have with Mr. Drake before it ruins you."

You gaped at the audacity of this man for a moment before your eyes narrowed. "Mr. Drake and I's connection outside of work hours is not of company concern, sir."

Reynolds leaned in, his voice low and threatening. "Do you really think you're the first assistant to believe she can navigate a relationship with her boss? I've seen careers destroyed for far less."

Your spine straightened. You'd grown up with Indi as a sister and survived Scarlet's protective fury and had helped raise the youngest of your sisters into a formidable young woman. A middle-aged board member attempting to intimidate you was child's play.

"Are you suggesting, Mr. Reynolds, that my professional performance has been anything less than exceptional?" Each word was precisely placed, a verbal chess move.

He faltered slightly. The quarterly reports – the ones you and Tim had meticulously prepared – spoke for themselves. Your metrics were impeccable. The Metropolis office had seen a 17% increase in efficiency since your arrival.

"I'm suggesting," he said, recovering his bluster, "that personal entanglements compromise professional judgment."

A laugh – short, sharp – escaped you before you could stop it. "With all due respect, sir, the only compromise I see is your apparent inability to recognize talent when it's directly in front of you."

Tim's approach was subtle. You didn't hear him, but suddenly he was there, a presence just behind you. Not intervening, but clearly present.

"Is there a problem?" Tim's voice was silk over steel.

Reynolds straightened, the bravado momentarily deflating. "Mr. Drake. Just having a professional discussion with your... assistant."

"My executive assistant," Tim corrected, a razor's edge to the words. "Is there something specific you needed to discuss about our recent performance reports?"

The hall seemed to compress, tension thrumming between them. You were acutely aware of the strategic positioning – Tim slightly behind you, a silent support, letting you handle the confrontation.

Reynolds knew he was outmaneuvered. "No," he said finally. "Nothing further."

As he walked away, Tim's hand brushed yours – so briefly anyone watching would miss it. A moment of connection. Of solidarity.

"Lunch?" he asked, as if nothing had happened.

Your smile was pure defiance. "Absolutely."

The walk to the cafeteria was charged. Tim's mind raced, replaying the interaction. Reynolds' thinly veiled threats. Your sharp-edged response. The way you'd stood your ground, unflinching.

"You know," he said as you entered the elevator, "I'm starting to think you enjoy these confrontations."

Your laugh was sharp. Bitter. "Not so much enjoyment as necessitate."

The elevator doors slid shut, sealing you in a capsule of forced intimacy. Tim leaned against the wall, studying you. Really seeing you for the first time since the whole Reynolds debacle began.

"I never thanked you," he said quietly. "For handling that. With Reynolds."

You shrugged, but there was a tension in your shoulders. A tightness around your eyes that spoke of long-held frustrations.

"Don't," you said, too quickly. "Don't thank me for doing my job."

Ah. There it was. The crux of the issue.

"(Y/N)," he started, but the elevator dinged, doors sliding open to reveal the bustling cafeteria. The aroma of fresh coffee and reheated pizza wafted out, a stark contrast to the sterile hallways of Wayne Enterprises.

Tim hesitated, his hand hovering at the threshold. The urge to pull you aside, to find a quiet corner and hash this out, was strong. But the rational part of his brain knew that wasn't the answer. Not here, not now.

So he followed you into the fray, falling into step beside you as you wove through the lunchtime crowd. You moved with purpose, your posture straight and your gaze focused. No one would guess at the tension thrumming beneath your skin.

"Salad bar?" Tim asked, a peace offering. A chance to salvage some normalcy.

You nodded, a curt jerk of your head. No words, but the message was clear.

As you loaded up your tray with greens and vegetables, Tim found himself studying you. The set of your jaw, the furrow between your brows. He'd seen you angry before, but this was different. This was cold. Calculating.

"You know," he said softly, leaning in so only you could hear, "if you ever need a sparring partner, I'm your guy."

The joke fell flat. Your eyes never left the salad bar, but he could see the muscles in your back tense.

Right. Not the time for levity.

They found a table in the corner, as far from the crowds as possible. You sat across from him, arranging your food with mechanical precision.

Tim took a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly. The silence stretched between you, heavy with things unsaid.

"(Y/N)," he started, but the words tangled on his tongue. How did you even begin to address this? The double standards, the constant scrutiny, the need to be twice as good just to be seen as half as competent?

You looked up, meeting his gaze. There was a challenge there, a defiance that took his breath away.

"Don't," you said, your voice low and intense. "Don't look at me like that. Like I'm some fragile thing that needs protecting."

"I'm not," he protested, but the denial rang hollow even to his own ears.

"Yes, you are." Your knife scraped against your plate, a sharp sound in the quiet cafeteria. "You're looking at me like I'm a victim. Like I need you to fight my battles for me."

Tim's jaw clenched. He knew that look. That patronizing tilt of the head, that subtle shift in body language that said 'poor little girl, can't handle the big bad corporate world'.

It made his blood boil.

"That's not," he started, but you cut him off with a look.

"It is," you insisted, leaning forward. "It's exactly what you're thinking. You're wondering how I can handle myself, how I can stand up to men like Reynolds."

"I'm not," Tim said, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were a lie. He had wondered that, in the moment. Had seen you standing tall and proud and fierce, and had felt a flicker of doubt.

"Well, stop," you said, sitting back. "Stop wondering, stop worrying, stop treating me like I'm made of glass."

Tim's hands curled into fists beneath the table. He wanted to argue, to defend himself. But the words wouldn't come.

Because you were right. He had been treating you differently, holding you to a different standard. And that was wrong.

"I apologize," he said finally, the words stiff and formal in his mouth. "I shouldn't have assumed."

You studied him for a long moment, searching his face. Then, slowly, you nodded.

"Apology accepted," you said, and just like that, the tension broke.

You went back to your salad, and Tim to his sandwich. The conversation flowed back to safer topics - work, the weather, the never-ending stream of emails.

But beneath it all, something had shifted. A new understanding, a deeper respect.

Tim Drake was many things - a vigilante, a detective, a genius. But today, he was learning to be something else. Your equal.

.

.

.

Morning sunlight filtered through your penthouse windows, illuminating an elegantly wrapped box outside your door. The tag made you sigh: 'a proper apology - T'. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, lay a dress that made your breath catch. Chamomile yellow silk, the kind of elegance that belonged at galas, not board meetings. Your laptop search for the designer nearly stopped your heart.

You hit Tim's speed dial. "Timothy Jackson Drake, did you seriously buy me a five thousand dollar dress as an apology?!"

His chuckle was warm, rich. "Guilty. But it's not just any dress. It's Valentino, that designer you mentioned loving at the charity gala last month."

Your fingers traced the impeccable stitching, betraying you even as you protested. "This is excessive."

"Says the woman who orchestrated a complete restructuring of our Asia-Pacific division in three days." The smile in his voice was audible. "But seriously, I wanted... I needed to show you that yesterday meant something. That I heard you."

You bit your lip, caught between admiration and unease. The gesture was thoughtful, intimate even - he'd remembered an offhand comment about your favorite designer. But it also highlighted the very power dynamic you'd fought against yesterday.

"Tim," you said softly, still running your fingers along the silk, "I can't accept this. It's too much."

His pause spoke volumes. When he finally responded, his voice had lost its playful edge.

"This isn't about the money, (Y/N). This is me saying I see you. As my equal. My partner. Yesterday made me realize I needed to show that, not just say it.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. You closed your eyes, taking a steadying breath.

"I appreciate the sentiment," you said carefully. "But gifts like this... they create expectations. Obligations."

"I'm not trying to create obligations," Tim said, exasperation creeping into his tone. "I'm trying to show you that I value you. As a person. As my colleague. You're important to me."

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words died in your throat. Because maybe... maybe he was right. Maybe you were reading too much into this. Seeing shadows where there was only light.

"Keep it," Tim said, his voice gentle now. "Wear it to the gala next week. Show them all how wrong they are about you."

The gala. Of course. The annual charity event that was as much about business as it was about philanthropy. A chance to network, to make statements.

To make a point.

"Fine," you said, surprising yourself with the word. "I'll wear it. But only because it's a lovely dress."

"And because you look stunning in yellow," Tim added, his voice warm.

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. "Flatterer."

"Always," he agreed, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

You hung up a moment later, still holding the dress. The silk was cool against your skin, a reminder of the promise – and the danger – that lay ahead.

The dress was beautiful. Tim's intentions were pure. But in the cutthroat world of Wayne Enterprises, even the most innocent of gestures could be twisted. Used against you.

You'd have to be careful. Cautious. But for now, in the early morning light, you allowed yourself a moment of indulgence.

Of possibility.

The next morning arrived too soon, the alarm jarring you awake with its insistent beep. You groaned, burying your face in the pillow, but the events of the day ahead refused to be ignored.

The gala. The dress. Tim.

With a sigh, you dragged yourself out of bed, stumbling to the closet where you'd hung the chamomile dress the night before. The silk shimmered in the low light, a promise of elegance amidst the chaos of your morning routine.

You showered quickly, taking extra care with your hair and makeup. Tonight was about making a statement, and you wanted to look your best.

As you slipped into the dress, you marveled at the way it hugged your curves, accentuating your assets without being overtly sexual.

You stepped back, taking in the full effect. The dress was perfect – elegant, sophisticated, but with a hint of something more. A whisper of danger beneath the surface.

Just like you.

A knock at the door startled you from your thoughts.

“Door is open, let yourself in,” you called out. The door swung open, revealing Tim in a tailored tuxedo. His blue eyes widened as he took in the sight of you, the chamomile dress clinging to your curves like a second skin.

"Wow," he breathed, stepping into the room. "You look... incredible."

You felt a flush of pleasure at the compliment, even as you tried to tamp it down. This was about making a statement, not fishing for compliments.

"Thank you," you said coolly, moving past him to grab your clutch. "I hope you don't intend to keep me waiting."

Tim chuckled, following you out into the hallway. "Wouldn't dream of it. I know better than to keep a lady waiting."

The ride to the gala was filled with small talk, the kind of inane chatter that filled the air at these sorts of events. You pointed out a few notable guests as they arrived, while Tim regaled you with stories of past galas gone wrong.

"One year," he said, his eyes twinkling in the dim light of the limo, "one year, I accidentally spilled red wine all over Bruce's date. He was furious. Threw me out of the car and made me walk home."

You couldn't help but laugh at the image, the sound escaping before you could stop it. Tim grinned, clearly pleased with the reaction.

"I've never lived it down," he confessed, shaking his head. "But hey, at least I learned to hold my drink."

The limo pulled up to the gala venue, the Starlight Ballroom, a glittering palace of glass and steel. You stepped out onto the red carpet, the flash of cameras blinding in the night.

Tim offered you his arm, ever the gentleman. You took it, ignoring the way your heart raced at the contact.

The Starlight Ballroom shimmered like a jewel box, crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light across the crowd of Metropolis elite. You smoothed down the chamomile silk of your dress - Tim's gift - and fought the urge to fidget with your clutch. The weight of eyes on you was tangible: board members, society mavens, all wondering about the nature of your relationship with Timothy Drake.

"Champagne?" Tim appeared at your elbow, two flutes balanced elegantly in his hands. In his perfectly tailored tuxedo, he looked every inch the billionaire CEO - except for the slight softness in his eyes when they met yours.

"My hero," you murmured, accepting the glass. The cool crystal anchored you, gave you something to do with your hands besides betray your nerves.

"Reynolds is watching," Tim said under his breath, his smile never wavering. "Third pillar from the left."

You didn't turn to look. You'd learned that much about these gatherings - never let them see you react. "Let him watch. We have nothing to hide."

Tim's fingers brushed yours as he took your empty glass, the touch sending electricity up your arm. "Dance with me?"

The orchestra was playing something slow and romantic - because of course it was. You let Tim lead you onto the floor, his hand settling at your waist with practiced ease. This close, you could smell his cologne, see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

"You're thinking too loud," he murmured, guiding you through a turn.

"Someone has to," you shot back, but there was no heat in it. How could there be, when he was looking at you like that?

The music swelled, a slow, sultry beat that seemed to pulse in time with your heart. Tim pulled you close, his hand splayed across your back, drawing you flush against his body.

You moved together, your bodies finding a rhythm that was uniquely yours. The world fell away, the gala fading into the background as you lost yourself in the feel of him, the scent of his cologne, the heat of his skin.

When the song ended, you pulled back, breathless and flushed. Tim's eyes were dark, his gaze heavy with promise.

"Tim... I" your hands lingered on his shoulders and he hummed softly, gazing at you through hooded lids.

"Mmmhm?"

"I.."

"(Y/N), is that you?" A voice like honey laced with arsenic cut through the moment. You stiffened, your spine turning to ice. Slowly, you turned to face the architect of your past heartbreak. Alexia stood there, resplendent in a champagne-colored dress that probably cost more than your monthly rent, her smile sharp as a knife's edge.

"Alexia." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

"(Y/N)!" She glided forward with practiced grace, enveloping you in a cloud of expensive perfume and false warmth. "It's been absolute ages!"

You remained rigid in her embrace, your arms hanging uselessly at your sides. The memory of finding her in your bed – in your bed with Josh – flashed unbidden through your mind.

Tim's hand found your waist, his touch grounding you. His fingers pressed ever so slightly into your skin – a silent reminder that you weren't alone.

"How... unexpected to see you here," you managed, extracting yourself from her embrace. The smile you offered felt like shattered glass on your lips.

Alexia's perfectly shaped eyebrows arched as her gaze slid to Tim, lingering just a heartbeat too long on the elegant cut of his suit. "And who might this be?"

"Tim Drake," he introduced himself with impossible smoothness, extending his hand. The way he said it – so casual yet commanding – sent a flutter through your stomach.

"Charmed," Alexia purred, her manicured fingers wrapping around his hand. She held on just long enough to make you notice, her thumb brushing his palm as she withdrew. "I don't suppose you're here alone?"

Your fingers curled into Tim's jacket before you could stop yourself. "Actually, Tim's my date."

"Is he now?" Alexia's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in her eyes – calculation, perhaps. Or hunger. "How... lovely."

She turned back to Tim, angling her body to partially exclude you from the conversation. "You must tell me how you two met. (Y/N) was always so... particular about her choices. After Josh, I mean."

The casual cruelty of the reference made your breath catch. Tim's hand tightened imperceptibly on your waist.

"Actually," he interjected smoothly, "we were just about to get some air. The terrace here is supposed to be spectacular."

"Oh, but you must save a dance for me later," Alexia called as you turned to leave, her voice carrying just enough to draw curious glances from nearby guests. "For old times' sake."

You didn't trust yourself to respond, letting Tim guide you through the crowd. But you could feel Alexia's eyes following you, calculating and cold as a snake's.

Later, when you found yourself alone by the pool, the click of heels on marble announced her arrival before her voice did.

"Quite the catch," she drawled, coming to stand beside you. "Better than Josh, I'd say. Though that's not saying much, is it?"

You turned to face her, tired of the games. "What do you want, Alexia?"

Her perfect smile faltered for just a moment. "Want? Can't I just want to reconnect with an old friend?"

"We stopped being friends the moment you chose to destroy everything I trusted you with."

"Oh please," she scoffed, mask slipping further. "You always were so dramatic. It was just sex. Besides," her lips curved into a cruel smile, "he wasn't exactly thinking about you that night."

The words hit like a physical blow, but you refused to let her see you flinch. "And that's supposed to make it better? That you both betrayed me so completely?"

"Betrayed you?" Alexia laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "Honey, you betrayed yourself. Always playing it safe, always so... proper. Josh needed more. Maybe Tim will too, eventually."

Your hands clenched at your sides, nails biting into your palms. "You don't know anything about Tim."

"Not yet," she agreed, her smile turning predatory. "But the night is young."

You stepped closer, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Stay away from him, Alexia. And stay away from me."

She merely laughed, the sound echoing across the water. "Come on, don't you wanna hear about how good I have it now?"

You paused, hand hovering over the ornate handle of the ballroom door. The rational part of your brain screamed at you to walk away, to deny her the satisfaction. But there was something magnetic about the moment – like watching a car crash in slow motion, knowing the impact was coming but unable to look away.

Pivoting slowly on your heel, you faced her with a carefully constructed mask of indifference. "Alright, Alexia. Dazzle me."

Her smile unfurled like a poisonous flower, perfectly painted lips curving with predatory satisfaction. "Oh, I think you'll find this particularly... interesting." She paused, savoring the moment like fine wine. "Wayne Enterprises just signed me as their new Director of Strategic Partnerships. I'll be working directly with Tim on all major accounts."

The words hit you like ice water in your veins. You fought to keep your expression neutral, even as your mind raced through the implications. Tim. Every day. In meetings, over coffee, late nights at the office...

"Funny," you heard yourself say, voice steady despite the tremor in your chest. "Tim hasn't mentioned anything about it."

"Hasn't he?" Alexia's eyebrow arched delicately. "Well, it's all very recent. The paperwork was just finalized today, actually. Tim and I had quite the... intimate discussion about my role." She emphasized 'intimate' just enough to make your skin crawl.

Your fingers curled into your palm, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake. The familiar whisper of inadequacy crept up your spine – the same voice that had haunted you after finding her with Josh. But something else stirred beneath the surface. Something harder, sharper.

"Although," you began, surprising yourself with the honeyed steel in your voice, "you might want to check that paperwork again. As Tim's executive assistant, I handle all his strategic partnerships." You watched the flicker of uncertainty cross her face. "And I don't recall seeing your name cross my desk."

The change in Alexia was instant – like a switch being flipped. Her perfectly composed facade cracked, revealing the raw fury beneath. Before you could react, her hands connected with your shoulders.

The world tilted.

The pool water shocked your system, stealing your breath. You flailed, your designer dress becoming a lead weight dragging you down. The underwater lights blurred into abstract shapes as panic clawed at your chest. Your lungs burned. You'd never learned to swim – a fact that had seemed inconsequential until this moment.

The water above you rippled and distorted, darkness creeping at the edges of your vision. Then – movement. Strong arms encircled your waist, pulling you up, up, up.

You broke the surface gasping, instinctively pressing your face into the crook of a familiar neck. Tim's cologne cut through the chlorine, grounding you as he lifted you from the pool.

"I've got you," he murmured against your hair, his voice rough with barely contained emotion. "You're safe. I've got you."

Water cascaded from your ruined dress as he carried you swiftly through the service entrance, away from prying eyes and whispered gossip. Your fingers clutched at his soaked shirt, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against your palm.

He shouldered open the door to a private bathroom, setting you down carefully on the closed toilet lid. "Don't move," he ordered, voice tight with concern. "I'll be right back."

You nodded numbly, watching droplets fall from your hair to the marble floor. Time seemed to stretch and compress oddly – you weren't sure if seconds or hours passed before Tim returned, arms full of pristine white towels.

He knelt before you, hands infinitely gentle as they moved to help you out of your waterlogged dress. "We need to get you warm," he murmured, but there was something else in his voice. Something dangerous. "Are you hurt?"

You shook your head, then stopped as the movement made the room spin slightly. "Tim..."

"Shh," he soothed, wrapping a towel around your shoulders. "We'll deal with her later. Right now, all that matters is you."

But even as his hands worked to warm you, you could see the cold fury building behind his eyes. Tim Drake was not a man who forgot. And Alexia had just made a very, very big mistake.

You shivered as the cool air kissed your wet skin, raising an army of goosebumps across your arms and legs. Tim's hands were steady as he wrapped a towel around your shoulders, then another at your waist, his movements precise yet tender.

"Think you can stand?" His voice was soft, brow furrowed with the kind of concern that made your chest ache.

You nodded, gripping his forearms as he helped you up. Your legs trembled beneath you like a newborn fawn's, but Tim's presence was solid, unwavering. His soaked suit clung to his frame, water still dripping from his usually perfectly styled hair, and something about seeing him so disheveled, so human, made your heart flutter traitorously in your chest.

The whispers followed you through the ballroom like persistent shadows. Did you see...? In the pool...? Drake's assistant... But they felt distant, meaningless against the steady rhythm of Tim's heartbeat where your hand pressed against his chest for balance.

He guided you to a secluded alcove, settling you onto a velvet sofa that probably cost more than your monthly salary. The fabric would be ruined by your wet clothes, but Tim didn't seem to care as he knelt before you, one hand resting carefully on your knee.

"I'm going to find you something dry to wear," he murmured, his thumb tracing an absent circle against your skin. "Then we'll get you home, okay?"

You managed a nod, sinking back into the sofa as exhaustion began to seep into your bones. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that made your eyelids heavy.

When Tim returned, he held what looked like designer workout clothes. His touch was feather-light as he helped you change, his eyes carefully averted even though you were still in your slip. Ever the gentleman, even now.

"Better?" he asked, smoothing your damp hair back from your face with a gentleness that made your breath catch.

"Tired," you admitted, unconsciously leaning into his touch. "And mortified that half of Gotham's elite just saw me dripping all over their marble floors."

Tim's laugh was low and warm, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Trust me, they've seen worse at these things. Besides," his eyes softened, "I think I ruined the dramatic effect by jumping in after you in a three-piece Armani."

That startled a laugh from you, though it caught in your throat as you really looked at him – his ruined suit, his tousled hair, the way his eyes hadn't left your face since pulling you from the pool. Like you might disappear if he looked away.

"I should go," you whispered, the words feeling wrong even as you said them. "Before someone takes a photo of me in borrowed Lululemon."

Tim's hand stilled against your cheek, something flickering in his eyes before he slowly pulled away. "Let me take you home," he said, standing and offering his hand. "We should... talk. About Alexia. About everything."

The drive home was quiet, filled with the soft hum of the car's heater and the occasional brush of Tim's hand against yours as he shifted gears. When you finally reached your building, he insisted on walking you up, carrying your ruined dress in a designer shopping bag someone had procured.

The lights in your penthouse apartment flickered on, casting a warm glow over the hardwood floors. You kicked off the borrowed shoes with a sigh of relief, and then—

"Mrrrrrowww?" A long, creaky sound echoed from the kitchen, followed by the appearance of a distinguished-looking tuxedo cat. Thomas sauntered out, his black and white coat gleaming in the light, tail held high like a flag of greeting.

"Hey, old man," you cooed, bending to pet him, but he gracefully sidestepped your still-damp hand with an affronted look that only cats can truly master.

Tim's surprised laugh was warm and genuine. "You have a cat?" He watched as Thomas performed his elaborate greeting ritual, circling your legs before sitting just out of reach, green eyes studying Tim with regal assessment.

"This is Thomas," you said, fighting a smile as the cat turned his attention to Tim, whiskers twitching with interest. "He's particular about his humans. And apparently about wet hands."

Tim crouched down, extending his fingers toward Thomas. To your surprise, the cat moved forward immediately, butting his head against Tim's hand with a purr that sounded like a small motor.

"Traitor," you muttered fondly, watching as your normally aloof cat melted under Tim's attention. "He usually takes weeks to warm up to people."

Tim glanced up at you, a soft smile playing at his lips. "What can I say? I have a way with complicated personalities."

The weight of the evening suddenly pressed down on you – the party, Alexia, the pool, and now Tim kneeling on your floor, charming your cat while still wearing a soaked designer suit. It felt surreal, like a dream you might wake from at any moment.

"Tim," you started, not quite sure what you were going to say, but needing to say something.

He stood slowly, Thomas weaving between his legs. "We should talk," he said quietly, "but first, you should get warm and dry. Properly dry." His eyes were serious now, concern evident in the set of his shoulders. "Do you want me to stay?"

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with possibilities. You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly aware of how vulnerable you felt in the borrowed clothes, hair still damp and curling at the ends. The question lingered in the air, charged with unspoken meaning.

"Yes," you whispered, then cleared your throat. "Yes, I'd... like that."

Tim's expression softened. "Okay. Go change. I'll make us some tea."

"You know where everything is?" you asked, already knowing the answer. He'd been here countless times for late-night work sessions and early morning briefings, but this felt different somehow.

