#you know a part of him wanted it. it absolutely did... :'^)

[gothcsz]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s about vengeance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re supposed to be dead right now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I miss you. I’ll be back soon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tú primero.” (You first)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There isn’t anything left to say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m coming back tonight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You ready?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would you still be thankful then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That he’s leaving?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ten… nine…

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

Eight… seven…

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

Six… five…

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

Four… three…

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

Two… one…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Turn over. On your stomach.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything about him is so damn addictive. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His flight boards in a little over three hours.

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

Fuck.

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

He hesitates, watching as your breathing deepens again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you getting dressed?”

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

“I’m leaving.”

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

“To the airport.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long have you known?”

“Found out this afternoon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I killed him.”

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

“Mateo.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Had to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was a start—”

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

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

“Stop saying that!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Months later, you receive a letter.

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

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

You read it over and over until the words blur.

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

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

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

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[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [5]

series masterlist previous || part five -> kermes || part six -> madder

pairing: viking goap x fem! nun reader summary: big nun, little nun w.c: 3.5k tags/warnings: guilt, religious / moral turmoil, stockholm syndrome, child abuse (past), scars, simon returns, corruption (past), misogyny (past), whipping (past), blood, suffering (past mostly), power imbalance, freeze response (past), guilt, dissociation, dom/sub dynamics, we're learning consent (kinda? eeh), violent imagery, dubcon/noncon, vaginal fingering, choking, throat grab

When Johnny asks how it felt to go from there – the convent, you think he means – to here, you can only describe it as dunking your hands into ice water. 

Shocking, painful, and prickling all over.

He only says hm, and moves on. His face is pensive. You don’t tell him that sometimes, you wake up and aren’t in the water anymore.

Even in prayer, you hadn’t thought as much as you had since you’d been taken. Hadn’t worried as much. Teachings from adults since youth had told you that everybody was inherently sinful, even children.

So why is the community around you so happy without God? They have their own, you know this, but the multitude of them and their roles in divine hierarchy aren’t necessarily about absolute power.

There are woman-Gods, Gods without designations, Gods for the earth and the children and unions between people. You find it hard to continue calling them heretics, devils, when they’re really just people. Different, yes, strange and incomprehensible, but people nonetheless.

Heathens, you try to think. Heathens, devils. They took you

You wonder when the last time you thought of yourself as just a person was, when you weren’t a thing set within a rigid mold, beaten down in more ways than one.

On the eve of Simon's return you catch Johnny doing something secretive. He's hunched over the table, the tip of his tongue stuck out of his mouth in concentration. The soft sound of scraping, of wood gently knocking is all you can hear over the fire.

“What's that?” you ask, when your curiosity gets the best of you.

Johnny turns, one eye squinted, the every picture of concentration. He holds up a carved figure – a woman, it looks like. Ah, it’s you. Though hard to tell, the woman wears a veil and sits on a chair, hunched.

Your veil. You’d nearly forgotten what it felt like. It used to be a weight, heavy and pressing, a shackle. Now you miss the safety of not feeling so exposed all the time.

Somewhere in the journey here it had been lost, or maybe thrown overboard. Your habit, too, replaced for the woolen Viking-style dresses bought and bartered for by Simon and Johnny. Even you have to admit you enjoy the colours more, even if the conformity of the convent felt safe.

“How long were you watching me?” you breathe, eyes wide and still staring.

“Not long, lamb,” he smiles disarmingly. “Ah just remember ye, sittin’ pretty.”

“Working on the tapestry,” you correct him, though it doesn’t really matter.

He looks back down to his little figure, pensive.

“Ah guess so,” he says jovially.

“It was my punishment,” you add. This probably matters even less, but the clash of worlds has thrown you off balance. You feel unbearably present, unbearably lucid.

I was a nun, you think. Am I still a nun?

“Punishment?” he frowns. “Ah thought they struck ye?”

“Sometimes. But sometimes I had to work extra hard.”

“Like a bairn?”

“A what?”

“A child, lamb,” he smiles again.

You look into the fire, thinking. Punishment applied to everyone, not just children, no? Even Simon and Johnny had punished you. But who had given them the right? Had you, with your secret want? Your secret lustful sin?

“You punished me,” you settle on.

“Aye, we did,” he nods. “Ye needed it.”

“Then why do you… ah, disparage the church for doing the same?”

He turns to you.

“Ah think ye got it all wrong,” he says simply. “We don’t give it to ye to make ye hurt. Aren’t ye better after? Righted?”

Righted. That’s a word worth its weight in gold. As is the truth of his words, but you stay quiet and look into the fire instead of responding.

You take up Johnny’s offer to spend time with Kari. Johnny walks you there, holds your hand in the cold and blows hot air on them as you wait together outside their door.

When Gaz opens it, he hoots and hollers as if the frigid air outside has no effect on him, as if his inner warmth and naturally excitable disposition is no match for the cold.

You have to admire that. At least a little.

“Hi there,” Gaz says to you, a greeting softer than the one he gave Johnny.

“Hello,” you try to subtly peek inside, “it’s… nice to see you.”

He doesn’t take offence to your awkward, stilted attempt at politeness. Maybe he knows you’re not quite comfortable here, to put it lightly, and only claps your shoulder gently to pull you in.

“Have fun!” Johnny shouts, already leaving, “and give me my wife back in one piece!”

That makes you sheepish, but you try to ignore your feelings in favour of moving towards Kari and the little baby, Tyra.

“Hello again,” she greets, smiling. The baby stares at you, babbles ceasing as if she’s seeing you for the first time. Her little head swings towards her mother, hiding despite her clear curiosity.

“You’ve met me before,” you say softly, trying valiantly not to frighten her as you take a seat opposite to Kari.