"Second cabinet on the left, top shelf," he replied with a small smile. "Go on. Thomas and I will handle things out here."

As if on cue, Thomas let out another creaky meow and padded after Tim toward the kitchen. You shook your head, still amazed at your cat's immediate acceptance of him.

In your bedroom, you peeled off the borrowed clothes, hanging them carefully over your shower rod. The hot water of the shower felt like heaven against your chlorine-scented skin, washing away the last physical traces of the evening. But Alexia's words still echoed in your mind, mixing with the sound of running water.

When you emerged, wrapped in your softest pajamas and warmest robe, you found Tim had made himself at home. He'd somehow procured dry clothes – you suspected he kept a change in his car for emergencies – and was sitting on your couch, two steaming mugs on the coffee table before him. Thomas was curled in his lap, purring contentedly.

"Better?" Tim asked, looking up as you approached.

"Much," you said, settling beside him on the couch and accepting the mug he offered. The familiar scent of chamomile wafted up, along with something else – honey, you realized. He remembered how you took your tea.

"So," he began carefully, his free hand still absently stroking Thomas, "want to tell me what really happened with Alexia?"

You stared into your mug, watching the steam rise in delicate spirals. "She... she said she's going to be working with you. At Wayne Enterprises."

Tim's hand stilled on Thomas's fur. "Is that what she told you?"

"She said she'd be your new Director of Strategic Partnerships." The words tasted bitter on your tongue.

To your surprise, Tim let out a short laugh. "Well, she certainly has an active imagination."

You looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"(Y/N)," he set his mug down, turning to face you fully. "Wayne Enterprises did receive her application, yes. But it was rejected two weeks ago. She didn't meet our requirements."

Relief flooded through you, followed quickly by embarrassment. "Oh."

"Besides," he continued, his voice softer now, "did you really think I'd hire someone without running it by you first? You're not just my assistant, you're..." he paused, something shifting in his expression. "You're important to me. Very important."

Your heart stuttered in your chest. "Tim..."

He reached out, gently taking your mug and setting it beside his. "When I saw her push you," his voice had dropped, taking on an edge you rarely heard, "when I saw you go under..." His hands clenched briefly before relaxing. "I've never been so scared in my life."

"You jumped in after me," you said softly. "In your Armani suit."

"I would have jumped in wearing a tuxedo made of diamonds," he replied, dead serious. "I will always jump in after you, (Y/N)."

The weight of his words settled over you like a warm blanket. Thomas chose that moment to hop down from Tim's lap, padding away with an air of feline discretion.

"Even my cat approves of you," you murmured, trying to lighten the moment even as your heart raced. "He never likes anyone."

Tim's hand found yours, his thumb tracing patterns on your palm. "Maybe he just knows what I've known for a long time."

"And what's that?" Your voice was barely above a whisper.

He leaned closer, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek. "That I'm completely, utterly in love with you."

The world seemed to stop, narrowing down to just this moment – the soft brush of his thumb against your cheekbone, the warmth of his hand in yours, the way his eyes held yours with an intensity that took your breath away.

"Tim," you breathed, "I—"

"You don't have to say anything," he interrupted gently. "I just needed you to know. After tonight, after almost losing you... I couldn't keep pretending these feelings don't exist."

You shifted closer, your free hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady beneath your palm. "What if I want to say something?"

His breath caught, hope flickering across his features. "Then I'm listening.”

"If I tell you the truth," your voice barely a whisper in the dim light of your apartment, "everything changes. We can't go back."

Tim shifted closer, the leather of your couch creaking softly beneath him. His hand was still on your cheek, thumb tracing invisible patterns that sent shivers down your spine. "Maybe I don't want to go back."

"The press would have a field day," you breathed, but didn't pull away. "Vicki Vale would write headlines for weeks. 'Wayne Heir Falls for Assistant: A Modern Cinderella Story.'"

His lips curved into a half-smile, eyes dark with something that made your heart stutter. "Let them write. I'll buy every newspaper in Gotham if I have to."

"Bruce—"

"Bruce has his own complicated love life to worry about," Tim murmured, his forehead coming to rest against yours. Your noses brushed, and you could feel his breath against your lips. "Besides, he's not the one I'm in love with."

The word hung between you, heavy with promise and possibility. Your fingers curled into the soft material of his shirt, anchoring yourself to this moment, to him.

"The board would talk," you tried one last time, even as your resolve crumbled like sand. "Your reputation—"

"Listen to me," Tim's voice was low, urgent. His other hand came up to frame your face, holding you like something precious. "I would give up Wayne Enterprises tomorrow. The money, the reputation, all of it. I'd walk away from everything if it meant having this – having you – for even a moment."

Your breath caught in your throat. "You can't mean that."

"Try me." His eyes met yours, blazing with an intensity that made you tremble. "Just say the words, (Y/N). Tell me you feel it too. Tell me I'm not alone in this."

Thomas chose that moment to leap onto the back of the couch, letting out a disapproving meow at the tension in the room. You couldn't help the small laugh that escaped, even as tears pricked at your eyes.

"Even my cat is telling me to stop being stubborn," you whispered.

Tim's thumb brushed away a tear you hadn't realized had fallen. "Smart cat."

You took a shaky breath, finally letting yourself say what you'd been holding back for so long. "I love you too. God help me, Tim Drake, but I'm completely in love with you."

The smile that broke across his face was like sunrise – slow, warm, and absolutely beautiful. He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, his eyes scanning your face as if memorizing every detail.

"Say it again," he breathed.

"I love you." The words came easier now, like they'd been waiting all this time to break free. "I love your brilliant mind, and your terrible coffee addiction, and the way you look at three in the morning when you're finally solving a problem that's been bothering you all day. I love—"

He kissed you.

It wasn't like the movies – there were no fireworks, no swelling orchestra. Instead, it was soft and sweet and achingly tender, like coming home after a long journey. His hands cradled your face like you were made of spun glass, even as yours fisted in his shirt to pull him closer.

When you finally broke apart, both breathless, Tim rested his forehead against yours again. "We're going to figure this out," he promised. "The press, the board, Bruce – none of it matters. We'll face it together."

"Together," you echoed, the word tasting like a promise on your lips.

From his perch on the couch, Thomas let out another creaky meow, as if sealing the deal. Tim laughed, the sound rich and warm.

"Does this mean I get joint custody of the cat?" he teased, reaching up to scratch Thomas behind the ears.

You smiled, leaning into his touch. "He already likes you better than me anyway."

"Impossible," Tim murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "But I'll settle for second place in his affections, as long as I'm first in yours."

"Always," you whispered, and knew with absolute certainty that you meant it. Whatever came next – whatever headlines Vicki Vale wrote, whatever the board whispered, whatever challenges lay ahead – you would face it together.

And somehow, that made everything else seem insignificant in comparison.

Thomas purred his approval, settling between you like he'd always belonged there. Like all of this had always been inevitable, just waiting for the right moment to fall into place.

Maybe it had been.

.

.

.

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Saccharine Recoveries.

my masterlist || ask me anything <3

series masterlist.

authors note - a part two was highly requested, so here you all go! not going to lie to you all, i’m not the happiest with how this turned out, but writers block is a total bitch. i’m sorry if it doesn’t live up to your standards. 🫶

word count - 7.9k

in which, after being in a medically induced coma for the past four days, your eyes are finally open, just when your husband thinks that everything is rosie, trials and tribulations occur once again making the processes of your recovery ten times harder, but he’s optimistic and always looks on the bright side , even when that all comes crashing down.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Recovery Day One. — 15th August, 2022.

19:03pm.

“(Y/N)?” Harry spoke in a hushed whisper as you tried to smile at him.

The sensation of the tube in your throat was uncomfortable, a reminder of the ordeal you had endured. You instinctively reached for your voice, your lips parting to form words, but the effects of the coma lingered, rendering your efforts into silence.

A group of doctors entered the room, and your heart skipped a beat as they approached your bed. Dr. Parker, his eyes kind and understanding, stepped forward.

"Hello, Mrs. Styles," he greeted you with a gentle smile. "I'm glad to see you awake."

Your gaze shifted to Harry and Alfie, their expressions a mix of hope and concern. Your fingers trembled slightly as you lifted your hand, pointing toward them. A stray tear slid down the side of your face, its path traced by a mixture of emotions – relief, gratitude, and the unspoken words that your voice couldn't yet express.

Dr. Parker followed your gesture, his gaze softening as he understood. "Harry and Alfie are right here with you. They've been waiting for you to wake up."

Your lips curved into a faint smile, your eyes locking onto Harry's and then Alfie's. Your heart seemed to speak for you, conveying the depth of your emotions and the overwhelming love that surged within you. Your hand trembled slightly as it remained pointed toward them, the tear on your cheek a testament to the profound connection that held your family together.

Dr. Parker's voice carried a note of reassurance. "It's okay, Mrs. Styles. Take your time. Your body is still recovering from the coma, and your voice will return when it's ready."

As Dr. Parker finished his conversation with you, his gaze turned gentle and concerned. "Are you experiencing any pain, Mrs. Styles?"

You managed to summon the energy to nod your head slightly, a subtle indication that discomfort still lingered. The faintest flicker of concern crossed Harry's features as he watched your response.

"Where are you feeling the pain?" Dr. Parker's voice was soothing, his attention focused solely on your well-being.

Harry's grip on your hand tightened, his gaze fixated on you. "M’love, where does it ‘urt?"

You shifted slightly, your gaze fixed on Dr. Parker. Weakly, you managed to lift your hand and gesture toward your chest and ribs, the source of your discomfort.

Dr. Parker's expression turned thoughtful, and he nodded. "Thank you for letting me know. I'll make sure you receive the appropriate pain relief."

With a gentle smile, he turned to leave the room, leaving you and your two boys alone once again. Harry's eyes never left your face, his concern palpable.

"Darlin’, are y’okay?" Harry's voice was laced with worry, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hand.

You managed a weak smile, your gaze never leaving his. The silent exchange between you carried a wealth of emotions, unspoken words of comfort and reassurance.

Dr. Parker returned with a nurse who began administering the prescribed pain relief. As the nurse worked, Dr. Parker approached your bedside once again.

"We'll make sure you're as comfortable as possible," Dr. Parker assured you. "Your body has been through a lot, and it's important that you're not in pain."

Harry's voice was a mixture of gratitude and concern. "Thank you, Doc."

Dr. Parker nodded, his attention shifting to you. "Rest is crucial for your recovery. If you need anything, don't hesitate to let us know."

As the nurse finished administering the pain relief, you felt a sense of relief wash over you. The tension in your body began to ease, and you gave Harry a small smile – a silent acknowledgment of his unwavering presence by your side.

"We'll be here with you, love," Harry's voice was filled with determination. "Every step of the way."

And as Dr. Parker and the nurse left the room, you found comfort in the knowledge that your journey to healing was not one you had to travel alone.

The doctors then turned their attention to the monitors, checking your vitals and heart rate. Their movements were methodical and practised, their focus on ensuring your well-being.

Satisfied with their assessments, Dr. Parker looked at you with a reassuring smile. "Your vitals are looking stable, (Y/N). Your body is responding well."

You managed a weak smile, your voice still struggling to find its strength.

"We're going to give you a moment with your family now," Dr. Parker continued, his tone considerate. "Harry and Alfie are here with you."

As the doctors began to step away, Harry's presence came into view. His eyes were fixed on you, a mixture of relief and emotion evident in his gaze. Alfie stood beside him, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern.

" ‘ey, m’sun," Harry's voice was a soft, soothing balm. "How are’y’feeling?"

You managed a faint smile, your fingers reaching out to Harry's hand. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes – a silent reassurance of your connection.

Alfie shuffled closer, his eyes wide with wonder. "Mummy?"

You offered Alfie a tender smile, your hand extending toward him. Your fingers lightly brushed against his, a gentle touch that conveyed your love and presence.

Harry's voice was a mixture of encouragement and understanding. "Y’safe now, (Y/N). We're all here with ya’.”

As the doctors left the room, the atmosphere settled into a quieter, more intimate calm. The warmth of Harry's hand in yours was a constant reassurance, a lifeline that tethered you to the present.

Harry's eyes, filled with a mixture of love and concern, never left your face. His voice, gentle and soothing, filled the silence. "Y’been asleep f’a lil’while, m’love. There's some catching up t’do."

Your gaze locked onto his, a flicker of anticipation in your eyes.

"M’postponed the American leg ‘f the tour," Harry began, his voice carrying the weight of the decision. "It jus’didn't feel right being on t’road without ya’."

The news hit you like a shockwave, and your eyes widened in disbelief. A tremor ran through your body, and you started to shake your head, your voice struggling to find its strength.

Harry reached for your hand, his touch grounding you. "M’know it's a lot, m’sun, but it was necessary. Our family comes first."

You searched his eyes, finding reassurance in the depth of his gaze. The unspoken promise of unity and support between you was unwavering.

Harry continued, his voice soft and filled with emotion. "M’mum flew over as soon as she heard. She wanted t’be here f’us, for Alfie. And Gem, she's flying out soon too. We're all in this together."

A sense of gratitude swelled within you, knowing that your family was rallying around you during this challenging time. The bond you shared with Harry and the love you held for your son were at the heart of it all.

As the conversation with Harry continued, Alfie, who had been sitting patiently by his father's side, leaned in and whispered something into Harry's ear. The words were hushed and filled with earnestness.

"Can I go and sit next to mummy?"

Harry's eyes softened with understanding as he glanced at his son. He nodded, a tender smile playing at the corners of his lips. " ‘f course, buddy."

With gentle hands, Harry lifted Alfie from his spot by his side and carefully placed him on the bed beside you. Alfie's little frame nestled against your side, and he instinctively shifted closer, seeking the comfort of your presence.

Your heart swelled with emotion as you felt Alfie's warmth against your body. The tenderness in his touch and the trust in his eyes were a testament to the special bond you shared. It was a moment of quiet connection, and even though you lacked the energy to cuddle him back, the love that flowed between you was palpable.

Harry watched the two of you with a soft smile, his heart undoubtedly touched by the sight of his son seeking solace in the arms of his recovering mother. It was a moment of unity, a reaffirmation of the strength of your family's bond.

19:30pm.

In the quiet stillness of the hospital room, Harry leaned in, his lips poised to share a deeply personal revelation. The weight of the secret he held had been on his shoulders for too long, and he was determined to share it with you. His eyes, full of anticipation and love, met yours.

Just as the words were about to leave his lips, the door to the room opened, and the nurse, entered with gentle steps, entered at precisely seven-thirty. Her presence was unobtrusive, and her warm smile radiated compassion as she approached your bedside.

You greeted her with a subtle nod, your curiosity piqued by her arrival. Harry, ever the vigilant protector, looked up from his tender embrace of Alfie, his concern mirrored in his eyes.

"Good evening, Mrs. Styles," the nurse greeted you softly, her voice a soothing balm to the quiet room. "It's usually dinner time now, but given your recent awakening from the coma, we need to proceed cautiously with your diet for the time being."

Your gaze remained focused on her, a silent invitation for her to continue. Harry, still cradling Alfie with the care of a seasoned parent, nodded in acknowledgment, his concern for your well-being unwavering.

The nurse, her eyes kind and reassuring, continued to explain, "Your digestive system may need some time to regain its strength after the period of inactivity. Therefore, we've decided to provide you with a special formula through your IV. This way, we can ensure that you're receiving the right nutrients and proper hydration."

Harry's response was immediate, his voice laced with gratitude and trust. "Whatevers best f’her, Nurse. We want t’make sure she's getting ‘hat she needs."

You managed a faint but appreciative smile, your eyes conveying the depth of your gratitude for their unwavering support and care. Despite your current inability to speak, the silent bond between you and your family spoke volumes.

The nurse proceeded with her preparations, her skilled hands deftly checking the IV line to ensure its proper function. Throughout the process, Alfie remained fast asleep in Harry's embrace, his peaceful slumber a testament to the exhausting day he had experienced.

With her preparations complete, the nurse offered one final reassurance. "We will be closely monitoring your progress, (Y/N). This is just a temporary measure to aid in your recovery."

The nurse had just left the room, her instructions regarding the specialised IV and dietary changes echoing in the air. Harry, sensing the moment was right, leaned in closer, his eyes filled with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Alfie was securely cradled in his arms as he gently took your hands, his gaze never leaving yours.

With a soft, reassuring smile, Harry spoke the words you had both longed to hear. "Y’pregnant, m’sun."

You reacted with a swift, adamant shake of your head, your eyes wide with disbelief. The shock and confusion etched across your face were undeniable.

But Harry, determined to share this moment with you, leaned forward, ensuring that Alfie remained comfortably nestled in his embrace. He spoke with a tender reassurance, his voice a soothing balm amidst the swirling emotions.

"Yes, y’are," Harry affirmed, his voice steady and filled with unwavering love. "T’doctors said y’thirteen weeks along, ‘n’everything's fine, m’love. T’baby is fine."

Overwhelmed by the weight of this revelation, tears welled up in your eyes. Emotions surged within you, a mixture of astonishment, vulnerability, and joy. The reality of the situation began to set in, and you couldn't contain the flood of tears that followed.

With Alfie nestled between you both, Harry's comforting presence and the assurance that your family was growing filled the room with an overwhelming sense of love and unity.

Harry continued to hold you close, his soothing words offering comfort amidst your tears. "We're in this together, (Y/N). You, me, Alfie, ‘n’our little one on t’way. We’ll face everything together, just like we always do."

20:07pm.

As the evening hours continued to pass, the time for Harry and Alfie to leave the hospital room drew near. Harry turned to you, his eyes filled with both longing and a sense of duty.

"Alf’s goin’ school in the morning," he explained gently, his voice soft and reassuring. "But I'll be back straight after I've dropped him off, alright?"

You nodded your head in understanding, your silent agreement filled with trust and love. Leaning in closer, you pressed a gentle kiss to Alfie's head, your lips conveying all the warmth and affection you felt for your precious son.

Harry's heart swelled with love as he watched you share that tender moment with Alfie, a silent promise of your presence and love even in his absence.

Turning his attention back to you, Harry then leaned in to press a loving kiss to your lips, a feeling that both of you had missed dearly during this challenging time. The warmth of your kiss was a poignant reminder of the deep connection you shared, a source of strength that would carry you through the days ahead.

With one last loving glance, Harry and Alfie left the room, the door closing softly behind them.

As the door gently closed behind Harry and Alfie, you found yourself alone in the dimly lit hospital room. The silence of the space enveloped you, broken only by the soft hum of medical equipment. It was in this solitary moment that you finally allowed yourself to embrace the vulnerability that had been suppressed for too long.

With one hand instinctively resting on your stomach, you pulled the hospital blanket closer to your body with the other. Its warmth and softness provided a semblance of comfort in the stark, clinical environment.

Tears welled up in your eyes, and, without hesitation, they began to flow. They traced a path down your cheeks, unburdening the emotions that had been building within you. These tears were not borne of despair but were simply a release, an acknowledgment of the pain and uncertainty you had endured.

Your ribs ached with each breath, serving as a constant reminder of the accident, and your throat still bore the discomfort of the breathing tube that had sustained you during your coma. The physical pain mirrored the emotional turmoil that had gripped you since that fateful day.

As you allowed yourself to cry, the hospital room witnessed the rawness of your feelings. The tears, like a cleansing rain, carried away the weight of your journey, drop by drop. In their silent descent, you found a sense of relief, a moment to acknowledge your strength in facing adversity and to grieve for the challenges you had encountered.

Recovery Day Two. — 16th August, 2022.

08:31am.

The new morning painted the world with a sense of hope and renewal. Harry and Alfie, hand in hand, approached the grand entrance of Alfie's primary school. The sun's gentle rays played through the leaves of towering trees, casting intricate patterns on the path they trod.

Alfie's backpack, on his petite frame, appeared comically oversized, an emblem of his premature birth three months prior. It slung over his shoulders, almost grazing the ground with its weight. Yet, it was a symbol of his resilience, a testament to his eagerness to embrace this new day.

Harry, looking down at his son and offered a warm, reassuring smile.

"Y’going t’do great today, Alf," he encouraged, his voice infused with love and unwavering support. He couldn't help but marvel at the little boy who had already faced so much in his young life.

Alfie, his tiny hand holding on to his father's with a mixture of trust and nervousness, clung to the familiarity of his touch. The weight of his backpack seemed nothing compared to the emotional burden he carried on his first day back at school since you had been hospitalised.

"I'm scared, Daddy," Alfie finally admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. The uncertainty of returning to school after an extended absence weighed heavily on his young heart.

Harry knelt down, coming to eye level with his son, his eyes mirroring Alfie's with a gentle understanding.

"S’okay t’feel scared, buddy," he assured, his words carrying the reassurance of a father's love. "But remember, y’not alone. Y’friends ‘n’teachers are here f’you, ‘n’Mommy will be so proud ‘f y’when she hears ‘bout y’first day back."

Alfie nodded, a glimmer of determination shining through his eyes. With a deep, steadying breath, he took that brave step through the school gates.

As they approached the classroom door, Mrs. Lucas stood outside, offering warm greetings to the arriving students and parents. Alfie's steps grew slower, and his grip on Harry's hand became hesitant. Mrs. Lucas, with a kind smile, extended her welcome to them.

"Good morning, Alfie," she greeted with genuine warmth. "It's so good to have you back."

But when those words reached Alfie's ears, his steps came to an abrupt halt. He turned to his father, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. The plea in his gaze was clear – he needed to be picked up.

Harry tilted his head in concern as he knelt down to Alfie's level. Without hesitation, he gently lifted his son into his arms, Alfie clutching him tightly. Tears began to flow down Alfie's cheeks as he buried his face in Harry's shoulder.

With genuine worry, Harry asked,

"S’wrong, buddy?" His voice was soft, a comforting presence in this moment of turmoil.

Alfie, his voice quivering with emotion, didn't immediately respond. He simply continued to cry, his tiny frame trembling in his father's embrace.

With Alfie still nestled in his arms, Harry tried once more to coax words from his son.

Amidst the sympathetic gazes of the other parents, Alfie's tears continued to stream down his cheeks, his sobs growing more intense with each passing moment. Harry's heart ached as he held his son close, longing to soothe the pain that had gripped the young boy's heart.

"S’wrong, Alfie?" Harry asked once more, his voice tender and filled with empathy. He knew that Alfie needed to express his feelings, to release the emotions that had built up during the time when his mother was in the hospital.

Alfie hiccupped, struggling to find his words through his tears. Finally, in a soft, quivering voice, he managed to convey his deep longing, "I don't want to go to school... I want Mommy."

Harry's heart felt like it had shattered into a million pieces as he held his son tighter. He understood Alfie's pain all too well, and he wished he could make it all better. In that moment, he felt the weight of your absence more than ever.

Harry held Alfie close, his arms wrapped around his trembling son as they stood outside the classroom door. Alfie's tears still glistened in his eyes, and his grip on his father remained firm.

In a soft, soothing voice, Harry began to speak. "Y’know, Alfie, t’second I pick y’up after school, we can go’n’see Mommy. But right now, it's important f’y’t’go t’school’n’learn all sorts of new things."

Alfie's response was a shaky, tearful shake of his head. He reached up to play with the soft peach fuzz at the back of his father's neck, a comforting gesture that harkened back to his baby days.

Harry, understanding the depth of his son's reluctance, tried a different approach. "Y’remember y’best friend Casey, right? Well, he's in y’class already’n’his daddy texted me last night sayin’ that Casey really missed ya’ Do y’think y’could go in’n’see him today?"

Alfie considered this for a moment, his watery eyes reflecting the uncertainty he felt. Eventually, he nodded his head, a small but significant step toward the classroom.

Harry gently wiped away the tears under Alfie's eyes, his heart full of love and pride for his brave little boy. He leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to Alfie's forehead, their foreheads touching briefly.

"I love you, Alfie," Harry whispered.

"I love you too, Daddy," Alfie replied, his voice filled with trust and affection. With that final exchange of words, Harry lowered his son down to the floor.

Watching Alfie take those uncertain steps toward the classroom, Harry couldn't help but feel a swell of pride for his brave boy.

After Alfie had taken those hesitant steps into the classroom, Harry turned his attention to Mrs. Lucas, his expression a mixture of concern and determination. He approached her with a polite smile, trying to maintain a sense of normalcy.

"Mrs. Lucas," he began, his voice soft and earnest, "I just wanted t’let y’know that if, at any point during the day, Alfie starts getting upset or, well, anything happens, please don't hesitate t’give me a call."

Mrs. Lucas regarded him with a curious yet understanding gaze, her concern evident. She knew that something had been amiss, but she also respected Harry's discretion.

“Of course, Harry," she replied kindly. "I'll keep an eye on him and be sure to reach out if he needs you."

Harry nodded, a sense of relief washing over him. He appreciated Mrs. Lucas's willingness to support Alfie during this challenging time. However, when she inquired further, her voice gentle, about what had happened, Harry hesitated.

"I'd rather not discuss it," he said quietly, his gaze momentarily distant. "Just, please, call me if Alfie gets upset. That's all I ask."

Mrs. Lucas nodded in understanding, recognizing the importance of respecting their privacy. She gave Harry an understanding smile, appreciating the depth of his concern for Alfie's well-being.

"Of course, Mr. Styles," she reassured him once more. "We'll take good care of Alfie here."

With that, Harry offered his gratitude with a nod and turned to leave the school, knowing that, despite the challenges ahead, Alfie was in capable and caring hands.

09:00am.

The room was bathed in the gentle morning light as the clock on the wall struck nine. It marked the beginning of another day in the hospital, a new chapter in your journey towards recovery.

A soft knock at the door signalled the arrival of a specialist, a man named James. His presence was a breath of fresh air, a beacon of hope in the sterile environment of the hospital room. With a warm smile, he approached your bedside, his eyes filled with empathy and reassurance.

"Good morning," he greeted, his voice carrying the calm confidence of someone experienced in helping patients on their path to recovery. "I'm James, and I'm a speech therapist. How are you feeling today?"

You nodded in response, your eyes locked onto James, eager to hear his guidance and reassured by his professional demeanour.

James continued, his words measured and encouraging. "I want you to know that since your coma was relatively short, only three days, your speech should recover quite well. It might take some time and effort, but we'll work together to help you regain your full communication abilities."

James gently pulled his briefcase onto the bed, a sense of purpose in his movements. From it, he carefully extracted a pack of flashcards, each adorned with colorful images. He placed them on a small table beside the bed, arranging them neatly.

With a kind and encouraging tone, James explained the exercise ahead.

"We're going to start with something simple," he said, his voice soothing. "I'll show you some pictures, and I'd like you to try and name what's on each of them."

As he revealed the first flashcard, you looked at the image, your eyes focused. A glimmer of determination flickered in your gaze as you attempted to find the words within you. You opened your mouth, trying to conjure the sounds, but it was a formidable challenge.

The effort required to speak felt overwhelming, and a wave of frustration washed over you. Your body seemed to slump into the bed behind you, the weight of the task pulling you down.

James observed your struggle with empathy, recognizing the immense effort you were putting into this seemingly simple task.

Seeing your struggle and the evident frustration it brought, James reached for a glass and a jug of water from the bedside table. With careful movements, he filled the glass, and then he placed a straw inside it.

"Let's take a little break," he suggested kindly, offering you the glass. "Having some water will help keep your vocal cords hydrated, which can make speaking a bit easier."

He held the glass to your lips, allowing you to sip the cool water through the straw at your own pace. It was a small but essential gesture, a reminder that the journey towards recovery was a series of steps, each one significant in its own way.

James sat on the edge of the bed, his presence calm and reassuring. He held up the flashcards once more, looking at you with encouragement in his eyes.

"Would you like to try again?" he asked gently.

You hesitated for a moment, the memory of your previous attempt still fresh. But deep down, the determination burned, and you nodded your head, a sign that you were willing to give it another shot.

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself for the task at hand. As you looked at the first flashcard, your lips parted, and you began to speak. However, the words that emerged were not the smooth, effortless ones you once knew. Instead, they came out in stutters and hesitations, like a rusty engine struggling to turn over.

"Th-th-that's... a b-b...bird," you managed, your voice breaking into a series of stutters.

James listened attentively, his expression unwavering.

James, ever patient and understanding, held up another flashcard, maintaining his reassuring presence. He had seen your determination and knew that progress was often marked by small, steady steps.

You looked at the new image on the flashcard, gathering your resolve once again. The previous stuttering attempt had not deterred you. With a deep breath and a sense of focus, you tried again.

"That's a... c-c-cat," you stammered, your voice still marked by hesitations and stutters.

James nodded approvingly, acknowledging your effort with a warm smile. Each word, no matter how challenging, was a testament to your resilience and determination.

James lifted another flashcard, his calm demeanor providing a reassuring backdrop for your efforts. He understood the significance of these small steps on your path to recovery and was there to support you every step of the way.

You focused on the new image before you, taking a moment to gather your thoughts. With a deep breath, you began to speak once more, your voice still marked by stutters and hesitations.

"That's a... d-d...dog," you managed, your determination shining through despite the challenges.

James nodded encouragingly, his smile warm and appreciative.

James, the dedicated speech therapist, held up a total of ten flashcards, one after the other. Each image presented a new challenge, a test of your ability to express yourself despite the obstacles in your path.

With unwavering patience, you faced each card, taking a deep breath before speaking. Your words, though marked by stutters and hesitations, emerged with determination and clarity. Ten times, you summoned the strength to name each object before you, each success a hard-earned victory in your journey to reclaim your voice.

James observed your progress with a sense of satisfaction, recognizing the strides you had made. He wore a gentle smile as he leaned in slightly, his voice filled with encouragement.

"Now, I'd like to take it a step further," he began, his tone still reassuring. "I'd like you to try speaking a few sentences. I believe you can do it."

You nodded your head, your confidence bolstered by the progress you had made with the flashcards. This felt like a significant step forward.

James handed you a piece of paper with several phrases on it. The sentences gradually grew longer, each one challenging you a bit more. It was a carefully crafted exercise to help you regain your ability to construct sentences and express yourself more fully.

He looked at you, offering his support.

"Whenever you're ready," he said, ready to listen and guide you through this next phase of your recovery.

The phrases on the page seemed like stepping stones on your path to recovery.

You looked at the first sentence, its simplicity contrasting with the complexity of your journey.

With a deep breath, you began to read it aloud, your voice still carrying the echoes of your previous stuttering attempts.

"I... like... to... pick... flowers," you managed, your voice steadier than before.

James nodded approvingly, his eyes filled with encouragement. The progress you had made in the short time you had been working together was remarkable.

He pointed to the next sentence, which was longer and more challenging.

"Take your time," he encouraged, ready to offer guidance if needed.

James, encouraged by your progress, nodded and presented another sentence. This time, the sentence was a bit longer, intended to further challenge your speaking abilities.

"Let's try this one," he said with a supportive smile, handing you the piece of paper. "Take your time, and whenever you're ready, go ahead and read it aloud."

You accepted the paper, your determination shining in your eyes. With a deep breath, you focused on the sentence before you, prepared to tackle this new challenge head-on.

“Exploring... new... horizons... broadens... our... perspectives.” you said, your words coming out with more fluency than before.

James nodded, his smile growing wider with pride.

"That was wonderful," he praised. "Your progress is truly remarkable."

He pointed to the next sentence on the page, which was even longer, yet he had full confidence that you were up to the challenge.

"Whenever you're ready," he encouraged, providing you with the space and support you needed to continue improving your speech.

James, the dedicated speech therapist, observed your readiness for the next challenge. With a supportive smile, he handed you the paper with the new sentence.

"Let's work on this one," he suggested kindly. "Remember to take your time and speak at your own pace."

You accepted the paper, your determination unwavering. You focused on the sentence, recognizing that it was longer than the previous ones but confident in your ability to meet the challenge.

With a deep breath, you began to speak, your voice gaining strength and fluency with each word. James watched, filled with pride at your progress, ready to offer guidance and support whenever you needed it.

As you finished reading the longer sentence, James couldn't contain his excitement. He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing with a sense of accomplishment. You looked up at him, tilting your head inquisitively.

With a beaming smile, James leaned in closer to you and spoke with genuine enthusiasm. "Your stutter has gone, and you're saying the sentences in full!"

Your eyes widened with joy and realisation. It was a moment of triumph, a sign that your journey to reclaim your voice was progressing even better than you had hoped. Your excitement bubbled over, and James, equally thrilled, wrapped you in a quick but heartfelt hug. It was a gesture of celebration and encouragement, a recognition of the significant strides you had made in your speech therapy.

With a warm smile, James expressed his delight at your progress. "I'm going to go inform the nurses at the station about your incredible improvement," he said. "And I'll be back in a few days to check up on you."

He then couldn't resist adding a lighthearted touch to the conversation. "You know," he chuckled, "when your husband comes into the room, you can surprise him with your newfound voice. I'm sure he'll be amazed."

James's positive energy and humor added a sense of camaraderie to your sessions, and you nodded with gratitude for his support. His dedication to your recovery was evident, and you looked forward to the day you could indeed surprise your husband with your progress.

12:07pm.

Around lunchtime, the door to your hospital room gently swung open, and in walked Harry, carrying a bag of Raising Cane's, the scent of delicious fried chicken filling the air. He had a warm smile on his face, relief and affection evident in his eyes as he saw you awake and alert.

He carefully placed the bag of food on the tray table, positioned at the edge of the bed, ensuring it was within your reach. Then, his eyes fixed on you, he leaned forward, closing the distance between you and placed a tender kiss on your lips. It was a kiss filled with love and longing, a silent expression of how much he had missed you during your recovery.

As he pulled away, he gazed into your eyes, his voice soft and filled with emotion.

"I brought y’favourite," he said, a hint of excitement in his tone, eager to share this moment with you. The sight of you awake and engaged was a testament to your resilience and strength, something he admired deeply.

Harry turned to refill your glass of water, his heart lighter with the knowledge that you were awake and speaking. As he poured the water, his mind was already occupied with thoughts of the delicious meal he had brought for you.

However, when he heard your voice, a voice he hadn't heard in days, his movements froze. The glass hovered over the pitcher, and his hands trembled ever so slightly. His eyes widened in astonishment as he slowly turned to look at you, a mixture of shock and joy dancing in his gaze.

"I didn't think I was allowed to eat," you said, your voice a little raspy but undeniably yours.

Harry's heart soared at the sound of your voice, and his lips curved into a wide, elated smile. He took a few steps closer to your bedside, setting the glass down with a gentle clink. Overwhelmed with emotion, he reached for your hand, his fingers intertwined with yours.

"Y’speakin’," he whispered, his voice filled with awe and relief, as if he had been granted a miracle.

Harry's heart raced as he rushed over to your bedside, his eyes fixed on you in disbelief. Carefully, he sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands trembling slightly as he reached out to pick up your hands. Gently, he brought them close to his face, pressing tender kisses to your wrists as if to confirm that this moment was real.

Tears glistened in his eyes as he looked at you, his voice quivering with emotion.

"Can’t believe it," he murmured, his breath hitching. "V’been ‘ere f’days, prayin’ t’hear y’voice again."

Even though you had been awake for a day, one thing he was craving was the sound of your voice, it was the one thing that made him feel same.

Before the accident, when he would get home from a heavy day full of meetings and executive decisions revolving the tour, he would come home exhausted and collapse onto either the sofa or the bed you shared, wherever you were that night and would lay his head on your lap, your hands running through his hair and your voice lulling him to a slumber with tales of what you did throughout the day, it was as if he was the same age as Alf.

His eyes never left yours, and he continued to place sweet kisses on your skin, each one a testament to the overwhelming relief and love he felt in that moment.

"Y’ave n’idea how much I missed you," he admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper, filled with a mix of gratitude and love.

Harry's fingers gently traced patterns on your palms as he leaned closer, his forehead resting against yours.

"Was so scared," he confessed, his voice cracking with vulnerability. "I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

He pressed his lips to your forehead, a gentle and reassuring gesture.

"But y’here," he said, his voice steadier now, filled with determination. "And y’speaking, and m’so, so grateful."

Harry couldn't stop himself from leaning in and capturing your lips in a sweet, loving kiss. It was a kiss filled with months of worry, days of longing, and the promise of a future together. In that moment, he held you close, cherishing every second as if it were a precious gift.

As you pulled away from the sweet, lingering kiss, your fingers tenderly brushed under Harry's eyes, wiping away the glistening tear tracks that had formed there. You couldn't help but chuckle softly as you gazed at him, a playful glint in your eyes.

"Why did you bring food?" you asked, your voice filled with light-hearted amusement. "I thought I wasn't allowed to eat. The nurse explained about the IV and all."

Harry held onto your hands, his eyes never leaving yours. He chuckled, a warm, melodious sound that filled the room.

"Well," he began, his voice playful, "Was walking through t’ward, Nurse Lauren came up to me." He paused for dramatic effect, his lips curving into a mischievous grin. "S’told me they reviewed y’vitals’n’explained that y’could eat solid foods again."

You blinked in surprise, a smile spreading across your face. "They did?"

Harry nodded eagerly, his eyes filled with excitement.

"Ye’, they did. S’practically sprinted t’the Cane's next door, knowing s’y’absolute favorite."

You couldn't help but laugh, feeling a warm, fuzzy feeling spreading throughout your heart. "You really know how to make a girl feel special, don't you?"

Harry's smile grew wider, and he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"Only the very special ones," he whispered, his voice filled with love and adoration, "like you."

Recovery Day Three. — 17th August, 2023.

14:54pm.

The next day painted a stark contrast to the peacefulness of the previous day. As late afternoon sunlight filtered through the window, it did little to alleviate the tension in the room. Your face, contorted in anguish, told a different story.

You had decided to try and have a little nap whilst Harry departed your side to go and get your little love bug, you were tired, you would wake up during the night confused about where you were and just decided to close your eyes, even if it was for five minutes.

Lying in the hospital bed, you were locked in the grip of a restless nightmare. Your brow was furrowed, and a faint sheen of sweat clung to your forehead. The morning sun, instead of casting a gentle glow, seemed to intensify the torment of your dream.

Outside, the world buzzed with life, oblivious to the turmoil within. Your slumber was anything but serene, as you wrestled with unseen demons in the depths of your subconscious. The room, too, held its breath, but not in quietude; rather, it was a silent witness to the tumultuous nightmare that held you captive.

Despite the sunlight's attempt to illuminate the room, a pall of unease lingered, a stark reminder of the night's torment. In that moment, the hospital room became a battleground between your deepest fears and the fragile flicker of hope that sought to break through the darkness.

In the depths of this haunting nightmare, you found yourself ensnared in a nightmarish tableau. Behind the wheel, your hands clenched the steering wheel with an iron grip. Alfie was in the backseat, his voice a haunting crescendo of terror as he called out to you.

"Mommy! Mommy!" His tiny voice trembled with fear, echoing through the confines of the car.

Beside him, a baby girl, a chilling glimpse of the child growing within your belly, wailed inconsolably. Her cries were a haunting lament, a stark reminder of the fragile life depending on your protection.

The world outside the car window blurred into a nightmarish frenzy, colors blending into an incomprehensible whirl. Tires screeched, a discordant symphony of desperation. The vehicle careened out of control, spinning and swerving as if propelled by malevolent forces.

Then came the deafening crash, a cataclysmic collision that reverberated through your very core. The world exploded into chaos, metal screeching against metal, an eruption of sound and fury.

In this nightmare, you teetered on the edge of consciousness, imprisoned within the nightmarish wreckage of the car. Through half-shut eyes, you beheld the unimaginable horror unfurling in the backseat. Flames danced, fierce and relentless, licking at the edges of the car seats. Orange tendrils of death reached hungrily toward Alfie and the tiny, wailing baby girl.

"Mommy, help me!" Alfie's desperate pleas were a chilling refrain, his voice tinged with terror and helplessness.

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision as you strained against the invisible chains that bound you to the twisted metal. You could feel the unbearable heat, the scorching breath of the flames inching closer with every passing second.

The baby's cries grew louder, a heart-rending symphony of fear and agony. In this agonizing nightmare, you reached out a trembling hand, your fingers desperate to soothe the infant, to cradle her in safety. But the inferno was relentless, its searing fingers inching ever closer.

"Please, Mommy," Alfie's voice cracked with fear, his eyes wide with terror.

"I'm trying, Alfie," you whispered through trembling lips, your voice barely more than a quiver.

In this nightmarish realm, the scent of smoke filled your nostrils, the acrid taste of fear clinging to your tongue. Your heart pounded in your chest like a relentless drumbeat, and the weight of powerlessness bore down on you like an unyielding stone.

Flames engulfed the backseat, painting a hellish tableau of despair. It was a nightmare you couldn't escape, an agonizing loop of terror that clawed at your very soul. Your mind screamed for action, for salvation, but your body remained pinned, an immovable captive.

The cries of the baby grew louder, her tiny voice a heartbreaking plea for rescue. You stretched out your trembling hand, fingers straining toward her, a silent promise of protection. Yet, the flames danced ever nearer, their scalding touch tormenting your outstretched arm.

"Please, baby," you whispered, your voice choked with desperation.

In the midst of this living nightmare, you were rendered powerless, a witness to a tragedy unfolding before your eyes. The world dissolved into a surreal nightmare, where time seemed to stand still, and the relentless flames threatened to consume all you held dear.

The shrill, frantic beeping of the heart monitor filled the room, a discordant symphony of alarm that pierced the air. It was as though the nightmare from your dream had spilled into reality, an unrelenting cacophony of distress.

In an instant, the tranquility of the hospital room shattered. The door flew open, and a team of doctors and nurses rushed in, their faces etched with urgency and concern.

"What's happening?!" one of the doctors exclaimed, his voice taut with anxiety as he approached the bedside, his eyes darting between the monitor and your face.

Another nurse swiftly checked the vitals monitor, her fingers dancing over the buttons. "Her heart rate is skyrocketing! We need to stabilize her!"

A palpable tension filled the room as medical personnel worked in unison, their practiced movements a testament to their training. They adjusted IV lines, administered medications, and conferred in hurried, hushed tones.

Amidst the frantic activity, you felt a profound sense of helplessness, trapped within the confines of your own body. Your heart raced uncontrollably, its furious pounding echoing in your ears.

The lead doctor, a seasoned figure with a commanding presence, addressed the team. "We need to get this under control now. Administer sedatives if necessary, and prepare for an EKG. We can't afford to lose her."

With a sense of urgency, they acted swiftly, the room becoming a whirlwind of activity. Amid the commotion, your fear and desperation were evident in your wide, frightened eyes.

Just when the doctors and nurses thought your condition had stabilized, a sudden jolt coursed through your body. Your limbs convulsed uncontrollably, your fingers clawing at the sheets, and your eyes rolled back as a seizure gripped you with merciless force.

Panic filled the room once more as medical professionals scrambled into action. They lowered the bed's side rails to prevent you from falling, their faces tense with worry.

15:10pm.

Harry leaned against the school gates, patiently waiting for the school day to end. His eyes scanned the children as they poured out of the building, searching for Alfie among the crowd.

As he stood there, a woman with a confident stride approached him. She flashed a flirtatious smile and initiated a conversation, "Well, hello there. You must be Alfie's dad, right?"

Harry nodded, offering a polite smile. "Ye’, S’me. M’here t’pick ‘im up."

The woman, her tone flirtatious and forward, continued, "I've seen you here a few times before. You're a handsome dad, you know. What's your name?"

Harry chuckled nervously, feeling a bit taken aback by her directness. "M’Harry. Nice t’meet ya’."

She leaned in closer, her gaze fixed on his left hand. "Harry, huh? And are you married, Harry?"

Harry held up his left hand, showing his wedding ring. "Ye’, M’happily married,been married almost five years in fact."

Undeterred, the woman's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Happily, you say? Well, you know, sometimes a little excitement outside of marriage can be... refreshing."

Harry raised an eyebrow, a clear signal that her advances were unwelcome. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm quite committed t’m’wife."

The woman seemed slightly disappointed but didn't give up easily. "Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me."

The bell rang, and the main doors of the school swung open, releasing a flood of excited children, all eager to reunite with their parents. Among the crowd, Alfie emerged, his face lighting up as soon as he spotted his father.

With a joyful shout of "Daddy!" Alfie dashed toward Harry, his small feet carrying him as fast as they could. Harry crouched down, ready to catch his son, and as Alfie reached him, he scooped him up in a warm embrace.

"Daddy's ‘ere, buddy," Harry said with a grin, feeling the energy of Alfie's hug and seeing the paint stains on his school uniform. "Did y’have a good day at school?"

Alfie nodded enthusiastically.

"Yeah, we painted today! Look at this, Daddy!" He proudly displayed his hands, covered in a rainbow of paint colors.

Harry chuckled, looking at his son's colorful hands. "Wow, y’quite the artist, Alf! Let's get y’cleaned up before we go see mummy."

15:27pm.

Harry and Alfie had just entered the bustling ward when a sudden commotion erupted from your room. Doctors and nurses hurried in and out, their faces filled with urgency, and the chaotic energy in the corridor was palpable. Harry's heart clenched with worry as he instinctively tightened his grip on Alfie's hand.

Harry and Alfie quickened their pace, the corridor seeming to stretch endlessly as they rushed toward your room. The knot of dread in Harry's stomach tightened with every step. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

As they reached the doorway, Harry's heart plummeted in his chest. There, on the hospital bed, you were having a seizure, your body convulsing uncontrollably. The sight was both horrifying and heart-wrenching. Harry's legs felt like lead, but he forced himself to move closer, his grip on Alfie's hand never wavering.

The sight of you having a seizure was too much for Harry to bear. In that harrowing moment, he couldn't maintain his composure any longer. He released Alfie's hand, and his legs gave way beneath him. Harry fell to his knees outside your hospital room, his hands trembling as he watched you convulsing, unable to do anything but feel the sheer helplessness wash over him.

Alfie stood there, wide-eyed and frightened, looking at his father on the floor and then back at you. His small world was unravelling before his eyes, and he had no idea how to make sense of it. Harry wanted to be strong for his son, but the overwhelming fear and concern for you had shattered his resolve, leaving him vulnerable and devastated.

A doctor yelled above all the commotion that was taking place, directing his speech to one of the nurses. His voice sounded desperate, he needed to help you as quickly as possible.

"Seizure activity!" one of the nurses called out, her voice strained as she rushed to retrieve necessary medications and equipment.

The lead doctor called for additional assistance, his voice urgent and commanding. "We need a crash cart, now!"

tag-list: @itsgigikay @kuntxrgraudunkelbunt @emgoldenharry @cat-loves-music @be-with-me-so-happily @cherrycolas-things @white-wolf-buckaroo @gem1712 @sleutherclaw @viktorialah @woody32271 @alienorknight @psicoatyles

[thelastofhyde]

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

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 15k

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

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

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

The mirror is not clean enough to see yourself.

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

It’s something new to fidget with.

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

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

If you do, you’ll blame him.

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

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

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

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

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

You were careful all night to never speak of him.

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

And then it happened.

You didn’t say his name, no.

Not aloud.

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

But it was enough to make you want to leave.

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

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

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

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

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

There were usually three of them.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t have an answer.

You didn’t get to give an answer.

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

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

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

Javier Peña was none of that.

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

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

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

It was like, nothing.

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

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

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

That was never part of the plan.

Neither was skipping dinner, though.

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

His hair, freshly cut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you stumble to the elevator.

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

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

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

“Déjame. (Let me.)”

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

He catches you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m glad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thud against the nightstand.

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

The undressing is gentle and so unlike his usual impatience.

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

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

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

He looks like he wants to.

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

Against your forehead, lips that linger.

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

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

Vermont, ‘98.

That’s where it all began.

Your dad, turning fifty.

Javi just hit forty.

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

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

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

Wrong.