“She’s feeling shy lately,” Kari looks down and tuts, swiping a thumb over Tyra’s chubby cheek, “needs her mama.”

Weaving here is not much different than weaving at the convent. Once you get the basics down, you’re threading dyed wool into cloth astride Kari.

Some spirit of confidence grips you.

“Will you tell me anything about Simon and Johnny?”

“About-” she lifts her head, “Simon and Johnny? Don’t they speak to you?”

“They - do,” you rush to assure her, though your voice maintains a weary unsureness.

Luckily for you, she gives you a small but comforting smile over the wool.

“You’re looking for an outside opinion? That’s okay, lovely girl, I just might not know as much about them as my husband does,” she gestures with her chin towards Gaz, who walks towards you both.

“What d’you need to know?” he asks casually, sidling up to Kari affectionately, “think they’ll be able to answer better than me.”

“I only really know… what I’ve seen. I haven’t…” your mouth twists as you trail off, frustration germinating as you struggle. Right, you can commit sins of the flesh but you can’t ask a question to sate curiosity — one which might be the difference between surviving and not surviving.

Knowledge is important, after all. Powerful. You think of Eve, who doomed humanity for it, naked as the day she was born and as clueless as Adam yet ate the apple anyway.

“I know they’re… warriors,” you pause, “since they’re all scarred, but—“

“Well, not necessarily—” Kari starts, until Gaz puts a palm on her thigh and gives her a look you can’t discern. 

“That’s not something we should share,” Gaz says tightly, but kindly.

“How else..?” you frown.

Tyra stirs, and Kari gives Gaz another look.

“Simon’s father used to be chief,” she lifts the babe back into her lap, patting, cooing, “it’s not a nice story, but if you need it to understand them better then I don’t mind telling it.”

“I want to know about them,” you insist, trying to push past the sense of danger, the sense that you’ll be hurt or killed for toeing out of line.

Testing the elasticity of safety here perhaps isn’t wise, but testing it might be what you need to settle. Knowing where the boundaries are, what’s expected, where they come from… you wonder if you’ll doom everybody, like Eve.

“Believe it or don’t, but we’ve only just rekindled the hunts, the raids. How it should be,” she starts.

Gaz sighs, leaning back where he’s sitting. You assume his hesitance is out of loyalty for his comrades, but you choose tentatively to ignore him in favour of his wife.

“We had a lazy, drunken leader,” Kari continues, “Simon’s father inherited the title through lineage, not through prowess as is… more natural to us.”

You nod slowly, trying to imagine. In the church, such things were often gained with corruption: any wealthy lords’ son could rise high in the ranks, if he had the money and means.

The convent had somewhat of a similar issue, though the women were ‘married’ into the church and the power rested in the hands of their families. 

Such was the world.

Not always, but you’d heard of it often enough. One of the abbots of the monastery in the closest town had been the son of an affluent donator, and thus received power of authority over the other monks.

“To make a long story short, and more respectful to Simon—” Gaz looks at her then “—his father was needlessly cruel both to his own children, his wife, and to those he was responsible for.”

“So, those scars…?”

“Some are from fighting, of course. But usually, no one’s getting close enough to those two to land that kind of damage. I’m sure you can fill in the rest.”

Gaz butts in here,  “or, you can ask him yourself.”

“How did that woman, I forgot her name, come to be chief?” you frown in thought.

Gaz takes over again, his hand dragging up from the small of his wife's back and squeezing her nape. It’s as much of a warning as you’ve seen, though it’s quiet and Kari looks sheepish, not afraid, “Kate challenged him.”

“A challenge?” you frown, “such as?”

“A fight to the death.”

“Oh,” your lips close, and thin, and your eyebrows fly up. “I didn’t realize… I mean, violence is…”

They don’t do you the courtesy of filling in for you, so you go silent and the air settles.

Johnny picks you up later, when you’ve helped Kari with a big portion of her weaving. You love the threads, the dyeing process. It’s meditative.

“Good ?” Johnny nudges your side, slipping a hand to just above your waist, fingers tickling the side of your breast.

“Yes,” and it’s honest.

He walks you home, hand in hand, and cannot stop talking about Simon's return.

“Ah’ve never been without him this long,” he rambles over the fire, stirring a potato soup, “think yer gonnae be witness to something dirty. Sorry, lamb.”

Only he’s grinning, and he’s not sorry, and you can see the front of his pants begin to tent.

Johnny later offers you that very same sin, tilting his hips towards you and swinging his cock obscenely, cheekily. You do not take him up on it despite the smolder that begins between your legs – you simply turn, and try to sleep through the sounds of his self-abuse.

Simon returns without much fanfare, slipping into the house with a seemingly practiced silence. He moves like a ghost.

Johnny doesn't wake yet, sleeping like an affectionate log behind you.

His gaze meets yours, as impassive as always, framed in a halo of white winter light. He looks handsome this way, though it also has the effect of making his scars look deeper – crevasses on his face for shadows to lay in.

You watch as he strips his winter garments, slipping then beside you, evening out the weight on the bed.

“How did it go?” you whisper. If he's surprised that you spoke he doesn't show it, staring up at the ceiling, muscles decompressing. Sighing like a big dog.

In lieu of speaking, he lifts something into your focus. Oh, it's a tooth, sharp and white. A predator's tooth.

“The rest tomorrow,” he says quietly.

You can tell he's tired. His face looks weary. How far do they travel for these hunts? You assume quite far, as it’s enough to tire even a seasoned warrior.

So, rather than speaking, asking him from which creature he took this tooth, you tentatively reach your hand up to press your fingers against his thick scars.