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

Textbooks on the table, glasses on your face.

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

Peaceful and quaint, until it wasn’t.

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

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

You put your head down, breathed more subtly.

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

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

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

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

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

Inching towards the exit, footsteps light as a feather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not in the mood.”

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

“I have an early flight.”

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

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

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

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

“I ain’t done talkin’ to you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t remember which direction you turned.

“Quit running, you bitch!”

He was still following, how was he still following?

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

He was getting faster. Maybe you were getting slower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thumb swiped over your palm.

Your mouth winced, your arm pulled back.

He held you in place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was instinctual, no thought placed behind his action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took you back to his own cabin instead.

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

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

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

Late june brings nothing but gloom.

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

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

Tonight, you’re appeasing them.

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

Truth be told, you don’t want to go.

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

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

In the mirror, it’s still lopsided.

The clock sits at eight forty-seven.

They’re 2 minutes late.

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

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

Dive back in, search again.

An empty tube of lipbalm.

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

A broken earring.

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

Bile burns the back of your throat.

He opens on the fifth knock.

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

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

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

The air’s uncomfortably quiet.

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

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

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

The silence returns.

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

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

You notice his bedroom door is shut.

It’s never been shut before.

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

He blinks, slowly.

It’s hard to tell if it’s from guilt.

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

He doesn’t answer.

You keep talking.

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

“This needs to stop.”

You don’t have to question it.

You do, anyway.

“What?”

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

“I don’t underst-”

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

He’s stern.

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

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

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

Everything, you want to tell him.

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

“I just thought-”

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

I know, you mouth.

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

When he calls to make sure you got home safe.

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

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

Javier Peña is not your boyfriend.

So why does he act like it?

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

Kid.

That makes you angry.

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

“Don’t call me kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, the back-and-forth stops.

Silence.

You take the lead.

“So, what? That’s it just... over?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too late, you want to say.

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

“Corazón, I’m so sor-”

The car honks, again.

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

Another honk.

You never make it to the line dance.

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

Love’s a verb And not a bandage

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

A promise of casual, turned into something fragile.

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

All you remember is a pounding at your front door.

1 am. Too late to be causing ruckus.

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

Pause.

This could be anyone, anything.

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

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

You let him invade your senses.

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

You pull back. He follows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, you do trip over them.

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

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

The gold of his skin shines brighter.

The red on his skin appears darker.

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

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

Later with Javi never seems to come.

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

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

‘I’ll get these back to you later.’

He’d never made you that dinner.

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

You’d never gotten those panties back.

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

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

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

Distractions are not welcomed, your patient needs tending to.

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

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

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

It does the trick, unlocks his tongue.

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

He hisses.

You’re pressing too hard on his fragile lip.

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

A splotch of red stains your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

Javi sighs, gives in.

He always gives in, to you, eventually.

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

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

He doesn’t need to.

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

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

He’s rambling.

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

You listen closely, swallow up every morsel he offers.

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

He chokes.

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

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

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

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

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

He nods.

“Did you help her?”

Another nod.

“Did you get her someplace safe?”

This time, a reply.

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

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

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

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

“What more could you have done?”

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

You whine out his name.

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

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

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

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

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

The words catch in your throat.

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

But mostly because he kisses you.

Desperate, hungry. Groaning into your willing mouth.

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

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

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

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

When Javi fucks you, he fucks with purpose.

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

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

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

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

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

When did Javier Peña stop wanting you?

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

By July, things change.

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

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

Boredom leads to hobbies.

At first, you try pottery.

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

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

You hate it, running.

You sweat, you ache, you exhaust.

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

The heartache.

The headache.

The agent.

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

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

The pink shirt still lives on one of your hangers.

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

Not right now.

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

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

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

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

Today, however, it’s more challenging.

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

You have to come, kiddo.

The phone-call still echos through your thoughts.

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

You’d wanted a better explanation than that.

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

You had no plans.

Bring your friends then! The more the merrier!

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

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

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

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

He said it, like that would persuade you.

Keep asking about ya, the whole lot of them.

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

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

You’d hung up.

Immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

Until you come to a screeching halt.

Double over.

Place your hands on your knees.

Dry heave.

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

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

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

You’ll have to see him.

Spend time near him.

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

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

For not quitting the force.

For being your dad’s friend.

For not wanting you the same you wanted him.

Want him.

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

You’re usually more careful.

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

You pick your pace back up.

Manage only a handful-or-two steps.

Your feet fly out in front of you.

Land ass-first on the gravel below.

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

You groan and prepare to get back on your feet.

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

Big mistake.

The hand tugs you.

You glance up.

And meet the eyes of Javier Peña.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You come up empty handed.

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

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

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

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

Wedding attire, a post-party glow.

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

Had he smiled, then?

Had he even been there?

Or was he merely a product of martinis and negronnis-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I- What?” Confussion.

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

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

Adjusts your piercing, swipes his thumb over your cheek.

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

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

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

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

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

Or both.

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

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

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

Your father’s voice.

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

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

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

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

Maybe it’s sadness you see.

There’s definitely remorse.

Guilt, too.

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

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

But none of that matter, anymore.

You’re already walking away.

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

He calls out your name, loudly.

Attracts the nosy eyes of people around.

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

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

He reaches out for your hand.

And quickly gives up on the thought of holding it.

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

He knows the answer.

You still give him it, “yes.”

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

You feel his eyes on you.

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

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

You’re laughing but it’s mostly fake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not her fault. You know.

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

Your dad is.

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

Even from here, you can hear him bragging.

So then Peña’s on his ass.

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

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

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

He’s exaggerating.

The guy was barely going 5 miles an hour!

He stepped out the vehicle at his own will.

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

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

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

If you step inside the frame, it cracks.

Shatters.

And maybe he knows that.

Knew it all along.

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

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

The feeling lasts all but four seconds.

“Kiddo!”

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

It takes a moment, but you wave.

“Come over ‘ere!”

Not the response you were hoping for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not a sight you want to see.

It fills you with dread.

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

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

“London.”

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

All eyes snap to him.

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

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

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

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

That peaks your interest.

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

“Really?”

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

With Javi, friends could mean anything.

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

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

So it’s best you don’t inquire on it.

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

“Mr... Bond?”

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

You can practically hear it, in his voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His lips press against your hairline before speaking again.

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

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

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

It’s too late though.

You’re already snoring against his skin.

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

For a minute, it feels like she knows.

She knows why Javi knows.

You should be panicking.

Both of you should.

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

But you aren’t. Neither of you are.

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

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

Your dad gives an unceremonious oh.

Your mom rolls her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pulls her close, kisses her shoulder.

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

Open, celebrated, acknowledged.

Not secretive, dirty, scandalous.

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

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

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

Your heart drops.

Javi’s seems to do the same.

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

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

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

But I’m actually bloody Motherfucking batshit crazy

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

You’ve lived plenty of such moments.

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

And all because you heard his voice.

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

He’s facing a woman.

She’s pretty.

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

And a well-rounded belly.

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

You’ve never seen her before.

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

She’s a total stranger, to you.

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

A very pregnant, non-stranger.

“We gotta get this kid some better taste.”

His hand rests on her bump.

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

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

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

You won’t let it fester.

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

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

Was she the reason things between you and him ended?

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

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

Surely, he couldn’t have.

But, then, why couldn’t he have?

You were never exclusive.

You were never anything.

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

Your heart’s palpitating.

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

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

Because, how could he do this to you?

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

Love you so deeply and leave you so easily?

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

“He’s a real kicker, ain’t he?”

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

But, no, it’s too distant. Too far.

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

He’s handsome, in the typical sense.

Blonde haired, a nice smile.

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

“He?” It’s Javi who echoes.

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

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

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

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

The bile in your throat burns more than ever before.

The misplaced anger bleeds into sadness, shame, embarrassment.

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

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

Friends his own age.

Worlds apart, yet nothing but a shelf between you.

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

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

The little girl perks right up at that.

Eyes widened, head off her father’s shoulder.

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

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

“Quit lying to my kid, Peña.”

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

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

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

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

Your breathing stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flicker up to the shelf and-

He’s no longer standing on the other side.

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

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

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

You wake up early.

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

Making the most out of your time upon foreign land.

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

The truth lies in that you can not sleep.

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

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

A quarter past six.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your ringtone is the culprit.

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

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

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

“Corazón.”

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

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

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

Sadness that it sounds so broken down the line.

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

“I’m here,” it’s only a whisper.

It’s enough to shut him up.

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

“You’re in London,” he states.

“I am,” you affirm.

He hums, sips something.

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

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

“Yeah,” you spare him the details.

The truth.

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

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

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

You sure felt alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For answers, for clarity, for closure

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

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

Even then, it kills you to do so.

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

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

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

“What answer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The image doesn’t quite form.

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

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

Refuge he’s willing to share with you.

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

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

“Promise me you’ll go, corazón.”

Your reply is instant, “I promise.”

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

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

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

“How you feeling, kiddo?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of them have, really.

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

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

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

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

“You’re literally in my room!”

“Which is literally in my house!”

Downstairs, your mother yells something unintelligible.

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

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

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

Tupperware, clasped in his hand.

The contents are hard to decipher.

Luckily, your father spots you eyeing it.

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

Your stomach growls, hungry and unfed.

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

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

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

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

Immediately, you spot chicken.

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

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

Your father continues, practically talking to himself.

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

“Cazuela de ave.”

A change into warmer, drier clothes.

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

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

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

And that fact is partly what warms your insides.

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

Objectively, you think, he’s gorgeous.

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

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

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

The scent alone is enough to have you salivating. 

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

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

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

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

A real date.

Only, this isn’t even a fake date.

You guys don’t do that.

“It’s- It was my mom’s recipe.”

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

He’s never mentioned his mother.

Or much about his family, really.

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

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

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

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

Open.

His eyes, his mind, his heart.

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

“Was she a good cook?”

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

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

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

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

It’s disturbingly beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like nothing about her was wrong, all of her perfect and angelic.

“She was brave, too. I’d like to think I’m just like her in that respect. She didn’t let anything stop her from doing things she set her heart on, and she never let her inabilities hinder her,” he’s getting a little emotional now, you can hear it in his voice, see it in the lump he swallows back. You stretch a hand across the table and watch as he leans on you for support, fingers interlocking with your own. “There was this one time when I was a kid, I was swimming in a river and got stuck in a current. She dived right in to save me... She didn’t even know how to swim!”

You don’t know what to say.

You opt for saying nothing, silence speaking more than a thousand words.

Give his hand a reassuring squeeze, feel him squeeze back harder.

Your stomach rumbles, but it doesn’t ruin the moment in the way you feared it would.

“Listen to me being a sap and starving my poor lady to death,” still, he tugs your hand closer and plants a kiss on your knuckles. You’re still trying to process the possessive adjective he’d used to address you. My. His. “Eat up.”

Both of you settle back in your seats.

You pick up your spoon, scoop up a piece of chicken out the steaming bowl and-

“Asi no, corazón (not like that, sweetheart),” he spews out, panicking to pry the cutlery out your hand. He ignores the questioning looks you give him. “You drink the soup first, eat the filling after. Like this.”

Leaning over the table, he scoops your bowl up in his careful hands and guides it up to your lips.

When your lips part and rest against the bowl’s edge, he tilts it and you feel it’s warmth invade your mouth.

And then your chest, branching out over your heart, your lungs, your stomach.

Horned-up bias you so often show towards Javier aside, it’s one of the best things you’ve ever tasted.

Like a hug on a gloomy, wet day, all wrapped up inside a ceramic bowl.

You hum, hands taking over his own to allow him back into his own seat, focusing his attention on drinking his own soup.

“Javi, this is...” You trail off, eyeing the small ring of liquid pooling at the bottom of the bowl. One more mouthful and you’ll get your taste of the stew’s fillings. “Amazing. Your mum would be proud.”

Instead of modesty, instead of 'thank yous', instead of bashfulness, Javier smiles, takes another sip from his bowl.

“She would have liked you.”

You stare across at him and find no jest in his eyes.

They’re as open as before.

“Really?”

“Mhmm. She always liked pretty girls smart enough to put me in my place.”

“Kiddo?”

You’re ripped out your own head by your father’s voice and his hand, waved repeatedly in front of your face.

“Hmm?” 

“You okay there? I was talkin’ to you but you seemed lost in thought.” There’s a little excitement in you father’s voice as he presses his cold hand to your sweated forehead, the prospect of you still being ill, still needing taking care of, filling him with the relief of keeping you in your parents' home a little longer.

“I’m- Yeah, just tired, s’all.”

“Ok, let me know when you’ve finished your food,” he presses a kiss atop the crown of your head, and you hold back the pointless comment of not risking getting himself or your mother sick. “Need to get the tupperware clean ‘fore I give it back to Javi.”

Your stomach twists and longs for the meal before you, while your heart shatters into pieces you doubt will ever be repaired.

[iluvzaddies]

run rabbit run (4)

pairing: yandere!childe x reader

warnings: unhealthy behavior/relationship, violence, nsfw

inspired by: episode 8 of the hbo series “the last of us”

summary: you are out of food as well as medical supplies, so in order to save your father, you take matters into your own hands. you unexpectedly run into a young master in the forest, who is after the same rabbit as you. since he is persistent on getting the rabbit, you make a bargain with him. he develops a liking to you and decides you are his new personal little rabbit.

note: hey, loves! sorry for the long hiatus. i lost motivation to write, but i’m back now! here’s chapter 4 of run rabbit run. it’s a little rushed tho and my writing hasn’t really improved :(

“then, give yourself to me.”

your breath hitched, feeling both disgusted by childe’s wet kisses on your neck and embarrassed because you were not the only people in the room.

the sound of a gun’s safety turned off and childe immediately pulled away from your neck.

your father was on his feet, his left hand clutching on his stomach and his right shakily holding a pistol, which he somehow managed to grab ahold of while childe was getting too close for comfort. “leave my daughter alone, you son of a bitch.”

you couldn’t stand to see your father in that state, but neither could he stand to see his own daughter being harassed by the man he was working for– well, the man he used to work for.

“did you just curse my mother?” childe scoffed, not an ounce of playfulness in his tone. “oh, you’re really asking for it, aren’t you?”

your father pulled the trigger.

childe summoned his weapons again and skillfully cut the bullet in half.

you gaped at the scene.

your father tried to pull the trigger once again, but this time, his gun was cut in half.

he stumbled back, hitting the shelves, furniture falling onto the ground, smashing into bits and pieces. at the impact, more blood seeped out of his wound and he began coughing out blood.

childe strode towards him with malicious intent. he placed the tip of his weapon under his chin, bringing his head up to look at him in the eyes.

“you’re a pathetic fool.” he taunted. “going against a harbinger like myself? not a smart move. since you are no value to me and you refuse to hand me your daughter, i’ll have to dispose of you now.”

your father heaved out. “before you kill me, i’d like to say a few words to my daughter. tell your men to unhand her. i want this to be between us only.”

childe sighed and rolled his eyes. “fine, hurry up. no funny business.”

the second the pyro agents’ grip on you loosened, you wasted no time running towards your father.

“f–father…” you sniffled.

“my sweet, smart, talented girl. i will always love you. never forget that. you’re the greatest gift one could ever receive and i am proud to call you my daughter.” he caressed your cheek and you leaned your cheek against his warm palm, which would soon turn cold.

you shivered at the though of it.

he said he was proud of you. how could he be proud of someone as weak as you? someone as useless as you?

“i’m sorry. i–if only i was strong enough, i could–“

“stop it. there’s really no way out of this situation, (y/n). don’t blame yourself.”

“that is enough chit-chat, mr (l/n).” childe interjected.

he snapped his fingers and you were back into the arms of the pyro agents.

“no, i beg of you to let him live! i told you i would go with you willingly!” you begged.

“i’ve already made up my mind. and he’s already dying anyway. don’t worry, my rabbit. i’ll give him a quick and easy death.” childe’s gaze shifted to the pyro agents. “take her outside…” he dismissed with a wave. “…unless you want to watch?”

“no.” you whimpered, violently shaking your head.

and so, you were brought outside and you were faced with a carriage.

it wasn’t like one of those plain, wooden carriages. the carriage was black and had intricate golden patterns, drawn by four beautiful gray horses.

the pyro agents’ shoved you in the carriage and shut the door.

“shit! fuck! fuck!” you ruffled your hair in frustration, lowering your head, letting your tears fall onto the red velvet carpet.

you had to do something.

‘if i can’t save father, i should save myself.’

think.

think.

think.

a light bulb went on in your head.

you decided that you were going to hijack the carriage, while childe was still in the cabin and the pyro agents’ were standing around, waiting for their master’s next order. it was a better idea than trying to outrun them in the cold weather.

you slowly opened the door, the other door. luckily, carriages had two doors.

you snuck towards the driver, quiet as a mouse, and then made your move. you climbed up the seat, pushed the driver out and flicked the horses’ reins.

you made it.

you escaped.

…for now.

(part 5 coming soon)

taglist:

@elernity @whydoisworld @nebusokuxp @victoria1676 @esthelily @coolforeal @hnhshh @lady8vampire @sunniisyde @kaeyas-eyepatch-69 @yummyberry @katthehatt @lynvrie @dreamlessnight @bluerskiees @haikyuusboringassmanager @scarasvision @hudiebutterfly @ieathairs @kazusbby @vvyeislazzy @ursinaw @fantasy-enthusiast @weepykisser @cryoarchoness @docosahexaenoic-san

[strayheartless]

Vanitas and the Chaotic Good learning curve:

Leaving complete darkness behind isn’t hard exactly. After having Mr. Giddy goofy light bringer (Sora) witter in his ear for a good nine hours about the “benefits of not being evil” Vanitas isn’t willing to say he caved…. But he caved.

Besides if little miss “How can I face everyone” Martyrdom (Riku) can find the balance, how hard could it be right?

Turns out it’s not hard, it’s just… interesting. He’s observed a lot from those light bringers who still have to find a balance with the darkness in their hearts. Here’s what he’s learning:

Dawn (Riku) is not above small acts of violence against Sora. Whacking him with a paperback, flicking his forehead, tripping him when he gets up to do to the bathroom. It’s all fair play apparently.

It is not acceptable to firaga people for annoying you, but that doesn’t mean Kairi hasn’t.

The real-boy (Roxas) can hit HARD and no he won’t apologise for braking something if he thinks you deserve it.

Raggedy-Anne (Xion) has a higher kill rate then Vanitas does… which is only mildly disturbing.

Biting people is bad, but Terra and Aqua always seem to be covered in Bite marks anyway. He has been informed it’s a different kind of biting. He doesn’t wish to explore that further.

His own natural eye colour after possession is red, and ain’t that a kick in the teeth.

Dawns a bitch when he’s grumpy and apparently the way to deal with him is to be a bitch back. Kairi is very good at being a bitch back. Sora just wishes everyone would get along.

The-real-boy and Dawn have serious history and it makes families dinners tense sometimes. Vanitas would not like a repeat performance of helping Ven drag Roxas into another room whilst Terra heals Riku’s fractured cheek. Roxas apologied but Riku still didn’t get out of bed for three days after.

Spikes and fire (Lea/Axel) apparently has the power to kill a man with the snap of his fingers. ApPaReNtLy he has killed someone with the snap of his fingers.

Moon boy (Isa/Sïax) has a limit beaker that could level city blocks. Wild.

Cry baby dislikes Cloud Strife for reasons only Ventus, Aqua and Hercules (apparently) know. Vanitas is pretty sure not even Cloud knows what he did. Van recons it has something to do with the big sword and the… Squats???

“I will not summon Floods until Xion and Sora cry. It is bad and I will apologise for it” … In Vans defence Naminé thought it was hilarious.

Dawn blindfolds himself when he’s upset about… something?

He gets along surprisingly well with Roxas… apparently shared trauma and distaste for stupid people goes a long way. Neat!

Raggedy Anne knows there is a spot on the back of Axels neck that if you dig in hard enough he passes out…. Isa showed her this.

Sora it not above throwing things at Riku and Kairi when he’s overtired and upset. He gets more upset that he threw the thing at them though.

Apparently master water slide (aqua) can still open dark corridors, she just doesn’t.

Dawn knows how to access dark gear. He’s done it exactly once in Vans presence and they didn’t see him for DAYS afterwards… that’s how Vanitas learned about the blindfold.

Naminé can get in your head. She hasn’t but she can. It makes for tense moments between her and Sora when she says something she shouldn’t know.

It is acceptable to throw water at Axel when he gets “fired up” during training. This was a delightful discovery.

Upon being introduced to the restoration committee it is not acceptable to point out that Leon looks like if Simba was a person… but it does make Sora and Aerith laugh so hard they end up crying on the floor.

Cloud strife is apparently more trauma then man and now Terra feels bad for hating him.

It is not acceptable to to tell Winnie the Pooh that forest fires are caused by thinking too hard. Sora and Ventus will slap you in the head and it will hurt

And possibly the most disturbing discovery of them all in Vanitas’ opinion… Sora has a Rage form AND an Anti-form. And they come out to play regularly in training.

Ultimately what Vanitas is learning is that nobody is amine to the darkness. He’s learning that it’s not about being evil or good by nature it’s about deciding who YOU want to be. For all he makes fun of them and calls them soppy lights, it’s…. Good to know that there is hope for him, even if it means he can’t get rid of the darkness. He can still exists in the light.

[specificpollsaboutbooks]

Fiction Works with Footnotes

Semifinals

Propaganda under the readmore

Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell :

The best book I've ever read with no sequel. Read at your own risk, it is an immaculate novel that will probably never get a follow up. The worldbuilding is some of the finest I've read.

The book is filled with footnotes mimicking academic citations and references to innumerable fake books that really make it feel there is a much wider world out there and the book is only centering on this one period of time

So the book is an in universe academic account and the footntes are basically the watsonian author being salty about historical figures. like what more could you want in a footnote. In terms of the book as a whole, its villain was the inspiration for michael shelley of magnus archives fame so something mustve been done right

Bartimaeus :

There are in-character footnotes all the time from Bartimaeus's POV, along with more standard footnotes explaining things less frequently in other POVs. Fundamentally changed my writing style as a child, I bear the brunt of these footnotes.

This series has a lovable (to me) snarky morally gray protagonist. Also it is a demon (djinn).

these books have footnotes by the narrator who is a cool magical djinn and theyre super fun bc they allow him to elaborate on worldbuilding or make snarky remarks that wouldnt otherwise fit in the narrative :3

it's been years since I read them but I still remember them fondly for their fascinating world-building, interesting characters, and their wit, which was often on display in the footnotes

the series is about a demon named bartimaeus who gets summoned by a teenage magician and it's written from the demon's perspective so all the footnotes are from his perspective as well and they're really cool because they give more information about the worldbuilding AND they're also really fucking funny because bartimaeus is a sarcastic bitch most of the time <3

This series is fun and the footnotes add information AND are funny! Seriously one of the best YA fantasy series

Bartimaeus is one of the main characters* of the trilogy**. He's a djinni summoned by the young magician Nathaniel. The story is set in a world where magicians, by binding the powers of magical beings from the Other World, hold all the political power over non-magical commoners.*** Bartimaeus, as a djinni****, can think about many things all at once and this is represented in the story as footnotes.*****

*One would say that HE is The main character (he would say that), but there are two other (similarly) flawed and interesting main characters.

**Actually it's a 'sequence' with a prequel book set in ancient times, but we're seperating that one from the OG story now.

***It's slavery and oppression. Let's call it what it is. Magicians are not good people.

****And as a quite extraordinary and humble creature.

***** Like this! :D

[lovebirdgames]

In the end we got 36 likes so here are 36 random facts from Band Camp Boyfriend!

1 - Most people probably know this one, but it’s a good spot to start. The majority of names in BCB are music/instrument puns. Tom, trombone, TOMbone. Peter, trumpeter, trumPETER. Susie sousaphone. You get it.

2 - Cadence's dating history. She's already had her first kiss (which is why she doesn't make a big deal out of it), but not her first love, which is far more important. <3

3 - Initially Olive’s name was Angryphone, then Francis (for French horn) as she grew into a bigger character, then we finally settled on Olive (for oboe).

4 - Peter was the first character conceptualized and the first boy we asked Flora to draw. Don't tell him, he will get a big head.

5 - In this background, the football goalposts are missing because Blue Mountain High School is having them replaced…just kidding it’s because we the devs did not realize we forgot them because marching band is all that matters.

6 - Mr. Wiley has some of his roots in a Hunger Games OC I made in college. Namely the name, hair, and glasses…and the fact they both go crazy. Hunger Games Wiley had a much grislier fate though.

7 - Peter can’t remember his first kiss because he went around kissing all the girls when he was little until his mom gave him a stern lecture on germs.

8 - Tom is the only one allowed to ride in Peter’s car (which he got as a graduation gift) but he’s not allowed to bring food in.

9 - This one's right out of my old fact doc: Clark got bullied a lot as a kid for being a teacher’s pet. Got called names like tattle-tale, four-eyes, Clark eats tanbark, Clark the narc, etc. but who graduated top of class & got the good citizenship award from the Principal? hIM.

10 - Samuel was a super quiet kid, but somehow extremely popular. His fellow children craved his approval for some strange reason. Got good grades but the teachers got on him to participate more and be more outgoing. Of course, he didn’t. He just did his own thing.

11 - Poptart’s albinism affects his depth perception, making marching a little bit harder for him.

12 - Doug’s least favorite food is black olives. Also he drives an old clunker truck to practice (when he can get it started) and gives an illegal amount of kids a ride every day (namely the whole drumline). He makes everyone duck if he spots a cop.

13 - Leon has an older brother, Buck, who lives in the woods and owns a possum named Beauford. If they ever met, Beauford the possum and Bandit the raccoon would have been rivals.

14 - Susie’s a dog person. Her family owns a fluffy Newfoundland named Benji.

15 - Felicity was initially going to be a “mean girl,” until we decided her being a “pick me” was more realistic and less stereotypical.

16 - There’s an easter egg for our next game, Heartbreaker, in Band Camp Boyfriend, and vice versa. Players already have the concept and names of the LIs, they just don’t know it.

17 - In the end, Garth lands the leading role as Harold Hill in The Music Man musical and no bitches needed to be cut.

18 - As a child, Doug wanted to be the Kool Aid man when he grew up.

19 - A lot of stuff in BCB is inspired by our real lives. One of the craziest things is that our college marching band had a man auction to win dates with the guys. I showed up with $40 trying to summon the courage to bid on my crush at the time.

20 - Aaron has OCD and used to tap his fingers on everything, but drumming has helped him get a lot of his nervous energy out.

21 - All of the Drum Corps named in BCB are parodies of real life corps.

Red Angels = Blue Devils Yellowjackets = Bluecoats Tennessee Tiara = Carolina Crown Space Cadets = The Cadets

22 - You can find song motifs from Gustav’s Holsts “Planets” hidden within the BCB soundtrack. For example, Mars hides within “Run Like Hell” and Venus is in the romance theme, “Venus and Mars.”

23 - Drum and Drummer were the last characters to make it across the line into spritedom. Next up would have been Erin and Cornelius, but you gotta draw the line somewhere.

24 - The Warden is based on Mr. Friendly from Lost.

25 - All of the band directors have a clever name theme. Wiley, Craft(y), Knowles (Knowledgeable), Savage (Savvy), Brighton (Bright).

26 - Initially Tom was going to have a Triforce on his shirt, but we switched it to hearts because it’s more generic and fits with multiple games. Also we joke that you can either fill up his hearts or let them run out!

27 - Sabrina is an orchie dork and plays violin 2 in the orchestra.

28 - Marian, Garth, and Sabrina are all choir kids. Felicity is a former drama club kid.

29 - In my head Eugene resembles Eugene from The Walking Dead so…yeah his sprite definitely low-key has his look haha.

30 - Alex came up with our little heart trumpet logo. She used to draw it everywhere in high school!

31 - The original Higurashi anime was definitely an inspiration, with it’s cute-on-the-surface look and darkness waiting in the wings.

32 - There’s always a kid with a nickname in the band and it’s used so often you have no idea what their real name is. Poptart was the first thing I blurted out so that’s what we went with.

33 - The story of Rebecca was told to me when I was at camp in 5th grade. Still surprised our principal told a bunch of 10-year olds a story involving matricide and suicide. I made some modifications for BCB but…who knows…maybe she’s real.

34 - The rock in this background marks the grave of Rebecca and her family.

35 - Doug was originally going to carry the smallest bass drum for comedic purposes, but then we had a reality check.

36 - Some names that were suggested and didn’t make the cut: Clarence (Clark), Fleur (Felicity), and Gordon (Garth).

Bonus: Ms. Craft's maiden name is Kim.

[syrma-sensei]

Somewhere In Your Heart, Ch.6: The New Famous Couple.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x fem!reader.

Rating: Explicit.

Setting: In the early 1980s.

Warnings: smut, angst, power imbalance, misogyny, typical period attitudes.

Word Count: 3.6k.

Summary: Soldier boy lives through the ennui of his peak, but everything is about to change when he has a shift in his heart.

“Soldier Boy seems to be infatuated with you, young lady.”

That's what Stan Edgar, one of Vought's associates, tells you after you've been offered a cup of coffee by his assistant. He has you summoned after the incident with Jack days ago. He dismisses the assistant with a lenient manner. The simple act impresses you; a man in power who's nice to his employees.

You're still digesting the fact Jack was kicked out of company like a dog. You've always thought Jack is invincible. You thought he was untouchable. But here we are, they threw him out like trash. Which means, he apparently isn't. He doesn't have control over you anymore. You're another man's property now. Your body shivers at the memory of Ben telling you so.

You take a sip, casting your eyes down. For some reason, the man behind the desk is intimidating you, more than Ben does. You can fathom there's deceit behind his mask of sagacity. And it's not a good sign. You're sick of being below men as such. You want to be free. But now, you're going to act as one, you have to. Because if you don't, you'll have another leash on your neck like the one Jack had on you.

You force a flattered smile, “I’m just a girl who got lucked out, sir.”

“Indeed,” He speaks with such eloquence, “Considering your status with your previous associate, Mr. Harold.”

A bitter bile rolls up in the back of your throat. You wash it down with another sip of your bitter coffee. He has to rub it in your face. You're practically a whore. However, you hold your chin up, “I’m not ashamed of my work, Mr. Edgar.”

That's true. You're not ashamed you survive this cruel world with unseemly means. You're past that. You had to work to eat, to live after your brother died, leaving you all on your own.

“That’s good,” He nods just so, “Because what I'm going to offer you requires no coy coquetry or sleazy bashfulness,” He adds, “I understand your contract designates you to work for us, whether Mr. Harold is associated or not.”

You give him a nod. That's true; your contract with Vought was with you, not with Jack, even though he was involved before. You scoff internally; all you signed were slavery contracts, whether the one with Jack or the one with Vought. There's no way to sugar-coat this. You're their bitch now.

“I was told you were having cold feet about being Soldier Boy's new public partner.”

Your body flinches again as you recall how he told you you belonged to him now. But from what Edgar just told you, you belonged to Vought now. Neither settle well with you.

“Well, I was confused,” You answer. A lie of course, “I thought Crimson Countess was Ben's girlfriend,”

Edgar chuckles, amused, “Well, they were,” He remarks, “But their popularity as a power couple has deteriorated as of yet. People need someone to relate with, and that is going to be you…”

You take another sip of your coffee, your body fidgeting under his perceiving eyes.

Naturally, Edgar picks up on your visible hesitation. “What if I told you I could offer you payback for your brother.”

Your eyes dilate in stupor, blinking as you absorb the fact he knows about your brother. Nobody knew about him but Jack. Edgar seems to have dug after you, which makes you shift in discomfort.

You wonder how your brother will be avenged. Edgar doesn't mean killing Ben, does he? The man is nearly invincible. He's the fucking strongest man alive. So, how? But the nonchalant confidence Edgar is speaking with gives you a hint that he isn't bluffing. But why? To your understandment, Ben is their most important asset. That's why they're keeping you in the first place. For him. Your mind whirl with questions and qualms.

But the most significant one… You want your brother avenged, but do you want Ben to get killed?

Your heart wrings at the thought of a dead Ben.

But he killed your brother, you remind yourself. But you love him…

Emotions burn behind your eyes, you try to hold them back. The war between your heart and mind is an alien sensation to you. And it's burning you up.

“Please him,” Edgar enunciates, tone nothing but business, “Keep him tamed… and on his toes. And your brother will be avenged.”

“How so?” Your brow raises in inquiry. You're still finding it difficult to picture Ben being taken down.

The tip of your stomach roils at the thought of Ben taking away from you. It dreads you how much effect the man has over you. You can't pinpoint it yet, but you're sure it's nothing like what you had with Jack. The thing you have with Ben is much more… intimate… akin to mutual infatuation. You love him, your mind tells you again.

“That’s none of your current concern,” He answers in a matter-of-fact voice, “When the time comes, you'll be informed.”

Despite your bemusement and your colliding feelings, you nod. You do want retaliation for your brother, but do you want it at your heart's expense? Ben is the only one who makes you feel free, safe, protected. He promised you so. Yet, here you are… discussing betrayal with this man.

“What say you?” He presses again.

You open your mouth to answer, but your ears prick up at the sudden ruckus behind Edgar's office door which swings open, followed by a cry, “Get off me!”

You shift in your seat and you're looking at her. Crimson Countess.

Her eyes are on fire as she glowers at Edgar, then at you, “You’re replacing me with her?!” She utters in revulsion.

“Your point has significantly dropped lately, Carol,” Edgar's tone is unchanging, “And that isn't befitting of Soldier Boy's image.”

Countess snickers, “It’s all about that fucker, isn't it?”

Your eyes furrow in confusion; isn't she supposed to be his girlfriend. Oh, she's now the angry ex-girlfriend.

She lets out a sour cackle, then leers at you, “You think a little bitch like you can handle him?” She grins wickedly, “Well, good luck with that…”

You don't like her gloating expression, then your eyes flit back at Edgar. He's looking at you, studying you. He wants to see how you're going to act. Is this some kind of a test? Is he testing where your loyalty lies?

Well, you don't give a damn. All you want right now is to smack that bitch in the face. However, you deliver it in a different way.

The flashing memories of your brother give you the audacity and courage to stick up.

“I think I can handle Ben just fine. And dare I say better than you did, Carol.”

Her mouth gapes at you; she didn't expect the comeback. For all she knows you're some hooker Ben fetched from the street.

You continue, a sly grin on your lips, “Did you know he likes to go on the fifth base?” You let out a mocking snore, “I bet you didn't. But tell ya one thing… he loves it.”

Countess is taken off guard by your blatant impudence. She never had someone like you standing up for themselves against her, you guess. You don't think ruffling a supe’s feathers is a good idea, but the expression on bitch's face is worth it. You feel, for a fleeting moment, power and control flooding through your psyche, and you savour the vigourous sensation.

Countess seethes at you, then she marches in your direction.

You cower in your place, but you don't run.

“That’s enough!” Edgar's voice hauls her in her tracks.

She stops and glares at him, “You want her to take my place? Fine!” Her voice is filled with poison, “Don’t crawl back to me, begging me to keep him in place.”

With that she left.

And your sudden audacity wanes slowly away.

You look at Edgar, and you don't like the way his lips curl up one bit.

Turns out Edgar had a lot up on his sleeves for the two of you. And you guessed right. You didn't like it.

However, for the past few days you've been true to your words, playing your part perfectly as you should as Soldier Boy's new girlfriend.

You two are eyed everywhere together. On television, on the news, they all talk about Soldier Boy's new human girlfriend.

In other circumstances, you'd take this to heart and revel in the attention and the lights. Frankly, you do to a certain degree despite everything that has happened. Perhaps you are actually happy without Jack in the picture. But what dread you the truth you've been avoiding all those days. You are happy with Ben.

Despite Ben's faults and bad temper, he's been actually nice to you since that day albeit you expected the opposite. For some reason — that's baffling you, he's gentle and tender with you. You can even sense sweet affection underneath his harsh facade.

The truth appals you. You're falling deeper for your brother's murderer.

Ben keeps you under his eyes all the time. On and off set. In his shootings and breaks. He can't afford losing you now he practically owns you.

Ever since that day, you provoked something foreign in his soul. Your tears and vulnerability alerted protective instincts over you. He doesn't know how to explain it… but, the only thing he knows is that he'd kill anyone if they hurt you.

What is this you ignited within him? He's not good at those. Sentiments. Love? He scoffs, he never knew what love is. Maybe what's fucking his system up is? He doesn't know. Again, he sucks at this.

But he knows this, if that motherfucker even thought to get near you again, he'd fucking rip him apart.

Now, however, he's relishing in the moment of the flashes around you both, snapping pictures of you together on a red carpet. He gazes down at you, and his expression softens.

You muster a well-feigned smile as cameras taking pictures of you with Ben. Arm looped through his, you wave at the applauding audience behind the fence.

“Soldier Boy, this way!”

“For how long have you two been dating?”

“Is Crimson Countess still in the picture?!”

“(Y/N), what is it like to be Soldier Boy’s girl as an ordinary woman?”

And it goes on and on.

Unlike you, Ben seems to be used to the attention of the crowd. He revels in it, given how poised and well-adjusted to situations like that. You on the other hand, never had an audience as myriad as this one before. Ever since Vought dropped the song, you've been swarmed by scoops and reporters. Vought — at Soldier Boy’s order — hired two bodyguards to maintain your safety from any overly zealous new fan when you leave the tower.

In fact, you haven't left it ever since they kicked Jack's ass out. You spend your days in the tower as if it's your hermitage of abstinence. Life with Soldier Boy is anything but abstinent, though.

Even though he owns you as he claims, he never lays a finger on you. Of course, you sleep in his bed, but to your stupor, Soldier Boy hasn't solicited anything physical from you. He rather scoops you up in his arms from behind, snuggling his face into your neck. You've grown big on the intimate proximity you two share. It baffles you. He made it clear that you were his property, yet he hasn't asked you anything physical ever since.

Now, is the closest you've ever had with him since Herogasm. His arm wrapped around your waist as he flaunts you off to the press.

Tonight is a charity ball for Vought, and they decided it was a good idea to put you on show for the keen fans. Ben reluctantly agreed.

“How is it being Soldier Boy's new girl?” One of the reporters shouts.

You gaze up at Ben, his face is concealed by his mask. He's attending the party with his supe gear. Your eyes fall upon the reporter then at Ben again. A small grin forming on your lips.

They want a show? Let's give them one.

Your lips are on his.

The crowd roars in applause.

When you pull away, your eyes are half-lidded, staring straight at his.

Then he smirked, whispering in your ears, “Good girl.”

And that makes you shiver. The rasp in his voice sends small shocks of pleasure down your spine.

Ben grins at your reaction, pecking your lips again. The audience blare again in acclamation. You grin back.

Then you saunter into the hotel hall where the ball takes place. Ben's arm doesn't leave your waist as he leads you in. Despite the leering eyes looking in your way, you feel protected by Ben.

You spend most of the time at Ben's side, men and women swarm up to him, each racing to kiss his ass better than the other. Although you find it ridiculous, you maintain a polite prestige.

Ben grins at you, he's proud of you. You're handling those cocksuckers like a champ. You know when to speak and when you let out a titter, mostly at some dull joke of those men. On the other hand, he can't stand the way they're ogling you like you're a bag of flesh to prey on. He grows indignant by each passing moment, his arm pulls you closer to his body.

Ben notices they're starting to wear you out, so he decides to let you off the hook, “Could you fetch me a drink, darlin’?” He flashes you one of his giddy grins.

“Sure,” You grin back, “Bourbon with rocks?”

“Atta girl.” He subtly winks at you, making you blush.

Ben's eyes follow your back as you meander to the large bar.

His head turns back to the men around him.

“Stan was right,” One of them piped up, looking at you from his spot. Ben doesn't like how the man's eyes follow your figure with lust swirling in them. “She does fit better as your arm candy than Countess.”

Ben's jaws grate. You're nothing like that bitch. You're truly his, his pretty little treasure.

He glares at the man, his name is Robert or something… he doesn't give enough shit to remember those men's names. Because they don't matter. None of them does. But he has to keep his cool, and conceal the burning urge to gouge each one's eyes out for staring at you. He mustn't show any sign of vulnerability. Not in front of those douchebags, not in front of anybody.

But the man keeps on pushing his buttons as he says, “Legend claims that you intend to keep this one all yours, is that true?”

Rage boils inside of his body. The fucking audacity. Doesn't this man value his life? Because if he utters another word about you, Ben is going to lose it and bashes the man's head into the wall with no ounce of regret.

Ben's eyes narrow behind the mask of his helmet, then forces a grin, “Damn right he is,” He drawls, patting the man's back. He mustn't show them any weakness, because if he does, they'll be waiting to feast on him like vultures do a cadaver. Instead, Ben opts to another option. “What can I say? I'm a bit of greedy man when it comes to such a catch like her.”

He hopes the scalding glare in his eyes conveys the message.

At the other side of the hall, you're waiting for your drinks at the bar table. Sitting on the stool, you fiddle with your thumbs, until you feel someone accost you from your side. You look up and see a woman who's smiling at you.

“Hi, I'm Lana,” She says, extending her hand.

“Hi,” You say, your eyes momentarily flit at Ben who's across the hall then back at her.

Lana orders a drink and makes herself comfortable on the stool adjacent to yours.

“Here you go, ma'am,” The bartender places your drinks in front of you.

“Excuse me,” You tell Lana as you lift the martini glasses up as you're ready to get back to Ben.

“It’s nice, isn't it?” Lana tilts her head to look at you, “Being the sweetheart of America's sweetheart.” You stop in your tracks and turn to her.

“Can’t say it's not…” You answer.

Lana scoffs, “Are you aware of the man under that mask, Miss?”

Your brows furrow, you don't like the tone she's speaking with.

Lana gives her surroundings a quick scan as she leans closer to you, “A piece of advice… from a woman to woman—”

You cut her off, “I’m sorry, who are you again?”

“I’m Lana Miller of Daily Supes, and I think you can—”

Your eyebrow twitches in indignation, “How did you get in here?”

“That doesn't matter,” She replies, “What matters is that your boyfriend is responsible for carelessly murdering hundreds of people under the term “accidental casualties”...”

You feel as if an arrow of fire sears through your chest.

“You and I can hold him accountable for his crime—”

“Security!” You screech with a high-pitched voice.

The woman's eyes widen as she sees three guards manueaver their way towards her. She draws a card from her bag and swiftly puts it in your hand, “In case you change your mind.”

Then she sets off. However, the trained guards capture her and see her out of the building.

“Who the fuck was that?” You flinch a bit at Ben's voice coming from behind you.

“A nobody…” You say, balling the card up in your fist.

When you both retire back to Ben's quarters, you both are unhinged. Each for a different reason. Ben is set to prove to those pigs, and himself, that you're only his. And you want to forget about everything by getting intoxicated in sex.

Tonight was rough on you and him. You're still not accustomed to the intense attention, and neither is he to care about someone so… immensely. However, you both did your parts after Edgar had a small welcome speech dedicated to you, the new couple at the podium.

You get each other’s clothes off, and your lips are chasing for more and more kisses.

Once you and Ben are nude, he lifts you up only to throw you into the bed and crawling up your body. Panting softly, you look up at him with half-lidded eyes. There's something feracious in his green eyes.

“Mine…” He seethes, lips pressing to your neck, then trailing down the column of your throat.

You moan as he bites.

He pulls away slightly to admire the hickey he left on you.

“Say it…” He demands.

You grin up at him, “Make me.”

Ben lets out a deep grunt, “Say it, woman!”

You can't help but giggle, how can you not, when you keep the strongest man alive on edge.

“You think this is funny?” His hand reaches the back of your head, tugging your hair roughly.

You moan, hissing at him, “What if I do?”

“So you like it?” His voice is aggressive, “Getting eye-fucked by every man sees you?”

You grit your teeth, your eyebrows arching in defiant, “Isn’t that my new job?”

“Oh, no no,” He growls, “You got it all wrong… sweetheart.” You can feel his cock hard against your belly.

“Your new job is to serve me… obey me… be the good slut you are to me, and only me.”

You feel the tip of your stomach roil, and it bolts straight to your throbbing core.

“Then claim me…” You challenge, “Make me yours again…”

And he does.

Needless to say, you wake up with a sore body the next day. Seems like Ben doesn't take it too kindly when he has his buttons pushed on. Yet, you couldn't resist the temptation. You savour his aggressive passion, even if it hurts you a bit. It's worth it. He makes you feel wanted, protected, and appreciated. And even, dare you say, loved.

“Men like him do not love.”

Here it is again, the voice of consciousness reminding you of the ugly truth. You're in love with your brother's murderer.

The warmth of his chest shrouds you from behind. You shift a bit and snuggle up to his hold, resting your head on his chest. His hand strokes your hair, his chin is on your head.

You smile in complacency.

Unlike you, Ben hasn't slept a wink. After you hit the sack in his arms, his eyes were wide awake, his mind thinking about you.

You're making him weak. He hates being weak. Caring for someone makes one vulnerable, and he can't afford it. He wouldn't have it said that a woman turned Soldier Boy into a pussy.

You open your eyes when you sense him moving away from your hold. He sits up, back to you. You frown, touching his back, but one thing you're sure about is the tangible shift of his aura.

Ben glances at you over his shoulder, “Is it true,?” You blink, then he continues, “What we have?”

You flinch at his question.

“It is to me.” You reply after a pause, “Is it to you?”

He looks away. He refuses to show weakness to anyone, and especially to you.

“I’m a man of my word, and I remember making you a promise.” He answers sharply.

“That doesn't answer my question, Ben.”

“I made you a promise, and I intend to keep it.” He says, still not facing you.

“Do you love me?” You ask, voice wavering with emotions.

You notice how his body startles at your question.

Finally, he turns to face you, “Love is weakness and I'm not weak.”

You feel a painful twang in your chest, tears burn your eyes.

Ben looks away again, shuffling with his clothes, avoiding gazing upon you.

“See you later…” He says, and just like that, he leaves. Only then you let your tears stream down your cheeks.

He doesn't love you.

He's not as weak and pathetic as you are.

That pernicious voice whispers in your ear, somehow, it resembles Jack's.

You wipe your tears away, get dressed, then march out of the tower into outside. You make it to the closest telephone booth. You open up the wrinkled card, and call the number on it.

“Ms. Miller? This is (Y/N) (L/N).” You say, “You and I have work to do.”

🦅 Next Chapter: The Scandal Date.

🦅 Previous Chapter: A Man's Property.

🦅 Somewhere In Your Heart Masterlist

🦅 Soldier Boy Masterlist

Taglist: @thebiggerbear, @zepskies, @deanbrainrotwritings, @deansbbyx, @deans-spinster-witch

@venus-haze, @kaleldobrev, @k-slla, @ketchupjasmin, @demodemo909

@mystic-mara, @jqtaro, @pepsicolacoochie, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @prurose

@leavli, @robertthehoover, @soldiergrimes, @vanessa-boo, @uddiifiigj...

[ugotnojamzzz]

Rulers of Ruin

Chapter 4

Alright so I’ve been toying with this complex mafia!au fic idea for a very long while and I guess it’s time to give it a whirl. I already have about ten chapters written out (I’m expecting it to be at least 20 chapters), but I want to test out the waters first. I’ll start posting more if some of you are interested in knowing what the hell is going on.

Genre: Mafia!au , Slowburn, Angst, Hurt, eventual smut, TW (it is a mafia!AU, after all)

Pairing: Mafia!Jungkook x reader

Synopsis: um, tf is going on??? Stay tuned for more chapters to come.

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language. Also, don’t come for me over the theme, people. It’s an Alternate Universe, which means the bangtan boys are essentially what I like to call meat puppets to serve the storyline. This is obviously not a projection of their actual real-life personas.