Simon freezes, as do you. Then, as he relaxes, you trace the grooves on his face with your fingers tightly. Very lightly.

A delicate moment is born then. Johnny's deep, sleepy breathing behind you, Simon's acquiescence – it's a tranquil thing. As thin as lace, as sweet as a crisp apple.

After some time, when you've traced his face twice over and his eyes are half-lidded, you speak softly.

“Why me?”

“You're beautiful,” he says simply, sighing again, “we wanted to.”

It becomes harder, again, to hold the belief of them as devils. That they smelled the sin on you and picked you that way.

“Don't you think it's cruel?”

“No,” finally, he turns to you.

“It was,” you assert recklessly. Fear twists in your gut, poisonous.

“You were scared.”

“Yes.”

“Are you still scared?”

“I feel like you can see right through me. That scares me.”

“Not at first.”

“Then when?”

His hand finds the dip of your waist. Squeezes.

“On the boat, when you pushed up against me like a wet kitten. Even scared, you needed it.”

“You were cruel to me then, too.”

“I’m a cruel man.”

There's a stray thought that wiggles to life in the back of your head that suggests sympathy for him despite his statement. That you can begin seeing the path of his life and understand how he came to be.

You think of punishment again; about parents and children, husband's and wives, about Simon and his father. That wasn't punishment, if you're understanding it the way Kari implied.

A memory strikes you, unbidden and unwelcome. 

Salt blows in the air,  metallic and thick in your nose. Not sea salt, not the wind you love so much, but from blood spraying. 

The man brought his son to the convent, citing his bad behaviour as ungodly. Sister Margret was pleading with him, hands clasped in desperate prayer and voice high, reedy, as she begged him to just stop hitting him – please, just stop hitting him!

The boy cowered. Not a child, but a boy nonetheless. Young enough to make an impression, round-cheeked, on the cusp of manhood. Stained with blood.

He lifted the rope, again and again and again, even as Margret leapt for his arm and tried to stop him, pulling, shouting.

You were stock still, frozen, not even a tremble in your body. Your eyes had widened when he first struck the boy and you’d been stuck since.

Simon takes your hand, peels it away from your dress, pulling you bodily towards him and out of the memory.

With your cheek pressed close to his bare shoulder, you murmur, “did you take me to hurt me?”

“No,” he says, sounding for once like he isn’t hiding anything.

“Did you hit me to really hurt me?”

“No,” he repeats, then, “I hit you because you needed it, because you liked it.”

“I’ve seen…” you don’t continue.

“I know.”

“We’ve both been hurt,” your voice is a whisper.

“Mm,” Simon confirms.

You think of the boy. Of his father. Of his terrified, deer-like eyes, blood splattered on his back and on the ground and soaked into the rope – about how four townsmen had to pull his father away for fear of killing the boy.

How you felt when you hit yourself, when the abbess hit you, how different they were to when Simon took his palm to your ass.

Shame. That had been in the boy's eyes that day. He had hid his face in his arms, cowering not only from fear but from being seen.

You’d felt that same shame each time you’d been punished, intensifying, twisting together until you’d learned to turn the same pain inwards.

 “Are you afraid of being seen?” you murmur to Simon.

“No.”

You don’t have to say the silent part; that you’re the afraid one. That Simon correctly interpreting your need for a different kind of control, one that let you lose yourself, felt like you’d been flayed for all to see.

Simon moves his hand lower, cupping the soft curve of your behind, staring at you, testing the waters. You know that if you said no, he might anyways, but you stay quiet as his fingers lift the hem of your dress.

The fabric slides over your skin, a whisper in the air, tickling you. He rubs his rough, hairy knuckles against your thigh close to where it meets your leg.

He pauses there, breathing slowly, before he slides a finger up your slit and through the thatch of hair above it.

“If I made a request,” you murmured, “would you grant it?”

“Make it, and I’ll tell you.”

He slips a finger to rub your hole, just outside, teasing, while his thumb finds your clit.

“I don’t want you to take me until we’re man and wife… men and wife.”

Simon hums, rubs gently, makes your hips undulate.

“Do you think you’re in a place to be making requests like that, love?”

“I haven’t asked for anything else.”

He raises a brow, sliding his finger inside you to the knuckle when you’re wet enough.

“Haven’t you?”

Your breathing deepens, hands coming down to hold his thick wrist, pulling almost subconsciously. Even now, you can’t totally let go, leaning away from him and the pleasure.

But he understands, leaning over you, using his other hand to pin you to the mattress by your throat. It’s not the nicest hold, but the burning of your lungs heightens the pulsing in your cunt.

“Think you just made a few requests right now,” he grunts, using your leg to rub his hard, clothed cock.

There’s a stirring beside you. Johnny groans as he wakes up, then laughs sleepily.

“Ah woke up just in time,” his voice is rough with sleep.

Simon hums, mmm, in that deep rumble of his. He slips another finger inside you, crooking them, making you gasp raggedly. Your hands still clutch his wrist, weaker now, but it’s half resistance half comfort.

“Mm, good girl,” Johnny murmurs. He curls into your side, cock growing against your hip, wrapping a leg around you while his hand climbs beneath your pulled up dress and palms your tit.

God, you could die just like this: fighting for breath, touched all over, held down and made free. The hate you had for them feels irrelevant, the fear, the brutal way in which they stole you.

You can’t even think about if Simon will disregard your request – your last frontier against them, the treasure between your legs for a husband only.

Simon’s knuckle deep in it, but still, you can’t let go of that final tether. Not yet, not without any other internal pillars to hold you up.

Everything else has been wiped away. Drawings in the sand on a beach swept by foamy white waves.

Johnny leans in and bites your shoulder, gnawing, hips moving against you. You can’t arch like you want to, but you try.