Wordcount: 2.8k

Masterlist

Chapter 3

The morning light had not yet pierced the darkness when Y/N was abruptly roused from her sleep by the rustling of security guards entering her room. The sudden intrusion was quickly followed by a stern order; she was being summoned to a meeting with Namjoon.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Y/N slid out of bed to find she was wearing pajamas.

Mrs Shin, YN thought as she recalled last night’s events, that old bitch.

 Still drowsy, she went to open her wardrobe, which was now curiously filled with clothing. Everything black. "How fitting," she muttered under her breath as she selected an outfit.

The girl dressed quickly and was escorted through the sterile, echoing halls of the mansion. The crisp morning air hadn't yet warmed the austere corridors, adding a chill to her already uneasy anticipation.

Upon entering a broad, sunlight-flooded office, Y/N was met by the sight of Namjoon and another man, who had pale skin and sharp, cat-like eyes.

Namjoon turned to face her, offering a nod in greeting. "YN-ah," he said, his eyes briefly scanning her face, "I’m glad to see you looking better today."

"Nothing like a little blackout rest to brighten up those dark circles," Y/N responded sternly.

"I trust you’re enjoying your new quarters?" Namjoon inquired.

Unimpressed by his attempts at cordiality, Y/N offered no reply, her silence laden with indifference.

"I hope you’ve got everything you need up there," he pressed on.

"Cut the crap,” Y/N’s voice sliced through the pleasantries, her stance firm, eyes narrowing slightly, “are you going to tell me why I’m here?"

"Alrighty, then," Namjoon conceded with a slight nod, gesturing subtly to the guards. At his signal, they exited, leaving only the man with cat-like eye whom he had been speaking to earlier. "Let’s get straight to it, shall we?"

As the door closed, Namjoon motioned towards a plush chair opposite his desk, but Y/N chose to remain standing. She crossed her arms, her posture rigid.

Namjoon sighed, « I’m sure you’re wonde-»

"Before you even start, » Y/N cut in sharply, her gaze unwavering, « you should know that I have zero intel. »

"Come on now, Y/N, » Namjoon replied, his voice smooth, attempting to diffuse the tension with a light chuckle, « don’t sell yourself short like that. »  He leaned back slightly against the edge of his desk, his demeanor casual yet calculating, as he watched her closely.

"I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’ve been away for the past four years, » Y/N's voice was sharp, her frustration palpable as she confronted Namjoon across the sleek surface of his desk. « Oh, but wait—you must’ve known, considering you sent your minions after me the second I landed back in this god forsaken country," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Namjoon leaned back casually. "Early bird gets the worm," he quipped, clearly unbothered by her accusatory tone.

« Well, I’m afraid you’re bound to starve,” Y/N pressed, her eyes narrowing as she gauged his reaction. “Even if I did know something, we both know I could never tell you."

"I don’t need information from you,” Namjoon retorted smoothly, his gaze steady and assessing. “Your mere presence will suffice, I’m sure."

YN rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Did I not tell you to do your research? My brother is not one to negotiate. This is not what we do," her voice grew colder, more distant. It was common knowledge that when a member of the Park clan was weak or dumb enough to be taken, they were considered good riddance. Left to fend for themselves, prove their worth. It was all part of the code. “No one is coming for me." Her last sentence hung in the air.

"I wouldn’t be so sure," the man with cat eyes, suddenly spoke up. « Look what came knocking at the headquarters this morning. » He pointed to the desk where a stark symbol lay—a raven, motionless, its neck broken.

Y/N’s jaw clenched at the sight. « Animal cruelty, real classy, Namjoon,” she snapped with biting sarcasm, “Between that and last night’s roofie, you’ve become a proper little delinquent, haven’t you? »

« They’re a bad omen, » the cat-eyed man said nonchalantly, « we weren’t gonna take the chance. »

Y/N stared at the lifeless bird intensely. A bad omen. A chill ran down her spine as she wondered whether she was destined to share a similar fate. Would her neck be the next to break under their twisted sense of precaution?

« But that’s hardly the interesting part, » the man interrupted her train of thoughts, handing her a folded piece of parchment, “here’s what it carried.”

She unfolded it with hesitant fingers to reveal a simple sketch.

A Tiger’s head. In jet black ink.

They all knew what that meant.

"A little old-fashioned, I must say," Namjoon observed with a slight chuckle, "an email would’ve worked just as well."

Y/N stared at the symbol, her mind racing. Her brother couldn’t possibly be willing to declare war over her safety.

Could he?

"Don’t worry," Namjoon said, cutting through her thoughts. « I can assure you your kin hasn’t grown sentimental while you were away."

"Then what do you make of this?" she asked, her confusion giving way to a growing sense of urgency.

"Ah, Y/N-ah, » Namjoon sighed, content, « you really have been gone a long time, haven’t you? » his tone was almost pitying now.

"Spit it out, will you?" Y/N demanded, her patience thinning.

Namjoon leaned forward, clasping his hands together as he prepared to reveal the crux of the matter, his expression serious. "What this means," he began, "is that the game has changed. And whether you like it or not, you are now a pivotal player."

Namjoon fixed his gaze on Y/N, his voice low and deliberate. "Rumor has it your family's operations are teetering on the edge," he continued, observing her closely for any telltale reaction. "It seems your brother's firm hand may be squeezing a little too tight, risking a shortage in your flock soon."

Y/N's expression hardened, a subtle tension in her shoulders as she processed his words.

"Then again," Namjoon added, his tone shifting slightly, "We both know collapse simply isn’t in the cards for your clan. Its unique strategic position will safeguard its continuity… provided your brother knows how to leverage it.”

“After all,” he mused, “The intel your family has access to isn’t just valuable—it's the linchpin that could radically alter the political landscape of the entire continent."

He leaned back his eyes never leaving Y/N. "And let’s be clear," he continued, "the lengths to which some might go to access this information are boundless."

Y/N felt a chill as she absorbed the full impact of his words, her mind racing.

“I’m sure I don’t need to utter their names for you to know the parties interested,” Namjoon added.

The Kims.

The Kangs

The Lees.

Even the Chois, possibly.

Any of the other four original clans, really, could be talked into parting ways with some of their troops. For the right price, of course. Tit for tat.

The stakes were clear, and the players were formidable.

Still one piece still didn’t fit.

“I don’t see what all this has to do with me,” YN stated.

Namjoon smirked, “You’re smarter than that.”

“Apparently not,” she replied sternly.

He let out a heavy contemplative breath. “Why do you think you, of all people, were summoned back here in the first place? After four years away? » He paused, giving her a moment to absorb the implications. « Just when your clan finds itself on the precipice of needing to form a—permanent alliance.”

His words struck a cold vein.

No.

She scoffed, shaking her head as if to dismiss the very thought.

"Come on now," Namjoon pressed, his voice smooth yet insistent, "you didn’t honestly think he’d missed you?"

“You’re wrong-” she continued, denial lacing her tone.

« Oh, but I’m not, » he confirmed with a nod, the corners of his lips twitching slightly. “Your birthright, it seems, has become the currency of power brokers." He paused, watching her face slowly decompose. “And word on the street is that your dear brother is bound to start quite the bidding war for a spot in your family tree.”

YN pondered the chilling possibility that Namjoon might be right; her brother was more than capable of pulling such a twisted stunt, if only just to spite her.

Her eyes narrowed; her stance tensed. "So, what is this, then? A proposal? You’re going to force me down the aisle like some 15th-century bride?" The scorn in her voice was unmistakable.

"Do you really think that low of me?" Namjoon retorted, his eyebrows arching in feigned surprise.

"I’ve learned to manage my expectations," she shot back.

"Well, rest assured, there will be no wedding," Namjoon stated firmly, his tone serious as he leaned forward slightly, bridging the gap between them.

« Jesus Christ, stop with the riddles, already, » Y/N snapped, “what the fuck are you trying to achieve, here?”

Namjoon let out a heavy sigh, his gaze intensifying as he fixed his eyes on Y/N. "I suppose," he paused, choosing his words carefully, "we’re offering you- exile, at least until we get some kind of assurance from your clan that this ridiculous quest of theirs is over. »

YN was at a loss for words as she stared at Namjoon in disbelief. The Kims hadn’t built an empire by doing good deeds. Surely, there had to be an angle somewhere.

"So, you’re telling me you didn’t even think to join the auction then, huh?" she pressed with a wary tone. "I must say I’m almost offended. Do you not think me pretty enough for one of your own, Namjoon? »

He rolled his eyes, a gesture that did little to mask the strategic mind behind his relaxed facade. « You know politics is not our game. We couldn’t care less what happens in matters of state, so long as we can conduct our business in peace," he retorted.

"That being said," Namjoon leaned forward, his expression turning grave, "the charter is clear. No blood bonding, no alliances. We won’t let it happen, » he declared, "not again. »

As Namjoon spoke, YN's mind was transported back to the haunting tales of her childhood, relayed by her nanny in the dim glow of firelight—stories steeped in the brutal feuds that had shaped the history of the Korean underworld. The room seemed to fill with the spectral presence of those turbulent times: relentless bloodbaths and deep-rooted rivalries that governed life and death.

One tale, in particular, stood stark in her memory: When the Lees, an ancient and unforgiving clan, had once resorted to hiring a Park bladesman to settle a bitter business score with the Tigers. The one to pay the price had been none other than the young heir to the Kim clan—Namjoon's father.

 The assault, carried out under the cover of darkness, had left the boy permanently marred, a savage act of retribution that inflicted wounds deeper than the visible scars on his face.

To be fair, each clan gave as good as they got. But the end of the war had come with the desire for a peaceful era between the clans.

That’s what the Mutual Prosperity Charter had been for.

Deciding to stay out of each other’s business as much as possible, the 5 original signatories had managed to grow their empires without resorting to backstabbing each other for over 60 years. Of course, there had been... incidents, here and there, but everything was handled in agreement with the charter. An eye for an eye. Never further.

Then again, what’s bred in the bone is bound to come out in the flesh.

She could’ve punched herself for being so blind. They deeply feared an alliance, feared her role in it. These stories were more than mere tales; they served as dire warnings. As YN pondered, the depth of Namjoon's determination became starkly evident. The scars borne by his father were not just physical marks; they were vivid reminders of the perilous consequences that clan fraternization could bring.

Though their concerns were understandable, YN couldn't help but find the intensity of their reaction overblown.

All of that fuss over some stupid old grudges? Pathetic, she thought. Scared little kittens.

“I didn’t know the Kims to be resentful. » Y/N broke the silence, each word dripping with insinuation. «Is daddy still upset? » she continued with a mocking pout, noting the slight tightening of Namjoon’s jaw. “You know, a scar is a mark of honor up north, he really shouldn’t have taken it so personally.”

She paused, her gaze scanning Namjoon’s squeezed fist deliberately. “Where is your father, by the way?” she prodded further, her words calculated to provoke. “I don’t see a signet ring on your hand, so I assume the old man hasn’t kicked the bucket just yet.”

Crossing the small distance between them with a few purposeful steps, Y/N reached out and adjusted Namjoon’s tie. « So where is he, then? »

The man’s eyes hardened, the muscles in his neck tensing visibly as he grasped her wrist, stopping her movements. His frustration was palpable, almost radiating from him in waves as he stared down at her, his voice a low growl. “Watch your tone. »

“What?” her voice dropped to a whisper, venomous and taunting, “Did daddy finally come to terms with the fact that little golden boy Namjoonie is simply too soft for the big job?”

Namjoon maintained a veneer of control, but it was clear that her jabs had struck a nerve. His glance shifted subtly to his subordinate, conveying a silent command that was understood instantly.

Without hesitation, the cat-eyed man moved with a swift, practiced motion, striking Y/N's face with such force that she stumbled and fell to her knees.

“Motherf—" Y/N winced in pain, her hand flying to her throbbing cheek as she struggled to regain her composure. Looking up at Namjoon through narrowed eyes, she shot back, "Whatever happened to 'no touching the face', huh?"

Namjoon's response was chillingly indifferent. "Scars have a way of fading over time," he remarked coldly. His eyes didn't waver from her pained gaze, his stance firm and unyielding. "You, of all people, would know. »

Y/N clenched her jaw tightly, the metallic taste of blood seeping onto her tongue—a stark reminder of the precariousness of her position.

Namjoon crouched down to her level, his face impassive but his eyes sharp and calculating. He extended a handkerchief toward her. Gently, almost incongruously tender, he dabbed at the blood trickling from her lip. « Now that things are- clearer, » he began, his voice low and controlled, "remember you are our guest here, just stay out of trouble and there will be no reason for things to get ugly." The underlying threat in his tone was clear, cloaked in the veneer of civility.

As he rose to his full height, he signaled to his subordinate, who had been standing by silently, watching the interaction with an impassive expression.

"All we need to do is wait ‘till this all gets figured out," Namjoon added, his voice carrying a hint of finality as he moved towards the door.

He was about to step out when Y/N's voice, stronger now, called after him.

"And how long do you expect that to be?" she asked.

Namjoon paused in the doorway, turning his head slightly. "Weeks, months, hell, maybe years," he said with a shrug, his tone nonchalant as if it mattered little in the grand scheme of things. "Lucky for you, time is now the least of your concerns." With those words, he stepped out, leaving the door to swing shut behind him, the soft click of the latch a stark finality in the quiet room.

Left alone, Y/N steadied herself, drawing a deep breath as she processed the encounter. She knew the real game had only just begun.

--

Alright, that chapter was a little heavy on information, and I tried to not make everything too obvious or clear-cut, but I don't know if it's maybe too confusing, or not enough. If you can't even understand the jist of it all, do tell me lol. Because it makes sense to me, but I have the bigger map in mind so I'm not exactly objective lol

Anyway, hope you liked it. If some of you are intrigued or interested in finding out more, don't hesitate to interact and I'll start posting some more chapters! Also questions and remarks and feedback are welcome xxx

Chapter 5

Masterlist

Taglist

@princess-sunshyn

[we-were-born-to-be-free]

Hi there! I’m new to your page but I’ll take anyone who writes for my husband (mr. Benjamin Barnes) Do you think maybe you could write something where the reader is a moon summoner and she/they have like a traumatic past them makes them hide it for years until she meets Aleksander and he finds out maybe? Idk that’s pretty specific but just a thought! Have a lovely day!

Little moon - A.M

A/N: I am so sorry this took forever. I just wasn't in the right headspace. Enjoy<3

" Why can't you do anything right you fucking bitch," screamed your father. "You're such a disappointment to us. We never wanted you in our lives, let alone for you to be Grisha! We're so glad you'll be leaving forever. Don't try to come back here ever again. Fucking disappointment," he spat as he slapped you again and kicked you hard. He slammed the door shut and all you could do was lay there and cry.

You woke up with a start, tears already streaming down your face from the nightmare. You sat on the edge of your bed, trying to control your breathing. You left that life long ago when you ran away from home. You'd had enough.

Now you were safe within the walls of the Little Palace. Within the arms of Aleksander. Your love. You weren't sleeping with him because he was extremely busy with the preparations for the Winter Fete.

You had gotten onto your feet before checking what the time was. It was 3.16. You knew you wouldn't be sleeping again.

You slipped your navy-blue silk gown on and made your way to the gardens. You took the long way around, making all the unnecessary turns and stops.

Once you had gotten to your bench, you find your seat taken by Aleksander. You went and sat down next to him, making yourself comfortable against him. "What's wrong lapushka? Can't sleep" He asked.

"Nightmare," you responded, voice muffled against his kefta.

He pulled you closer into him. "When you're ready to tell me more about these nightmares that plague you, darling, I'll be right here. We have all the time in the world," he joked.

You hadn't told him why you were always getting nightmares, just that you were traumatized in your childhood. He understood that you didn't want to mention it too much. You nodded before he kissed the top of your head softly.

"Come on my little moon, you have to get more rest before you meet the king and queen later."

"Mm," you hummed. You moved your hands away from Aleksander and started playing with your powers. You were able to summon moonlight. You were the first of your kind. Your parents weren't Grisha at all.

They hated them. No wonder they hated you just as much. You sat in a comfortable silence with Aleksander. When the sun rose, he kissed your forehead again before leaving to continue with his never-ending work.

Hours later, you were dressed in your midnight blue kefta, with silver embroidery. Your hair was elegantly pinned up by Genya. You were sitting beside Aleksander, with the king and queen.

You were picking at your food, not feeling very hungry. The King called upon you, to which you responded. "I see that you been made commander of the Etherealki. How are you finding it?"

"It has been a little bit of a struggle at first, moi tsar, but I am finding it easier now,"

"I doubt they will behave with a pathetic little girl running their group."

That struck a nerve.

"I mean I know I wouldn't. It is disappointing to see what this world has come to. Girls commanding Etherealki. Pathetic."

You were shocked. How could the King of Ravka, dare say that. He was meant to protect you, to guard you from the world. He was meant to be a father figure. Your hands started shaking and you felt like you couldn't breathe properly.

"Moi tsar, I am not feeling well. With your permission, m- may I retire to my room," you asked, trying to hide the tremble in your voice. He nodded and waved you away.

You were going to have a panic attack. You weren't a stranger to episodes like these, but being in a crowded area didn't help them.

You practically ran to your room, closing the door behind you. You shrugged off your kefta before falling to your knees. Images of your father flashed through your memory. You could hear his voice, telling you how worthless you are.

Your entire body was shaking as you hid your face behind your hands, wishing that his voice would go away. Meanwhile, Aleksander noticed that you were getting nervous, and after you had dashed out of the hall, he didn't bother to excuse himself before following you to your room.

He opened the door to find you crouched down beside your bed, head in your hands. You were sobbing uncontrollably, trying to get the image of your father out of your head.

Aleksander slowly approached your trembling frame. It broke his heart to see you, his little moon, in so much pain. "Milaya?"

You didn't respond, only digging your head deeper into your knees. "Darling," he asked again.

"Don't hurt me. Please. Not again," you whimpered.

"It's just me love. It's Aleksander. Y/N, look at me darling. Let me see those pretty eyes of yours," he cooed.

Once you heard Aleksander's voice, you slowly removed your hands from your face, eyes still shut tightly. "It's okay darling, you're safe. No one can hurt you here."

Your eyes opened to beautiful grey ones, filled with worry. "Hey love."

You jumped into his arms, stumbling as he caught you. You tried to control your breathing, but you just couldn't. You were taking in more air than you needed. Aleksander noticed this and said, "Deep breaths darling. Slowly."

He took a deep breath, demonstrating the action. As you breathed slowly, you hid your face in the crook of his neck, tears still pouring out of your eyes. He rubbed your back as you calmed down, listening to his words of encouragement.

"There you go darling. Feeling better," he asked.

You nodded, still holding onto him tightly. He carried you onto your bed while he tried to find comfortable clothes for you to wear. "Sasha," you asked quietly. "Will you please stay with me tonight?"

"Of course, my little moon," he replied bringing satin pyjamas for you to change into.

Once you had changed, Aleksander was waiting for you on the bed, shirtless with sweatpants . You had placed your head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, taking comfort in knowing that he was here with you.

Aleksander cleared his throat before asking, "Darling? Who hurt you?"

Your body tensed as you answered him. "It was my father, Sasha. He used to hit me, call me names and tell me how useless I am. I was a disappointment to him," you say. "I still am."

"No, love. Don't ever say that about yourself," he says as he wipes your cheeks with his thumbs. "You are perfect, just the way you are my darling. I love you, okay. You're going to make it out of this trauma. I'll help you, my little moon. I promise."

He seals his promise with a kiss to the top of your head.

"Sasha," you ask tentatively.

"Yes my little moon," he responded.

"Thank you. For everything," you yawn. "I love you."

"I love you too, my little moon. Sleep well."

"

[whoblewboobear]

DEADLINE: Well beloved actor Jace Stardiamond spotted through cafe window with brunette woman. Could she break him out of his life long bachelor streak?

VARIETY: Mysterious Brunette confirmed to be alternative indie-film darling, Zara Sool. Sool is set to co-star alongside Stardiamond in upcoming steamy period drama

Ruby met Jace 3/17 @jacespurplescarf: “does this mean he’s still single??? 👀”

Reply to @jacespurplescarf

Professor Bitch @elfc0ck27641: “single? look up him n his agent theyre VERY close 🍆🍑”

[Jace]: People r talking about us again.

[Porter]: Let them, I’ll have our pr guy scrub X in a few

[Jace]: stop guzzling Elon’s balls and call it Twitter like the rest of us.

[Porter]: keep talking and I won’t have dinner ready when you get home.

[Porter]: or fuck you.

[Jace]: I hate you 😣

[Porter]: Luv u too, kitten 😌 Look over those scripts I sent you btw I wanna confirm one by EOD

[Jace]: no corporate speak 🤢🤢 say it in English for ur idiot thespian bf

[Porter]: u don’t do theater rmr? 🙄 end of day. Aka 6pm when my day is over.

[Jace]: u can leave whenever u salaried bitch

[Porter]: no dinner + not fucking u + L + ratio

[Jace]: 🤢 HATE whatever that was

[Porter]: Sierra taught me 😋

[Jace]: do we have her this week? Gotta ban her from teaching her weirdo dad anymore slang

[Porter]: not sure yet, Zel says she got invited to a sleepover

[Jace]: should we go on vacay then?

[Porter]: ur in the middle of filming ur staying put 👀

[Jace]: ugh ur no fun

[Porter]: EOD, Jace. I mean it.

[Jace]: 📑📝✅💜🖕🏻

~

Acclaimed actor Jace Stardiamond was known to be perpetually single throughout his lengthy career. In reality he was screwing in five year long committed relationship with, yes, his very own agent, Porter Cliffbreaker. An absolute shark in the industry with a list of star-studded clientele.

Jace was a walking cliche, sue him.

It wasn’t his fault Porter opted for a blazer that barely fit his hulking arms the day they met. It ended in their completely professional conversation turning to Jace catching Porter’s lips in a chaste kiss on the front steps leading up to his mansion in the hills. He apologized and Porter continued on with his pitch like nothing happened, like a fierce blush wasn’t passing over his cheeks and ears. Jace signed the paperwork and Porter kept him at arms reach.

Until he took Jace out for a nice dinner to celebrate acing an audition. It wasn’t a special or memorable one. He wasn’t the lead. That night, Porter peered at him over his champagne flute (filled with ginger ale instead) before saying, “I’ll celebrate your wins, no matter the size. A win for you is a win for us.” Us.. he liked the thought of being an ‘Us.’

In the industry, there hadn’t been much opportunity for dating. Hookups were few and far between with trusted partners; none of them serious enough to commit to but they took care of each other’s needs. Porter took care of his career, but he wouldn’t mind if he took him apart instead. He sat across from the man fantasizing about how easily he could pick him up and pose him into whatever position he saw fit. The idea left him desperate.

When Porter summoned him for a meeting, he definitely wasn’t expecting the best agent he’s had in a decade to drop him. He was always the one trading up, not whatever the hell this was. They’ve only been working together for a year..

“Mr. Stardiamond, I have a conflict of interest and I can no longer be your agent. I apologize.” Jace didn’t make it a habit of screaming at people on his payroll. It was a level of disgusting he didn’t tolerate, but if what he was hearing was true.. Porter was quitting- or? Firing him? He wasn’t exactly sure which suited the situation better, but he knew he wanted to scream.

“What the hell? Don’t Mr. Fucking Stardiamond me. What conflict of interest?”

“I’m attracted to you. I could get fired.” Jace’s mouth goes dry and his heart kicks off into overdrive. Porter.. liked him back?

“We can’t just talk to HR or something?” Porter looks up from his computer screen, realization dawning on him as Jace’s bright, determined eyes peer back at him. “We’d only do that if- oh?”

“Yeah, you fucking idiot. Be my boyfriend, be my agent, be both. Who fucking cares. We don’t have to go public. I don’t like- dating and publicity gets messy.”

“You’re not seeing anyone, I take it?”

“Christ, Porter. No, I jerk off thinking of you in plane bathrooms like a loser. I’ve had more wet dreams about you than I can count. I- can I kiss you again? A real kiss.”

“After I fill out the paperwork for HR.” Jace rolls his eyes, resting his chin on his hand, smiling at Porter across his desk. The walls were glass, he couldn’t do anything now, he knew that. Every inch of him burned to close the distance. To push everything off Porter’s desk and let him drill into him while the corporate jag offs milling about watched.

“Let me take you out tonight.”

~

Porter hadn’t considered that he’d be on a flight later when Jace offered to take him out. But here he was, on a private plane headed across the world for a dinner date. LA had all the food they could ever want, but Jace insisted this Parisian restaurant was the best of the best. He was right and Porter was almost impressed. Almost.

“You don’t have to throw money around, I already like you.” Jace hums, taking a deep sip of the top shelf wine he requested for the both of them. Porter was familiar with it. “Can you just enjoy the nice date thing I’m trying to do with you?”

“I am. But I have to meet with a client at six am and I’d like to go to gym at five without being jet lagged,” he smirks.

He knew provoking Jace like this would only push him to brat territory. He liked when Jace got bratty with him. He’d only seen it in a professional sense- as professional as Jace could manage (not much.) It was like he was allergic to playing the part outside of watchful eyes.

From what he heard, Jace was on his best behavior once he waltzed into a place where he was know, where anyone could be watching. But Porter loved how candid he could be when they were alone. Clients were entitled to their masks, he wore his own to get by, but Jace? He took his off the minute Porter closed his office door. The entire floor could see them, his body language remained tactful, but his words? Blunt, opinionated, and clever.

He was so charming, Porter imagine you had to have that quality to be an actor. Actor charm never quite broke down his walls until Jace. Something about those golden eyes and that bright smile. He was also attractive. Even in the dim restaurant lighting he looked breathtaking.

This was a good first date, but Christ he needed more. He needed to know what Jace sounded like when his fingers explored his body.

“Porter?”

“Yeah- sorry. Wine’s getting to my head a bit.”

“You took one sip,” Jace raises an eyebrow. “I don’t usually drink.” Jace eyed him curiously.

“Do you wanna head to the tarmac? We could fuck on the flight home.”

“You fuck on the first date?”

“I don’t date, remember.”

“Still dunno if I believe you or not.” Jace shrugs at that. “Is it that hard to believe? I’ve been on camera since I was a month old. There isn’t enough time or privacy in the world.”

“And you think this’ll work out?”

“I do. I’m confident.”

Five years later and Jace was still confident, but more importantly, he was right.

[thatfoxnamedfinley]

Do you bleed? aka The Rage of Dragons thoughts

Tau

my baby angel boi

my sad angry boi (mostly angry)

my dedicated boi

and the friends we made along the way

and the bloodshed

The audiobook narrator is GOATED; he can simultaneously make a character sound coldblooded and make other characters sound so warm it's so GOOD 11/10 recommend

I finished this book in 2.5 days, that's WILD

SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT BITCH

Ok so I think when it comes to characters, I connect with characters who have lost parents (not to beat the horse with a stick but I lost my mom to cancer in 2022 so I get REALLY emotional when characters lose their parents because I can summon that grief in a moment and recall that feeling of her being gone)

So when Tau's dad is brutally killed and Tau holds him in his arms and vows revenge on everyone involved I'm like

go off king, i support you 10,000,000,000,000,001%

But him also being claustrophobic? relatable

I also really loved how devoted he was. I'm someone who's all in or not at all and his obsessive devotion to becoming a weapon was so overwhelming and relatable.

DUAL WEILD BITCH shink shink shink shink shink

(Im always dual wielding daggers in video games if I can so when he starts fighting with two blades i SCREAMMMMEDDD)

UDUAK

I loved him. For a character who doesn't talk a whole lot, I really found him to be a moving character. Why? I think I like protector/defender characters. AND the narrator made his voice so sweet and deep and warm. When he said "Well met, Tau Solarin" and it SOUNDED like he was smiling warmly and they embraced?

PFFFFFfff bitch my lower lip trembled

And at the end when Zuri was nuked off the world (jfc I didn't think she was going to die what a TWIST!!!! ESP AFTER SHE JACKED HIM OFF LIKE A DOMINATRIX IN THE TUB AND THEY FUCKED BRO!!!! I thought she would be like, his reason to live and fight when it got bad in later books but nope Mr. Winter said YEEET) Tau was wailing his grief and Uduak was holding him and shushing him and I was like OOF this right here is a great character. I love Uduak. He's my favorite side character along with Themba, a man with situational awareness on 100% and also -100%.

Jiyaad was cool but...*smiles but cries*

Kellen is fine because he doesn't REALLY want to kill and be a dick and I think I see MAYBE what the author is trying to do. Either he and Tau will be a characters that have grudging respect for each other and even eventually protect one another one day or they'll be like best friends.

I also have a weird tingly feeling about Kana, the hedeni warlord's (what was that guy's name...? Achak I think) son. He seemed intrigued by Tau the moment he met him so either that will be a great dynamic or Tau will be miserable more miserable.

It's on fucking sight with Abasi Odili like WTF bro. Peace was actually going to happen but because ThE OdEHi doN'T SuRRenDeR now we're gunna be at a war and our entire people wiped out, ok ok ok cool cool just so I understand properly

ALSOOOOOO the African inspired cultural aspect was so so GOOD. I've rarely seen it in the fantasy genre and it was AMAZING. The characters and the terminology and how they spoke was just

The concept of Isihogo is INSANE. It's like...a spiritual world...? But if you don't pull power from it, even if the demons rip you apart you're fine irl but you may become demon-haunted. Which Tau...kind of is but just like, ignores it despite being terrified. Because my man does not QUIT. He literally is like "I'm gunna go ahead and train in this realm because I need to be better than I am with my swords and time passes slower and it'll help me with feeling pain as I get torn to shreds and with fear as I face immortal demons" and I'm like

Why do I also have a feeling that one huge spiky one is like....a demon king or something...? Tau was like "lol I'm here now so you gunna kill me bro?" after he took in power so Zuri wouldn't be killed and the demon was like !!!!!!! before Tsiora came and expunged him out of the realm. And Spiky!Demon was like SCReeeeeeeeecCH

Ou ou ou ou the twin guardian blades he got at the end PERIODTTTTT Tau is Champion, beetch

I want the Nobles to be so irate about it like "WUT WE CANT LET A LOW COMMON BE A CHAMPION GROSS" and the Tau be like

"Yeah cool no worries whoever has a problem can challenge me in single combat and if i lose (lol) then I'll step down as Champion" and then everyone be like

Such a good book, I really really loved it.

I'm kinda glad (I know how bad this sounds) that Zuri died because she was a good character with a decent arc that went out knowing she was probably going to die and I want Tau to be like, borderline EVIL with his revenge

His character is so interesting because he's so single minded and now that his one beacon of light is gone, he's gunna be INSANNEEEEEEEE

*content sigh*

ok thats all I feel I think

[layce2015]

Supernatural (Dean Winchester x Female!Reader)

Long-Distance Call

Masterlist

Sam and I were walking across a city square toward Dean who was sitting on a bench and talking on his phone. He hangs up then in one motion picks up and throws an unopened can of soda to Sam then to me before he stands up, shoving the last of the food he is eating into his mouth.

"So?" he asked us, still chewing on his food. "So, the professor doesn't know crap." Sam informed and Dean hums. "Shocking." He said. "Pack your panties, you two, we're hitting the road." Dean said.

"What?" asked Sam, confused.

"What's up?" I asked. "That was Bobby. Some banker guy blew his head off in Ohio and he thinks there's a spirit involved." Dean replied. "So you two were talking a case?" Sam asked him. "No, we were actually talking about our feelings. And then our favourite boy bands." Dean said, sarcastically, which made me snort a bit.

"Yeah, we were talking a case!" Dean yells, annoyed. "So a spirit, what?" I asked him. "Yeah, the banker was talking about some sort of electrical problems at his pad for like a week. Phone was going haywire, computer was flipping on and off." Dean replied.

"Huh..." Sam said, unimpressed. "This is not ringing your bell?" Dean asked him. "Well, sure, yeah. But, Dean, we're already on a case." Sam said. "Whose?" Dean asked. "Yours." Sam and I said. "Right. Yeah. Well, you coulda fooled me." Dean grumbles.

"What the hell else have we been doing lately other than trying to break your deal?" Sam asked him, angry and annoyed. "Chasing our tails, that's what. Sam, we've talked to every professor, witch, soothsayer and two bit carny act in the lower 48. Nobody knows squat! And we can't find Bela, we can't find the Colt. So until we actually find something, I'd like to do my job." Dean exclaims.

"Well there's one thing we haven't tried yet..." Sam said and Dean shakes his head once we realized what he was hinting at. "Sam, no." Dean said. "We should summon Ruby." said Sam. "I'm not gunna have this fight with you." Dean grumbles. "She said she knows how to save you." Sam said, hopeful. "Well, she can't." Dean said.

"Oh really, you know that for sure?" Sam asked. "I do. And so does (y/n)." Dean said. "How?" Sam asked, suspicious. "Because she told us!" I said and Sam looks at me.

"What?" he said, shocked. "She told us. Flat out. She can't save me, nobody can." Dean said. "And you guys just somehow neglected to mention this to me?" Sam said, hurt. "Well, I really don't care what that bitch thinks and neither should you, so..." Dean said to him.

"So what, now you guys are keeping secrets from me?" Sam asked and I turned to him. "You really wanna talk about who's keeping secrets from who?" I sneered at him. I was still hurt that he didn't tell me that this Lilith was not only after him but me as well. We stare at each other in silence for a long moment. Sam turns away and starts to walk off. 

"Now where you going?" Dean asked him. "Guess I'm going to Ohio." Sam exclaimed and the three of us began to walk

"I found him there." Mrs Waters tells us as the boys and I, the three of us dressed in suits, follow her into the study area. "Why don't you tell us everything you saw, Mrs Waters." Dean says to her. "You mean beside my dead husband?" She asked, slightly offended. "Just everything else you saw. Please." Sam said and she sighs.

"Blood. Everywhere. The phone was ripped from the wall, his favourite scotch on the desk, what else could you possibly want to know?" she said, upset. "Why was the phone ripped from the wall?" I asked her. "I don't know." She said.

"You mind if I take a look?" I asked her. She waves her hand, vaguely, and I go over to the phone. "I already went over this with the other Detectives." said Mrs Waters. "We'll be out of your hair in no time, ma'am." Dean assures her as I push some of the buttons on the phone. Until I got to an odd number with the time of when it called.

"Ma'am, what time did your husband die?" I asked her. "Sometime after 11." She replied and I wait until Dean and Sam look at me, and I tap the phone display. "What about strange phone calls? Receive any of those lately, weird interference, static, anything like that?" Sam asked her. 

"No." she said, defensively, and the boys raise their eyebrows at her. "No!" She shouts again. "Mrs Waters, withholding information from the police is a capital offence." Dean said, firmly, but then Sam noisily clears his throat. Dean glances at him and receives a glare from Sam. In some parts of the world I'm sure." He mutters and Mrs Waters sighs again.

"A couple of weeks ago, uh...there was this..." she stops and looks between us. "This what?" Dean asked her. "I woke up one morning, I heard Ben in his study. I thought he was talking to a woman." She replied.

"What made you think that?" I asked her.  Because he kept calling her Linda. The thing is, I picked up the other line and nobody was there, Ben was talking to nobody." She said. "There was nothing?" Sam asked. "Just static." She said, plainly.

"Did you ever speak to Ben about this phone call?" Sam asked. "No. I should have but...no." she said. "Did he ever say who Linda was?" I asked but then she shouts, upset. "What difference does it make, there was nobody on the other end!"

"Linda's a babe. Or, was." Dean said as he looks through the laptop while Sam and I were sitting on the bed. "Hey!" I said. "Sorry, sweetheart, but I call 'em as I see them." He said, smirking. "Uh-huh, I'll keep that in mind." I said.

"Anyway, did you find her?" Sam asked, changing the subject, as we stand up and walk over to Dean. "Yeah, Linda Bateman. She and Ben Waters were high school sweethearts." He said.

"So what happened?" I asked. "Drunk driver hit them head on. Ben walked away." replied Dean. "So, what then? Dead flame calls to chat?" Sam asked. "You would think, but Linda was cremated. So why's she still floating around?" Dean asked. "You got me." I said as Sam shrugs.

"What about that, uh, caller I.D?" Dean asked. "Turns out, it's a phone number." Sam said and I look at him. "No phone number I've ever seen." I said. "Yeah, 'cause it's about a century old, back from when phones had cranks." Sam replied.

"So why use that number to reach out and touch someone?" Dean asked. "Got me there too, but we should put a trace on it." Sam said. "Well how the hell are we going to put a trace on something that's over 100 years old?" I asked him.

"We don't get many folks from HQ down here." The guy said as we follow him down the stairs and along the hallway. "Yes, well the main office mentioned that there would be a lunch." Dean said and I elbow him in his side.

"Well I'm sure we can arrange something. The man you wanna be speaking to is right this..." the man said as Sam swipes at a fly that has flown into his hair. "I know, sorry. We've got something of a hygiene issue down here if you ask me." The man said and we enter a basement office.

"Stewie? What did I tell you about keeping this place clean." the man said as Stewie sits at a large console with multiple screens and keyboards, various packets and junk food are strewn about. Stewie jumps at their entrance and desperately tries to close down the multiple screens in front of him showing advertisements for porn sites.

"Spam mail...spam mail..." Stewie said as he clicks quickly. "Stewie Myers. Mr Campbell. Mr Raimi. Ms. Maguire." The man introduced us as Stewie continues clicking. "I don't know how all this got here..." he said as the man reaches out and flicks the back of Stewie's head, making him jump again and grunt.

"From headquarters?" He said and Stewie spins around in his chair, then quickly crosses his legs and places his hands together on his lap. "Give these gentlemen whatever they need." He tells Stewie. "Yeah." Stewie said. "Thank you." The boys and I said and the Man leaves.

"So...can I help you?" Stewie asked and Dean checks to make sure the Man is gone, then gestures toward the screen. "Is that, ahhh, BustyAsianBeauties.com?" Dean asked, smirking, and I roll my eyes. "No." Stewie said, quickly, when a female voice from the computer said. "Oh, me so horny."

Then Stewie quickly clicks that ad away. "Maybe." Stewie said. "A word to the wise? Platinum membership? Worth every penny. Ha?" Dean said as he nods, knowingly. I sigh with exasperation and shake my head.

"Right, anyway. We're here to trace a number?" Sam said as he hands Stewie a piece of paper. "Where did you get this?" Stewie asked. "Off caller I.D." I replied. "Oh no, that's impossible." Stewie said. "It hasn't been used in a few years, we know." said Dean. "A few years? It's prehistoric. Trust me, nobody is using this number anymore." Stewie exclaims.

"Sure. Could you run it anyway?" Sam asked him, nicely. "Sure. Why don't I just rearrange my whole life first." Stewie said, snarkily. The boys and I glance at each other and Dean smiles before he leans in closer to Stewie. "Listen, uh, Stewie. You got like six kinds of employee code violations down here, not to mention the sickening porn that is clogging up your hard drive. Now when my partner says run the number, I suggest you run the number!" Dean threatens.

He looks between us then turns back to his console. Dean grins and Sam shrugs and I smile back. "Okay, whatever, jeez!" Stewie said and he clicks a few more buttons. One of his screens fills with a long list of numbers. "Holy crap." He said, shocked. "What?" I asked. "I can't tell you where the number comes from, but I can tell you where it's been going." Stewie said.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked as Stewie pushes print, goes to the printer and hands some paper to Sam. "Ten different number in the past few weeks, all got calls from the same number." Stewie said and he looks between us as we stare at each other, then Stewie sighs and walks between us and back to his console. He sits and stares at it for a moment, then looks back.

"So, are we done here? Cause I was...sort of...busy?" he said and I smirked. "Right..." I said and we began to leave.

Sam and I get out of a rental car then he makes his way to one house and I  make my way up a footpath. I knock on the door and it is opened by a middle-aged man. His son comes to stand beside him, around 6-7 yrs old. "Yeah?" the man asked. "Hello sir, I am with the phone company?" I said. "We didn't call the phone company." The man said.

"Oh no sir, we're calling you. We've had a lot of complaints from the neighbourhood lately." I said. "Complaints?" the man asked. "Yes sir. Dropped calls, static, maybe even strange voices on the other end of the line?" I asked just as I noticed a teenage girl stepping into the hallway, looking startled.

"No, we haven't had any of that here." the man said. "Nothing?" I asked. "No." he said. "Okay. Great, just thought we'd check. Thanks." I said, smiling. "No problem." the man said then he turns to his son. "Come on, Simon." He said as they turn to close the door I see the girl staring at me, looking scared, but she turns away as the door closes.

I return to the car just as Sam comes back. "You got anything?" He asked me. "No. You?" I said. "Nothing." Sam said. "No way you guys work for the phone company." a voice said and I turn around to see it was that teenage girl.

"Sure we do." I said. "Since when do the phone people drive a rental or wear a cheap suit?" She asked me and I huff a laugh. "Yeah, well. Maybe we're both keeping secrets." I said as I fold my arms across my chest.

"Why did you ask my Dad if he's hearing strange voices on the phone?" she asked me. "Why, did you hear something?" Sam asked as he goes to stand next to me. "No." She said. "My mistake, I thought maybe you did." Sam said. "Well I didn't, okay?" She said, defensively. "Okay. Sorry to bother you." I said and we turn away and head to the car.

Sam looks down at his keys then said. "Because you know...if you did...then I would have told you that we've been right where you're standing right now. Hearing things, even seeing things that can't be explained. Maybe we would have been able to help out a little bit. Anyway..." Sam said and we start to load up in the car.

"Hey wait." The girl said, stopping us, and we turn to her. "Maybe...maybe I've been talking on the phone...with my Mom." She replied. "Well that's not so strange." I said. "She's dead. Like three years now." She replied and I furrow my brow at this.

"How often does she call you?" I asked her. "A few times. It started a week ago. I thought I was like, crazy or something." she said. "Well we can tell you one thing for sure, and you're going to have to go with us on this, okay? You're not crazy..." I assured her and she gives a look.

Later, Sam was driving the car when my phone rings. I answered it then pushed the speaker button. "Yeah." I said. "Guys, stiffs have been calling people all over town." Dean said. "Yeah, tell us about it." I said, exhausted. "I just talked to an 84 year old grandmother who's having phone sex with her husband, who died in Korea!" Dean said.

"Eww." Sam and I said, disgusted. "It redefined my understanding of the word Necrophilia." Dean said. "So what the hell's going on here, Dean?" Sam asked. "Beats me, but we'd better find out soon. This place is turning into spook central." Dean said. "Yeah. All right, I'll call you later." I tell him. "Yeah." Dean said before I hang up.

"Dad? You really think it was Dad?" Sam asked, confused. We were back at the motel and Sam and I were sitting at the table while Dean was pacing. He just told us that after our talk, he got a call...a call from John. "I don't know, maybe." Dean said.

"Well what did he sound like?" Sam asked. "Like Oprah!" Dean shouts, sarcastically. "Like Dad, he sounded like Dad, what do you think?" He growls. "Okay, Dean, calm down. What did he say?" I asked. "My name." Dean replied, sounding a bit calmer.

"That's it?" I asked him. "Call dropped out." Dean replied. "Why would he even call in the first place, Dean?" Sam asked. "I don't know, man. Why are ghosts calling anybody in this town? But I mean, other people are hearing from their loved ones, why can't we? It's at least a possibility, right?" Dean said. "Yeah, I guess?" Sam and I said, unsure.

"Okay, so what if...what if it really is Dad? What happens if he calls back?" Dean asked. "What do you mean?" Sam asked. "What do I say?" Dean asked. "Hello." Sam replied. "Hello?" Dean said, disbelief, and Sam shrugs. "That's what you come back with. Hello?" Dean asked, angrily.

"How's the afterlife?" I suggested and Dean gives me a disbelieving look. "Unbelievable." He growls as he grabs his jacket and headed for the door. Dean grumbles under his breath and walks out. Sam and I look after him, concerned, while Sam shakes his head. 

Three hours later, Sam was sitting on the couch with the laptop in front of him and I was sitting at the table, looking through my laptop. Then Dean returns. "Find anything?" He asked us. "After three hours we have found no reason why anything supernatural would be going on here." Sam said and Dean huffs at this. "Well, you know, you think a Stanford education and a high school hook up rate of zero point zero would produce better results than that." Dean sneers.

"Hilarious." Sam spat. "Guys, you're just looking in the wrong places." Dean said. "And what are the right places, Dean?" I asked him and he reaches into his jacket pocket. "Motel pamphlet rack." Dean drops some literature on the coffee table.

"Milan, Ohio. Birthplace of Thomas Edison." Dean said as I walk over to them and read over Sam's shoulder as he flicks through the papers. "Yeah, right. So what?" Sam asked. "Keep reading." Dean said and Sam scoffs slightly and keeps looking. He sighs, but after a few moments of reading,, my eyebrows go up and we look at Dean.

"You're kidding." I said and Dean raises his eyebrows back, smiling. 

"And we're walking." the female tour guide said as she shepherds us into a room in the museum. "And, here we have one of the museum's most unique and treasured possessions. Thomas Edison's spirit phone. Did you know that Mr Edison, as well as being one of America's most beloved inventors, was also a devout occultist? Ooh!" she said, being a bit over dramatic. 

"What's with the quote-y fingers?" Dean whispered to us. "He spent years working on this, his final invention, which he was convinced could be used to communicate with the dead. Pretty spooky, huh?" The guide said then she checks her watch, twirls her fingers in the air and begins leading the group into the next room.

"And we're walking. We are walking. We're walking. And we're not touching that. And we're walking. And stop." she said but Sam, Dean and I stay back with the spirit phone. Sam quickly gets out his EMF and holds it over the spirit phone.

"Anything?" Dean asked. "Nothing." Sam said. "What do you guys think?" Dean asked us. "Honestly? It kinda looks like an old pile of junk to me." Sam replied and I nod in agreement. "It's not even plugged in." Dean said as he looks it over. "Maybe it didn't work like that." I said.

"Okay. Maybe it's like a radio tower, broadcasting the dead all over town." Dean suggests. "Could be." Sam said, shrugging. "You know, this caller I.D. is 100 years old, right? Right around the time this thing was built." Dean said. "Yeah, but why would it all of a sudden start working now?" Sam asked, confused.

"I don't know. But as long as the mouldy are calling the freshers around here it's the best reason we've got." Dean said. "Yeah, maybe." I said, shrugging. "So maybe it really is Dad." Dean said and I give him a concerned look.

The next morning, Sam and I entered the motel room to see Dean typing furiously on the laptop. "What's up?" Dean asked us. "That girl Lanie, her Mom's ghost spooked her out pretty bad last night." I replied. "That sucks." Dean mumbles as he continues to type. "Yeah it does. What are you doing?" Sam asked.  I think Dad's right. I think the demon is here. Check it out." Dean said and he hands us some papers and goes to his bag.

"What is this, weather reports?" Sam asked as I read over him. "Omens. Demonic omens. Electrical storms everywhere we've been for the past two weeks." Dean replied. "Ahh...I don't remember any lightning storms." Sam said. "Yeah, me either." I said. "Well, I don't remember you guys studying meteorology as a kid either. But I'm telling you, that bastard's been tailing me...wearing some poor dude's meat." Dean growls.

"And it's following you because..." I said, skeptical. "I guess I'm big game, you know. My ass is too sweet to let outta sight." he said, smiling a bit. "Okay. Sure." Sam said as I roll my eyes. Then Dean snatches the papers back. "Don't get too excited, guys. Might pull something." he snaps at us.