Wet, sinful sounds grow as you gush around Simon’s fingers, as they use you to get off.

When you peak, white spots dance in your vision, mouth open in a silent scream choked away by Simon's heavy palm.

It’s like flying.

In the afternoon, when you’ve all slept, Simon leaves to speak with John and you prepare lunch with Johnny.

More fish, more potatoes. It’s growing on you.

When Simon returns, he has in his arms a rolled up fur. Though unprocessed and still wet underneath, it’s beautiful, pale, spotted.

He takes a heavy seat in front of you, laying the skin over his knees, taking your hand in his and bringing it to the fur.

Soft. Dense. Your fingers move through the pelt.

“For you,” Simon says.

You look up at him, heart dancing.

His gifts. The apple, the orgasms, this– you don’t know what to make of it. Yes, it’s a kindness, but he’s a cruel man. He’d said so himself, and you’d felt the brunt of it.

Leaning into that cruelty has given you a strange power, a strange solidity. You’d so begun to familiarize yourself with his harshness that you’d forgotten this complexity.

You pinch the fur, feeling it between your fingers, breathing slowly. Your neck ached, but it wasn’t a bad ache; it felt like a phantom hand.

“For me?”

Johnny slides three bowls on the table, grinning.

“Yer first wedding gift,” he says jovially.

 “Oh, I see,” you murmur, but it isn’t a disappointed oh.

Simon leaves later again, full of soup, to process the rest of the hunt’s boon with John. He takes the pelt with him, a snowcat pelt you’ve learned.

Yet, he’d returned with not much more than scratches on him from travel. Tired, yes, but a few hours of sleep and splattering his spend on your belly had fixed that earlier.

You’d bathed, since, though the feeling was hard to shake.

Johnny putters about again, returning to his carving of the little mini you. A peek into the past, one you no longer embodied.

“Can I see when you’re done?” you ask, slipping your favourite wool dress on. The red, well worn one. Soft, comforting. 

“Course,” he mumbles, concentrating. Then, his head shoots up.

“Ye want one o’ Simon ‘n’ I, lamb? Carry us around?” Only it sounds like aroond.

You nod, walking on socked feet to where he’s carving.

“Yes.”

[woozinhos]

Would you be willing to do mingyu having a corruption kink? He tries to be the perfect gentleman but at the end he just can’t hold back. (Absolutely love your fics btw!! 🫶)

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.

Mingyu had always been known as the perfect gentleman, charming and polite to everyone he met. He prided himself on his manners and etiquette, and he was determined to keep up that image at all times. But deep down, there was a part of him that craved something more. A darker side that he struggled to control. And that desire for corruption only grew stronger whenever he was around you. Whenever you were around, Mingyu found himself struggling to keep his gentlemanly composure. Your presence alone was enough to awaken something primal within him, a hunger that he couldn't quite tame.

He would find himself staring at you, his eyes lingering on your body, his mind filled with thoughts that he knew were wrong but that he couldn't seem to shake. He would catch himself thinking about things he shouldn't be thinking about, imagining all the things he wanted to do to you but that he kept bottled up inside. Mingyu tried his best to push those thoughts away, to keep his gentlemanly facade in place. But the more time he spent with you, the harder it became.

One night, after a particularly intense encounter with you, Mingyu found himself unable to control himself any longer. He had you pinned against the wall, his body pressed tightly against yours, his breathing heavy and ragged. His gentlemanly composure was completely shattered, replaced by a primal desire that he no longer had any hope of holding back. Mingyu's lips found your neck, his kisses hungry and desperate. He murmured apologies against your skin, his voice low and rough. "I'm sorry," he whispered between kisses. "I can't help it. You drive me crazy."

"You're so innocent," Mingyu growled, his hands roaming over your body. "So sweet and pure. But I can't stop thinking about how much I want to corrupt you."

"Please," you said, your voice soft and innocent. "I don't know what's happening to me. I've never felt like this before." Mingyu smirked, his eyes darkening at your words. He loved the way you played along, pretending to be naive and innocent even though you knew exactly what he wanted. Mingyu lifted you up effortlessly, his strong arms wrapping around your waist. He pressed you against the wall, his body trapping you there as he looked down at you with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

"You're playing with fire, you know that?" he said, his voice low and dangerous.

"You're acting so sweet and innocent, but I know there's a naughty little thing hidden underneath all that," Mingyu said, his hands sliding down to your thighs. "You're driving me crazy with your little act." Mingyu laid you down on the bed, his body hovering over yours. He looked down at you, his eyes raking over your body with a hungry gaze.

"You're mine," he growled, his hands trailing over your skin. "And I'm going to make you mine in every way possible."

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.

Mingyu slowly pushed himself inside you, relishing the feeling of your body giving way to him. He watched your face as he did so, enjoying the way you moaned and whimpered beneath him.

"That's it," he whispered, his smirk growing wider. "Let me hear you." Mingyu began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate at first. He wanted to savor the feeling of being inside you, to draw out every little moan and gasp that escaped your lips. He leaned down, his lips finding your neck once more as he began to leave a trail of kisses and bites along your skin. Mingyu continued to move, his thrusts becoming a bit more forceful as he looked down at you.

"How's it feel, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice thick with lust. "Being filled up like this for the first time?"

You moaned out a response, your words barely audible as Mingyu continued to move inside you. "It's... so good," you managed to gasp out, your body trembling with pleasure. Mingyu smirked at your response, knowing full well that his size was impressive. He had always taken pride in his physical attributes, and he loved the way you reacted to him. He increased the pace of his thrusts, pushing deeper and harder into you. "You're taking it so well," he praised, his eyes fixed on your face.

Mingyu continued to thrust into you with abandon, his body working in perfect harmony with yours. He was completely lost in the moment, his mind consumed by the feeling of you beneath him. He gripped your hips tightly, holding you in place as he pounded into you with a primal need. "You were made for this," he growled, his words punctuated by ragged breaths. As you clawed at his back, Mingyu let out a low, guttural moan. The sting of your nails against his skin only served to spur him on further, driving him to push even deeper into you.

He could feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge, but he refused to give in just yet. He wanted to draw this out as long as possible, to savor every moment of your first time together. Mingyu's eyes locked with yours, and he was taken aback by the look of innocent need in your gaze. It was a sharp contrast to the way your body was responding to him, and it drove him wild. He couldn't tear his eyes away from yours, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he struggled to maintain control. "Damn it," he cursed under his breath, his hands gripping your hips even tighter.

"You're driving me crazy," Mingyu growled again, his voice strained with effort. He was nearing his limit, his body taut with tension as he fought to hold back his release. But your eyes were like a drug, intoxicating and addictive. He couldn't resist the way they looked up at him, pleading and desperate. It was too much for him to handle.

Mingyu's control snapped. With a guttural moan, he buried himself deep inside you and let go. He came with a shudder, his body trembling as he spilled himself inside you. He collapsed on top of you, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He was completely spent, but he couldn't help the satisfied smile that spread across his face. Mingyu looked down at you, his expression softening as he saw the look of bliss on your face. He gently brushed a strand of hair away from your forehead, his touch tender and affectionate.

"You did so well," he murmured, his voice filled with pride and a hint of possessiveness. "You're mine now, all mine."

[imujings]

hoshi + work song by hozier? :)

when i was kissing on my baby and she put her love down soft and sweet in the low lamp light i was free

wc <1k. warnings FLUFF!!!, suggestive (they make out at the end. sorry. i’m normal), lots of kissing, hella praise (someone needs to tell soonyoung he’s doing good RIGHT NOW!!). jay’s musings i am so weak for soft sy + this song makes me go ABSOLUTELY FERAL .°(ಗдಗ。)°. you are so right anon. speak ur truth

The lighting in the room is dim, cozy. It’s well into the morning, sunlight streaming faintly through the curtained windows and finding home atop your bedsheets.

You press a long, soft kiss to Soonyoung’s bare shoulder. He’s been murmuring in his sleep for quite awhile now, shifting around like he’s trying to escape some paranormal entity unbeknownst to you. Your fingers inch under the covers and find his.

“Love,” you hum into his skin.

The man shivers at your touch, jolting awake with a gasp. His hair sticks up in all kinds of directions, unkempt from sleep, and you smooth a hand through it. Soonyoung leans into your fingers with an achingly gentle sigh.

“Nightmare again?” you tilt your head in a question.

He nods, eyes fluttering shut when you run a thumb across his cheek. You trace the knot in his eyebrows with your gaze, all the way down to the slope of his collarbone, exposed and vulnerable.

“I can’t remember much of it now,” Soonyoung confesses. “But it felt like I had this big weight on my shoulders—metaphorically, that is. There was so much guilt it was overwhelming. Like I couldn’t breathe, almost. I was in front of you, and you were looking at me, waiting for me to speak, and… I remember feeling terrified. Of what you would think of me if I told you about what I did.”

While you’re listening, your thumb on his cheek never pauses in its soft, methodical swipes along his skin. The barren sunlight leaves him dappled in a honeying glow.

Your heartbeat pounds loud in your ears, your mind taking action to bring his attention to just how much you yearn for him through a steady rhythm of love—if for nothing else but to soothe his worries.

To reiterate your thoughts, you pull him in, letting your arms lay loose around his neck. Your foreheads rest against the other’s.

“Soonyoung,” you whisper, lips brushing his.

His eyes flicker between your soft, melting gaze and the way your mouth curls to enunciate his name. His own lips are parted, waiting, and you’re eager to give, dipping in to steal a kiss.

“You could never,” you kiss him again and he chases your lips. “Never, ever ever, even try to get me to hate you.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” Soonyoung says brokenly. “How could you say that?”

Another kiss—one that’s unhurried, searing with want. Your lips travel to the corner of his mouth and down to his jawline. He whimpers at your nibbling.

“You act as if we are made to be perfect,” is your hushed reply, pressing an open-mouth kiss to underside of his jaw. “You’re talking as if being loved and being perfect are synonyms. As if they mean the same thing.”

“In reality, they simply coexist together. Their relationship is more of a simultaneous thing; you are loved, and at the same time, you are perfect just the way you are. Did you know, I love you? I love you, in your entirety—all your sins, all your fears. I love you because they make you, you. Your hatred, your pain, your burdens—are they not just feelings that coexist with the love inside of you? I love you because you are whole and filled with emotions. I love you because you are love.”

There’s a pause, and you draw your face back up to his level again. Soonyoung is staring at you, eyes glassy and lips wobbling.

You’re wondering if you’ve gone too far with your nonsensical ramblings when he kisses you, and all air is knocked out of your lungs.

“Thank you,” he sobs, and you taste the saltiness of his tears as his lips press against yours, frantic, needy.

His hands are in a frenzy, gripping your bare skin like you’ll disappear at any moment. You whine at his touch, passion overtaking you as your fingers wrap themselves in his locks of hair. The man moans when you tug, and the noise sounds so melodic it has you tearing up yourself.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Soonyoung murmurs; you can’t tell what tears belong to who anymore, but you don’t think it matters when you’re this tangled up in each other.

“You are love, too. My love. You are my freedom—my life, my eternity. Thank you.”

wanna queue a song?