"Dean, look, Sam and I wanna believe this man, we really do..." I said but then Dean turns to us. "Then believe it! if we get this sucker, it's Miller Time." He yells. "Yeah, that's another thing. Dad rattles off an exorcism that can kill a demon? I mean not just send it back to hell, but kill it?" Sam asked, questioning. "I've checked it out. This is heavy duty Dark Ages. Fifteenth century." Dean said.

"Yeah, we've checked on it too, Dean. And so did Bobby." I said. "Okay, and?" Dean said, annoyed. "Look. It definitely is an exorcism, okay, there's just no evidence it can kill a demon." Sam tells him. "No evidence it can't." said Dean.

"Honey, come on..." I said, exasperated. "Hey, as far as I'm aware the only one of us who has actually been to hell is Dad. And maybe he picked up a couple of tricks down there, like which exorcisms work." Dean said. "Maybe it does. we hope it does too, but we gotta be sure." Sam said.

"Why aren't we sure?" Dean asked us. "'Cause (y/n) and I don't know what's going on around here, Dean! I mean, some guy blows his brains out, a little girl is scared out of her wits." Sam exclaims. "Wow, a couple of civvies are freaked out by some ghosts. News flash guys, people are supposed to be freaked out by ghosts!" Dean shouts and we stare at each other for a long moment.

Sam sighs and Dean drops his head in frustration. "John tell you where to find the demon?" I asked Dean. "I'm waiting on the call!" Dean shouts as he holds up his phone. "I told Lanie (y/n) and I would stop by." Sam said. "Oh, good yeah. No you go hang out with jail bait. Just, uh, watch out for Chris Hansen. Meanwhile I'll be here getting ready to, you know, save my life." Dean said, sarcastically, and Sam and I keep moving toward the door.

"You're unbelievable, you know that? I mean for months we've been trying to break this demon deal. Now Dad's about to give us the freaking address and you can't accept it? The man is dead and you're still butting heads with the guy, Sam!" Dean shouts and we turn to him. "That is not what this is about." Sam said, firmly. 

"So what is it!?" Dean asked, angrily. "The fact is we've got no hard proof here, Dean. After everything, you're still just going on blind faith!" Sam shouts. "Yeah, well maybe! You know, maybe that's all I got, okay?" Dean shouts and we stare at each other again before Dean looks down.

I sigh then walk up to Dean then placed my hand on his cheek. He raises his head and I look into his green eyes. "Please. Just please, don't go anywhere until we get back. Okay, Dean? Please." I begged. Dean remains silent and I give him a sad look before I lean up and kiss his cheek. I give him one last look before I turn around and head out the door with Sam.

"Have you told your father about any of this?" I asked Lanie as we stand in her room. "And bother him at work? No. He wouldn't believe me anyway, he'd just chuck me into therapy." She replied.

"So what did your mother say?" Sam asked her. "She wanted to see me. So at first I thought I was supposed to go to the cemetery." said Lanie. "Did you?" I asked and she nods. "Nothing happened. But then she started asking me to do other things." she replied.

"What sort of things?" Sam asked her. "Bad things." She said and I could tell she was uncomfortable. "Lanie please. Tell us what happened, it's very important." I said to her, soothingly. "Mom told me to go to Dad's medicine cabinet." She said then she bites her lips. "And?" Sam and I asked, encouragingly. "She wanted me to take his sleeping pills, take all of his sleeping pills." She cried.

"She wanted you to kill yourself?" Sam asked her and she nods then cries. "Why would my Mom want me to do that?" She asked us, tearfully. "Don't know." Sam and I said. "I mean, just so I could come to her?" She cries and I freeze at this then look over at her.

"What'd you say?" I asked her. "She wanted me to come to her." Lanie said. "No, how'd she say it?" I asked her. "Come to me. Like a million times." She said then Sam and I share a look and I could tell he got to the same conclusion as I did. "Lanie." I said to her as I turn to look at her. "That's not your mother." 

"Listen to us. Don't answer the phone. Don't use the computer. Don't do anything unless (y/n) and I say so, all right?" Sam said as we walk down the hall. Sam and I start down the stairs until we realise that Lanie's not following. "Lanie." We said as she stands at the doorway to a room. "Where's Simon?" She asked us, horrified.

Sam and I run out of the house and could see Simon walking off down the street. We chase after him and see him walking across the next road where a large truck barrels toward him. Sam books it as he gets in front of me and the truck horn blares and tires squeal.

Simon throws his hands up to protect himself just as Sam rushes the road, grabs Simon and dives for the verge. They lay panting as the truck roars past and I come up to them. "Holy crap." I sighed then kneel down to them. "You two okay?" I asked and Sam nods while Simon starts to cry.

After we bring Simon back to Lanie, Sam and I get back into the rental car and I call Dean. "Dean, it's not John." I said into my phone. "Then what is it?" Dean asked me. "A crocotta." I replied. "Is that a sandwich?" he asked. "Some kind of scavenger. Mimics loved ones, whispers 'Come to me', then lures you into the dark and swallows your soul." I replied.

"A crocotta, right, damn that makes sense." Dean grumbles, disappointed. "Dean, look, I'm sorry honey, I know..." I started to say but Dean talks over me. "Hey, don't these things live in filth?" he asked. "Yeah." I replied. "(Y/n), the flies at the phone company." Dean said then I look over at Sam with a knowing look.

That night, Sam and I creep along an alley and peaks in a window at Stewie, sitting at his console. That is until we were distracted by a banging noise, we ducked and look around but see nothing.

When we look back, Stewie is leaving the room. We run back up the alley and see Stewie leaving the building. Sam and I hide behind a van as he holds his phone to his ear. He sighs then whispers. "Voicemail."

I roll my eyes as Sam said. "Dean, we're in the parking lot. He's here. Hurry." Sam said and Stewie unlocks his car. Sam rushes him and pushes him into the car, holding a metal spike to the back of his neck while I stand next to Sam. 

"What the hell!" Stewie grunts. "We know what you are." Sam growls. "Wait, mister." Stewie pleads. "And we know how to kill you." I growled. "Please. Okay, wait, wait. If we're overcharging you for the call waiting or something I...I can fix that. I am your friend! Please. Please just don't kill me!" Stewie pleads while Sam and I give confused look towards him.

But that was the last thing I remember before I felt something hit the back of my head and I black out. 

"I'm sorry, Clark. I'm sorry for whatever I did to you. I'm sorry...please..." I hear a voice sniveling as I come to and open my eyes to see Stewie tied up in a chair across from me. I look to my right and see Sam was tied up as well.

I tried to move but realized my hands were tied up. I look back up at Stewie and see that man, Clark I believe Stewie called him, was standing behind him. "Wait! Don't do it." I shout and Clark looks over at me. "You two are awake." He said and I look over and see Sam waking up too.

Clark leans over Stewie and places the tip of a knife against his thigh. "You're not a killer Clark, no! There's a good man inside of you, I know it." Stewie snivelled and Clark looks over at us.

"What do you think, Sam and (y/n), am I a good man?" Clark asked us. "Just let him go." Sam begged. "I would. I really would. If only I'd had more than a salad for lunch. You see, I'm starving." Clark said and he lifts the knife high above his head and plunges it into Stewie's chest.

"No!" Sam and I shout as Clark moves in front of Stewie's body. His mouth opens, revealing a blood red interior and razor sharp spikes. He crouches slightly, holds Stewie by both shoulders and unhinges his jaw, his mouth becoming impossibly wide and his teeth were sharp.

Placing his mouth close to Stewie's face. he sucks in his energy. I shudder and look away until Clark stops and stands, wiping his mouth. "My last call with Dean. That was you. You led us here." I growled as I glare up at him. "Some calls I make, some calls I take, but you have to admit, I had you fooled for a while. All that Edison phone crap." Clark laughs and moves over to the telephone exchange cabinet.

He places his hands against the glass and leans back in ecstasy. "What are you doing?" Sam asked him. Clark smiles then looks over at us. "I'm killing your brother. Or maybe I'm killing another guy. We'll just have to see how it goes." He said.

After a few moments of him calling a guy, Clark walks over to Stewie and pulls the knife out of his chest while I was trying to get out of my restraints. "You know, mimicking Dean's one thing. But their dad. That's a hell of a trick." I sneered at him as I gesture towards Sam with my head. "Well once I made you three as hunters, it was easy. I found Dean's number, then your number, then Sam's number, then both of your father's numbers. Then emails, voicemails, everything. You see, people think that stuff just gets erased, but it doesn't. You'd be surprised how much of yourself is just floating out there, waiting to be plucked." Clark explained.

"Dean's not going to fall for this. He's not going to kill that guy." Sam said. "Then the guy kills him." Clark said then he stands over Sam. "Technology. Makes life so much easier. Used to be I'd hide in the woods for days, weeks, whispering to people, trying to draw them out into the night. But they had community, they all looked out for each other, I'd be lucky to eat one or two souls a year. Now when I'm hungry, I simply make a phone call. You're all so connected. But you've never been so alone." He sneers.

He opens his mouth and begins to unhinge his jaw while raising his knife. But I erupt out of my chair and Clark and I fall to the ground, making him lose the knife. "(y/n)!" Sam shouts as Clark and I struggle for the knife.

I was rising up first but Clark grabs my jacket and swings me around into a metal grate. Clark picks up the knife, running at me, until Sam gets free and grabs him.

They struggle for the knife then I jump in to the fight. We exchang blows as we move about the room. Sam finally manages to pull the knife away and hits Clark, forcing him backwards into the wall. A spike, one of many on the corkboard, jams into the back of Clark's neck, killing him. 

"You okay?" Sam asked me after we catch our breath. "Yeah...you?" I said and he nods.

We make it back to the hotel and see Dean holding a facecloth to his cut eye, groaning. "I see they improved your face." Dean jokes and Sam and I snigger. "Right back at ya." Sam said and Dean moves past us into the main room then we sit on a bed each, but I sit next to Dean.

"So, crocotta, huh?" Dean said. "Yep." Sam and I said. "That would explain the flies." Dean mutters. "Yeah it would." I said before sighing.

"Hey, um...look I'm sorry it wasn't Dad." Sam said to Dean. "Nah, I gave you guys a hell of a time on this one." Dean huffs. "You guys were right."

"Forget about it." I said, waving my head vaguely. "I can't. I wanted to believe so badly that there was a way outta this. I mean I'm staring down the barrel at this thing. You know, Hell. For real, forever, and I just..." Dean said then he begins to tear up. "I'm scared, guys. I'm really scared." He said which made me and Sam tear up. "I know." We said, in unison.

"I guess I was willing to believe anything. You know, the last act of a desperate man." said Dean. "There's nothing wrong with having hope, Dean." I said as I place a hand on his knee. "Hope doesn't get you jack squat. I can't expect Dad to show up with some miracle at the last minute. I can't expect anybody to, you know. I mean the only person that can get me out of this thing is me." Dean said. "And us." Sam and I said, earnestly, making Dean look between us.

"And us?" he said, questioning. "What?" Sam said, confused. "Deep revelation, having a real moment here, that's what you two come back with? And us?" Dean said, disappointed. "Uh...do you want a poem?" Sam asked, raising his brow. "The moment's gone." Dean said and I smile slightly while Dean flicks the TV on.

Then he reaches between the beds, grabs three bottles of beer and holds one out to Sam without looking at him. Sam takes one, then Dean hands one to me. We crack them open and drink in unison, while staring at the TV.

@rach5ive @kitsun369 @itzabbyxx @cevans-winchester @ellie-andthemachine

[niceboywithnastybitch]

Rock steady as a handmade cohesive stripe

My rock agitates me higher where I fume and where I blue, and not a complextion through which addiction runs the bread machine. I’m asking how many stairs would you take for you to go down. In the corner of a flat windows that opens wide, inward, say, summons the flexible air into a weeving machine, say, lets me know the winter is nearby, the reflection of the pedestrian dies inside. It cramps like a softened bush, combustible and yearned, it is there without the inner power.

For once, didn’t there was an apparatus that can’t seal any strange belif?

Mr. and Mrs.Steady rockerson, all harms are around you. Funerals retract the will. And Mr. and Mrs. Willson, never have I had a bless to you.

My bladder is a filtered flim, it streams underneath the vast vacancy and elegance of a higher mountain. Ten years ago I see the originals. And I laugh at this yogurt for too long, for is there anyone that can choke on such a thing?

It’ll be day until I confess what I did, and days carry nights that carry midnight that carry a bit of moon-shaped sun that carries consent where everybody would and need to know that it is going down.

It’ll be days until I fabric the sun.

Mr. and Mrs.Steady rockerson, I apologize for my rock steady heart.

And when your forgiveness sheds me a willow tree.

Whenever I’m in an entrace, I would wonder when it will be closed. The hall always anwsers me with, no, it’ll always be left open for you to leave. So there’s confusion, almost confict alike regime where the time isn’t even considered as an office of regulated man, or even close to somewhere that closes on time or never opened; where a concept of When Wanting To Leave. When will the cohesive stripes leave me and left me open. Where do you go when all the harms are around you. Time is a purple shirt, you wear it, you attract. A parody of local users, of an apparatus that even all local sons of bitches use to contain their highly praised respect in. And how normal even is that we chose an unnominated field to present?

What can we do to verify. There are couple of places I wanted to go. For me it is impossible to enter with a steady heart, and there are couple of pieces I want you to pick up. If you do pick them up and organize them, you will know that I am Chinese. We went from mind to dick and vagina, there could seriously be a baby and our pregnacy paper is blue. The sky wants you to have it, and thus showing you something private: letting you know the pollution still exist and there could be rain at anytime; you would take on such an anticipation in days, you wouldn’t kill the window or just close it; the sky wants you to know that all harms are around you.

But it’ll protect you. Blessings on blessings, you are next to a loud neighbor comme des persons like you. Sometimes they show you a flag outside of their window saying that they are using cohesive stripes to shut the window, then whenever it opens they just blame it on the inconsistency of it. Such a wise option, and it is just like the way you talk to me. Command gives control on the keyboard a power. Your vacancy is gorgeous, and I like it when you hollows, for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of if. Yes, there is no way for you to know because how hollow you are that everything just passes through like a handmade desperation, unseasoned, proud, and throughly communicating yes to ungive yourself the power.

Mr. and Mrs.Steady rockerson, I apologize for my heavy heart.

And when your forgiveness sheds me a willow tree.

Mr. and Mrs.Steady rockerson, I identify myself as you, but lived long and prosper.

[cleolinda]

Varney the Vampire: Chapter 10

Chapter 9: Flora Bannerworth blasted a vampire, twice, then swooned into an Undisclosed Someone's arms, and personally, I think she earned it.

CHAPTER X.

THE RETURN FROM THE VAULT. -- THE ALARM, AND THE SEARCH AROUND THE HALL.

James Malcolm Rymer actually has a fairly cinematic eye despite this being the 1840s; just after Flora dramatically raising her arm to shoot a vampyre in the face (okay, it didn't say "in the face," but I live in hope), we cut over to:

George and Henry Bannerworth, along with Mr. Marchdale, had just reached the gate which conducted into the garden of the mansion when they all were alarmed by the report of a pistol. Amid the stillness of the night, it came upon them with so sudden a shock, that they involuntarily paused, and there came from the lips of each an expression of alarm.

Whereupon her brother Henry SPRINGS THE FUCK INTO ACTION,

he cleared the gate at a bound, and at a terrific pace he made towards the house, passing over beds, and plantations, and flowers heedlessly

legit ducking bullets and my laughter the whole way, and flails back into the family mansion only to discover his SISTER in the ARMS of a STRANGER:

To grapple him by the throat was the work of a moment, but the stranger cried aloud in a voice which sounded familiar to Henry, -- "Good God, are you all mad?" Henry relaxed his hold, and looked in his face. "Gracious heavens, it is Mr. Holland!" he said.

THAT'S RIGHT, IT'S CHARLES MOTHERFUCKIN HOLLAND, BABY

You... you know...! The guy! The guy they couldn't move away for! Who saved Flora when she swooned off a cliff! He's come to reunite with his beloved and he has no idea what the fuck you people are going on about.

Such a strange scene as that small room now exhibited had never been equalled in Bannerworth Hall. There was young Mr. Holland, of whom mention has already been made, as the affianced lover of Flora, supporting her fainting form. There was Henry doing equal service to his mother; and on the floor lay the two pistols, and one of the candles which had been upset in the confusion: while the terrified attitudes of George and Mr. Marchdale at the window completed the strange-looking picture.

Listen, I give Rymer a lot of shit, but the man can paint a picture (which is, in fact, worth one thousand words).

Having exhausted all his executive function, Henry goes limp again:

"What is this -- oh! what has happened?" cried George. "I know not -- I know not," said Henry. "Some one summon the servants; I am nearly mad."

I also give Henry a lot of shit, but I'm not packing a whole lot of spoons on a daily basis, either, so: fair enough. Although he could do better than subsequently telling the servants, "Flora's dead, or fainted, or whatever, someone else figure it out."

Marchdale, however, is focused on The Stranger Present in the Room, straight-up pointing his finger at Charles Holland. Like, he might as well be snarling. Charles Holland retorts, "Sir, I may be a stranger to you, as you are to me, and yet no stranger to those whose home this is," so who the fuck are YOU? Henry tries to placate everyone by fawning over Charles Holland (you have to say his full name. It just sounds right. I don't make the rules), and it... does not work.

"I am proud to know you, bitch sir," said Mr. Marchdale. "Sir, I thank you," replied Holland, coldly. It will so happen; but, at first sight, it appeared as if those two persons had some sort of antagonistic feeling towards each other, which threatened to prevent effectually their ever becoming intimate friends.

I want to say this might actually pay off later, but I can't remember for sure. Meanwhile, the servants WAIT! WAIT THE FUCK A MINUTE! I THOUGHT THEY ALL QUIT? Sorry, going back to chapter 6 to check this—

[Henry] calmly paid the servants, and allowed them to leave him at once without at all entering into the matter, and, for the time being, some men were procured, who, however, came evidently with fear and trembling, and probably only took the place, on account of not being able to procure any other.

Well, at any rate, Some Guys don't know what happened with the fainted ladies and the vampyre, which well they might not if they're just there for the paycheck and are staying out of this. I know all these thinkpieces nowadays are giving people shit about "quiet quitting," but listen, if I am working for the Bannerworth family just to scrape by with ye olde healthe insurance, I am keeping my head down under the bullets flying and my nose out of their vampyre business. So, exit the unconscious Mrs. Bannerworth, borne away by Some Guys, because she only functions to scream and faint. (It's not an issue Stoker much improves on with Mrs. Westenra fifty years later.) Flora, on the other hand, begins to revive in the mansome arms of Charles Holland, who is, uh, still embracing her. Like. You could set her down in a chair or something? No?

"Oh, do not now take her from me, after so long an absence. Flora, Flora, look up; do you not know me? You have not yet given me one look of acknowledgement. Flora, dear Flora!" The sound of his voice seemed to act as the most potent of charms in restoring her to consciousness; it broke through the death-like trance in which she lay, and, opening her beautiful eyes, she fixed them upon his face, saying, -- "Yes, yes; it is Charles -- it is Charles." She burst into a hysterical flood of tears, and clung to him like some terrified child to its only friend in the whole wide world.

Maybe I've just gotten maudlin in my middle age, but: ;_;

Has Flora been ill?? Oh, brother, we've ALL been ill, say George and Harry Henry (Rymer, buddy, pay attention), and "nearly mad," because no one has ever gone through anything as terrible as having a sister bitten by a vampyre. And in the middle of Charles Holland standing there with his erstwhile ladylove sobbing on him, like, what the fuck are you two talking about, Flora suddenly "extricates" herself and demands that Charles Holland break up with her, now, immediately, posthaste, forever!!! NEVER LOOK UPON MINE ANGUISHED FACE AGAIN!!

"I -- I am bewildered," said Charles.

Ayyyy, it's a reader proxy. Flora and Charles Holland argue about about this a weepy minute, until Henry interrupts to ask Flora what happened in the previous chapter while the menfolk were looking for matches, in an exchange that I would call wonderfully naturalistic if I did not want this book to hurry the fuck up and get on with it:

"Has it been again?" "It has." "You shot it?" "I fired full upon it, Henry, but it fled." "It did -- fly?"

That is to say, the vampyre has fled; it did not fly like a bat per se, because that would have actually been cool. I did forsooth merc that motherfucker, avers Flora, but surely it will come again! Marchdale ventures to suggest that perhaps she actually killed it, maybe for good this time. And meanwhile Charles Holland is like,

…you

you did what now

George offers to explain ("'You seem to be the only rational person here,' said Charles"), but Flora interrupts to break up with Charles Holland again: 

"Hear me, Charles," said Flora. "From this moment, mind, I do release you from every vow, from every promise made to me of constancy and love; and if you are wise, Charles, and will be advised, you will now this moment leave this house never to return to it." "No," said Charles -- "no; by Heaven I love you, Flora! I have come to say again all that in another clime I said with joy to you. When I forget you, let what trouble may oppress you, may God forget me, and my own right hand forget to do me honest service." "Oh! no more -- no more!" sobbed Flora. "Yes, much more, if you will tell me of words which will be stronger than others in which to paint my love, my faith, and my constancy."

If you tell me of... stronger... I don't know how Rymer manages to say something that I can technically understand, but still makes me go all blonde math lady dot gif. Dig the emotionally available love interest, though. But Henry's like, buddy, not now—

"Nay, upon such a theme I could speak for ever paid, by the printed line. You may cast me off, Flora; but until you tell me you love another, I am yours till the death, and then with a sanguine hope at my heart that we shall meet again, never, dearest, to part."

What happened to me since 2010 that I kind of love this now? It's 2023, I've had covid five thousand times, and I want this man to sweep in, go "You live like this?," and start swearing his eternal love to me while promising to fix everything. And I'm not even straight.

Flora sobs that him being such a dreamboat just makes it harder to break up with you, Charles [Holland]—

"Oh, say that word again!" he exclaimed, with animation. "It is the first time such music has met my ears."

What—his first name? That she's said seven (7) times since he got here…?

See, this is the thing. Continuity aside, the problem with Varney the Vampire is that it's not difficult to summarize a chapter in maybe three sentences, tops, if you really put your mind to it. But you start explaining it, and paying attention to it, and then the quicksand gets you. You start quoting it for the absurdity and then... the endless, real-time dialogue... you just... start... sinking:

"It must be the last [time I say your name, Charles] [Holland]." "No, no -- oh, no." "For your own sake I shall be able now, Charles, to show you that I really loved you." "Not by casting me from you?" "Yes, even so. That will be the way to show that I love you." She held up her hands wildly, as she added, in an excited voice, -- "The curse of destiny is upon me! I am singled out as one lost and accursed. Oh, horror -- horror! would that I were dead!"

Love it. Quality gothic content. Had to wade through fearsome verbiage to get there. Charles Holland blanches, he staggers, he reels! "Is -- is she mad, or am I?" Henry, tell him I'm mad! No, Flora, I'M mad! Mad at the very thought! MAAAAAAD!! You'd think they were all clawing their eyes out over some cosmic Lovecraftian horror and not one (1) tatty vampyre falling on his ass, over, and over, and over. Seriously, they've already shot him three times and killed him at least once, the Crawling Chaos over here ain't that deep.

At any rate, it's time for Henry, as the head of the family, to take his would-be brother-in-law aside and Tell Him All!!

Never was mortal man so utterly bewildered by the events of the last hour of his existence as was now Charles Holland, and truly he might well be so. He had arrived in England, and made what speed he could to the house of a family whom he admired for their intelligence, their high culture, and in one member of which his whole thoughts of domestic happiness in this world were centered, and he found nothing but confusion, incoherence, mystery, and the wildest dismay.

Can you imagine—you've spent a couple years off doing fuck knows what, and now you're finally returning to look up your apparent fiancée, only to have her wild-eyed brother buttonhole you in a tiny side room and start ranting about matches. That's going to be the entire next chapter. Good luck, Charles Holland!

(Chapter 11 will go up Friday, April 21.)