[21280]

SECOND DATE UPDATE!

izuku midoriya got ghosted by you after the first date! so, he turns to mic's radio show segment in an act of desperation to know what happened... fem reader (pronoun only used once), y/n had mic as a homeroom teacher before. post war.

midoriya is incredibly nervous as he stands by on the other line as mic's cheery voice blasts through his ear and through the radios of thousands, mic's words sounding incoherent as his mind races on the possible outcomes. though, he's sure there's only one.

he's going to be absolutely humiliated.

"so midoriya here had a nice at home date with a person named y/n, and according to him, everything was super fun! when he asked for a second date, he's been hit with nothing but excuses! so he’s waiting here in the other line while we ring up his date…"

riiiing.

it's an unknown number. you shrug, choosing to answer the call.

"hello?"

"hey hey hey! is this y/n?"

you recognize the voice coming from your speaker, your lips curling into a smile. "is this mr. yamada? oh my, yes this is she! it's been a while."

you can hear him chuckle, "how're ya doing, kiddo? i've seen you pop up on my newsfeed the other day—but we're here on official biz. i'm calling from put your hands up radio because there's this listener of ours that you went on a date with..."

"oh shoot" you say, "um, who is it?"

"do you remember going out with midoriya?"

oh god no, you think. your mind suddenly becomes flooded with images and memories of the past week, where you spent a few hours over at midoriya’s apartment. what was the purpose of all this—did he spill the beans to your homeroom teacher?

you sigh as you shake your head, "yes, i do remember him."

"that sigh tells me it wasn't a good date, now, was it?" mic asks, his curiosity is evident. "wanna tell me what he did wrong?"

you awkwardly chuckle, "midoriya's a really good guy, i swear!"

"but you've been blowin him off ever since your date! i've seen you on the papers, but are you reaaally busy or is that just a load of cap?" mic pressures, and you can only imagine his eyebrow raised in confusion.

"i did? my bad, i've been real busy with the agency i haven't had the time to reply to anyone.."

there's a few seconds of silence, before mic speaks up. "producer here told me you posted on your socials a few hours ago, so unless you have a team who posts selfies of you buying tea, you've been on your phone, my dear y/n" he laughs, "now spill. what happened with midoriya?"

"well, we had a nice dinner at his house, and we played some board games and watched three all might documentaries."

mic scoffs and laughs, “that does sound like a midoriya, alright. but hey—that seems like a nice date—what happened?”

you were unsure of whether or not you wanted to speak up, but decided to do so. “he just wouldn’t stop talking about all might! and, i know he’s his father figure or something but come on! even during dinner he kept mentioning how all might liked cedar from yakushima so he got a cedar scented candle because of that. we played all might themed board games. geez—even when i went to the bathroom he had an all might towel and soap dispenser. i damn nearly fell asleep during the second documentary and he shook me awake because i was missing the best part of it.”

by now, mic is exploding in laughter, the faint sound of his fist banging the table being heard. there’s a couple giggles heard in the background too, from his producer and other guests present.

“oh my god i didn’t know.”

your eyes widen in shock as you realize who the voice belonged to. mic clears his throat, “so, midoriya’s on the other line because he wanted to speak to you and know what he did wrong, and also to ask for a second date! surprise!”

you nearly choke on your spit as you hear his voice through your phone’s speaker. “i really didn’t know you didn’t like all might, but i mean you should’ve said something! we watched the top three documentaries!”

“did you ask me if i wanted to watch three documentaries about all might, midoriya?”

“you’re right—i’m so sorry” midoriya apologizes, and it seems genuine. you know he’s the type of guy to be oblivious at times, so you give him the benefit of the doubt.

“is there any way i can make it up to you? a dinner at a restaurant, a trip, we can even watch documentaries of your favorite hero in return! i really like you, y/n, and i would like another chance.”

you can’t stop your heart from beating quicker when those words left his mouth. he’s a lover boy through and through, and he’s truly devoted to what he likes.

“edgeshot. i want an edgeshot interview compilation marathon.”

you can practically hear midoriya smile, “okay, great! i actually know a lot about him, did you know that during the war he—“

“oookay! looks like it’s all settled” mic chuckles, “i think it’s the first time we’ve had a second date update success!”

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 16

Part 1 [...] 14 15 16 17

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, violence, pregnancy, miscarriage, panic/anxiety attacks, suicidal ideation, attempted suicide, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: guys we're just gonna roll with the fact daemon knows how to braid hair realllly well ok stfu. also ASHFOASF long time no see i hope you enjoyyy!!!!!! | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching @myllovellybones

You find it hard to dress yourself for your clothes were far too heavy for you. What's more, they looked like they were eating you alive with how much weight you've lost. Your sister offered to have new dresses commissioned for you, but the moment your father caught wind of it, he made sure to send away any tailor that would fit you, insisting that you would regain your weight. You only did after Aegon was born, but as it remains, you look odd in your ill-fitting garbs.

By the time you are finished dressing yourself, you stare at your reflection. Black suited you, you think... it made the little color that remained on your face pop up.

Daemon emerges from the bathroom as you were about to fix your hair. His tresses looked tangled in its dripping state. A towel covered his belly and thighs, skin still damp. And his skin, his skin was burned. Were once you remembered both faint and deep cuts rested, now rested there was thick and textured marks.

"Dae-" you start but immediately stop when he heads straight towards his closet, hastily moving to dress himself.

You fidget with your fingers, unsure if you ought to help, approach, or even speak. You stare at him, hoping he'd acknowledge you. He doesn't.

You sigh and slowly walk to your vanity, though your eyes remain on him. He spares you a look, immediately looking away when he catches you staring. He puts on his breeches and pulls his towel off. He ties its laces, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. It wasn't. In fact, it was not even an easy feat, as his hands were trembling.

You don't notice that exactly, but you do notice his frantic movements which were so unlike him. You wonder if it was consequence war, and you find yourself pretending not to notice in case it was the case. The last thing you wanted was to trigger him today of all days. You wanted the day you send off your children to be peaceful for the both of you.

You walk sit before your mirror, eyes on your reflection as you comb your hair. Your gaze keeps flickering back to Daemon though.

He notices, and can hardly bare it. He haphazardly puts on his dress shirt then grabs his doublet, pacing across the room. He shudders as he chucks his towel on the bed. He huffs and leans on the table where an ewer of wine laid. He chucks his top on the surface beside it and pours himself a drink.

His aim is poor. Red sputters on the table due to his shaky grip. He nearly makes the cup overflow, but manages to control himself. Quickly, the prince downs the alcohol, but it seems to do nothing for his nerves, and absolutely nothing for the maddening nightmare that was torturing him so greatly.

In truth, he did not know if he quivered out of fear or anger because of it. He did not know which part haunted him more, the fact that his subconscious thought this up, or the fact that it might be true.

He gasps when he hears his name. He sets his cup down with a thud and turns over his shoulder. He scratches his eyes as he looks at you, face shining though your brows were furrowed.

"A-are... are you-"

"It's nothing," he quips, stuffing his dress shirt into his trousers.

You shift on your chair to face him and frown, "Daemon."

He freezes, jaw clenching with an unwillingness to confess what was torturing him.

You see his steely gaze and his tensed shoulders. You knew better than to pursue an uncomfortable conversation with him right now, so you lower your gaze and slowly shake your head, "I... I simply wanted to ask if you would help braid my hair."

He freezes, "what?"

"I thought it would be good to-"

Daemon grabs his doublet and hastily wears it, nearly sprinting towards you.

"- have you..." your breath hitches. You look at him through his reflection as he comes behind you, "... do it in the fashion of your house."

His hands tremble as he reaches for your hair.

"... if... it pleases you."

"It pleases me," he blurts, stroking your hair, "thank you."

You shake my head and sigh, "I-... thank you." You lower your gaze to your hands, "might I write while you do this?"

Daemon's brows furrow as you apprehensively turn to him. He shakes his head but then nods, "o... of course."

You watch him reach for the comb.

He feels its weight before shaking his head again, "wh... to whom?"

"My twin," you say simply, opening the drawer to pull out some parchment and ink. Your eyes slowly look at his reflection as you get your quill and shut the drawer.

Daemon nods. He grips the comb and shrugs. He shakes his head before gathering your locks and brushing through it. He clenches his teeth, trying not to sound so sour as he speaks. He fails, "you write to him oft?"

You nearly tell him everyday, but you change it to: "yes."

He notices that you had two pieces of parchment on your table. He cannot help the jealousy that blooms at the idea of you writing long letters for him. "Much to say, have you?"

Your eyes flicker up to him.

Daemon does not look at you as he parts your hair and begins braiding.

"What?"

"You have two pieces of parchment."

"Oh..." you look back to the table, not thinking he'd notice, "the other is for Laenor."

He freezes.

"I do not write to him as oft," you mutter.

Daemon cannot help the sound he makes. His breath hitches as he gathers your dark hair into his fingers. He chuckles rather manically, "of course."

You decide not to reply. You simply leave him to his work as you work on your letters.

You finish writing your letters before he finishes fixing your hair. Daemon watches you fold the notes neatly and prepare wax to seal them off. Part of him wishes to enquire what you have to say to those wretched men, but another part knows he might regret it. Surely, to your brother at least, you would air out your grievances. The prince does not know if he could stomach the knowledge you'd express your hatred for him with someone else.

You melt wax over a candle and seal the letter with your stamp. He watches you do this, and as he does, he imagines all the times you did the same for his letters. He wonders if you did so with the same ease. He wonders if you paid it littler or more attention than this. He wonders if he'd ever be at the receiving end of your affections ever again.

When he gets to the last part of the last braid, he finds himself unwilling to pin it in place with the rest for your hair. He stares at his work, at the interwoven plaits going down your shoulders. He tucks some stray hair behind your ear, so badly wishing he could kiss you.

Perhaps he could, but then you'd push him away. He would not survive.

Finally, he pins the last part of your hair and slowly withdraws his hands, "it is done."

You immediately come to stand and turn to him.

Daemon watches as you look at his unbuttoned doublet. His stomach drops when you begin to fasten them.

"Shall I braid your h-"

"No," he blurts, shaking his head, "I do not want you to touch me."

You freeze, unsure if you heard him correctly. You slowly pull away, "you... you don't want me to touch you?"

"No," he shakes his head.

You knit your brows and nods slowly, "I see... why?"

"Why?" he whispers, as if he was stabbed, "why does it matter? Do you want to touch me?"

"I... I want to be civil with you."

His nostrils flare as he chuckles dryly.

"I do not want to be at war with you."

"But we are!" Daemon blurts, "love is war."

"Says who?" you knit your brows.

"Says my bleeding heart," he mutters, as he fixes his doublet himself. His eyes begin to water, so he turns away.

You feel your throat tighten. You shrug, "is this your way of saying you love me?"

"I have always loved you," he turns back to you, tears staining his cheeks.

You laugh.

He rarely hears such a sound from your lips and seems to hate it. "Mazemā nyke syt iā pirtirys?" he mutters under his breath. You take me for a liar.

You chuckle again and shake your head. You shrug, "mazeman ao syt iā mittys." I take you for a fool.

Daemon lowers his head.

You nearly reach out for him, but then you remember he does not invite your touch. You turn to the door then back to him, "let us be civil today."

"No," he lifts his gaze, walking to the vanity. He grabs a hair tie and does his hair, "I want a peace treaty."

"What?"

"The Stranger has scratched my skin in the Stepstones. I know better than to believe civility can be achieved between your enemies."

You laugh again, but this time, it is far unbearable. It is loud and anxious and broken. You clutch your chest when you begin to feel it tighten, "and I am your enemy, Daemon?"

"Daor," he says desperately. He grabs your arms and rapidly shakes his head, "dōrī ao.... yn nyke." No. Never you... but I.

You stare at him as he slowly pulls away.

"I have become your enemy whether either of us care to admit it or not," he shakes his head as he turns to his feet, "I cannot reconcile my mistakes; I can ask only for a peace treaty."

You rub your forehead as you lean on your chair, "I do not understand."

"You-" he chokes. He clears his throat, "you say look at me and see only grief and loss." He wipes his face, "I do not want it to be so."

You huff and shake your head, "it is not something you can change."

"Not if you don't let me," Daemon mutters, "kostilus..." he shakes his head, "ivestragon nyke skorkydoso olvie yno kostā mōzugon gō ao pykagon nyke hen." He scratches his eyes before looking at you. Please... tell me how much of me you can drink before you spit me out.

"Daemon."

He looks at you, violet eyes shrouded by pink.

"I..." you shake your head, "don't know."

He sighs, "plea-"

"I'm telling you, I don't know."

He sighs again, shaking his head then nodding it, "sȳz." Fine.

You watch him step back and motion to the door.

"After you."

You stare at him for a moment and grip your skirts tightly in your hands. You draw a deep breath before walking off.

When you open the door, you hear the clanking of steel. You see Arryk and Erryk stationed outside your door.

"Princess," they greet in unison.

You frown at them, "Erryk... Arryk."

Arryk's eyes rather unwillingly catch sight of Daemon walking towards you. He clenches his jaw and steps aside, not wanting to see him. Erryk ignores him altogether as he reaches a hand for you, "will we be heading for the solar to break fast?"

You shake your head and push his hands down.

Erryk's jaw feathers as Daemon comes to your side.

Daemon's gaze remains lowered. He mutters softly, "kesan bartos naejot se ripo," before slipping past you and walking off.

Erryk eyes him hotly where Arryk turns to you, giving you a wary look, "what did he say?"

You shake your head and offer a smile, "he said he'll be going to the pit."

Arryk simultaneously thinks how fortunate and cowardly it was that Daemon will be flying off. Erryk says it out loud, "so, he's leaving on Caraxes?"

You rub your belly, "we will be sending our Alaeric and Alyrie off."

The twins freeze.

"I do not know if Daemon spoke to the maesters about it already," you mutter, "would one of you go and check. I... I do not want to see them... not like that."

"I can go," Arryk nods.

You nod rapidly and offer a smile, "thank you."

Just as his brother leaves, Erryk reaches a hand out to you again, "perhaps you ought to break fast."

You shake your head, finally taking his hand, "I... I will be sick."

His brows furrow, "you must promise me you will eat something after then."

"Erryk-"

The shake of his head cuts you off.

You take a deep breath, "you know it is hard."

"Then perhaps you can eat with the prince."

Your eyes widen at the idea.

It takes a moment for Erryk to realize why and he quickly dispels the thought, "Aegon. With your nephew, the prince."

You heave and shake your head.

His jaw tightens, "I would never im-"

"I know," you raise a hand, "I just... I misunderstood. Forgive me."

His nostrils flare, "there is no world in which you could ever do something that offends me."

You come to life when you reach Aegon's quarters. The boy immediately runs towards you. You smile and lean down. He jumps into your arms and you tenderly pick him up, sealing him into a hug

"Aunt!" he beams, clutching your cheeks.

"My boy," you coo, embracing him fondly.

Aegon giggles, his little arms wrapping around you. You remain like this for a moment before he pulls away and grins, clutching your cheeks again, "play!"

You kiss his forehead, "actually, we're going to go outside today."

Aegon blinks, his silver lashes fluttering, "play?"

You rock him in your arms, "zaldrīzes." Dragon.

He gasps.

"Gaomagon jaelā naejot ūndegon iā zaldrīzes?" Do you want to see a dragon?

"KESSA. KESSA!" Aegon cheers in agreement.

With this, you head to your sister's chambers and tell her of your plans for today. Alicent offers you a solemn expression before giving you a hug. She says she will change and inform the king. You then head off to the last person you wished to invite.

"Come in," his voice is deep.

Aegon leans into you as Erryk opens the door. You step into the Hand's office and nod at your father, "hello, my lord."

Otto lifts his gaze from his desk and furrows his brows, "what's happened?"

You shake your head as he slowly comes to a stand. You rub Aegon's back, "nothing... I... I've told Daemon about the twins."

He tenses at the thought, eyes turning to Erryk, who stood just by the door.

"We will be sending them off now."

Sending them off? Otto relaxes when he realizes who you actually meant. He nods and walks towards you. He places a hand on your shoulder, "I am glad."

You gulp as you look at him, unable to hold his gaze any longer.

The walk is long and quiet, save for the babbling of Aegon. He was rather fond of his grandfather's pin, and reached out to it every time Otto got close enough to.

"No," Otto would quip each time, raising a brow at the boy.

Aegon, none the wiser, would giggle, thinking it was a game.

At some point, the old man had to surrender his pin denoting his status to the boy when he managed to get pull on it. With a sigh, he hands it to his grandson.

You immediately pull it away from Aegon when he tries to eat it. You quip with a raised brow, "no."

The sight of your babies on a pyre sends a chill down your spine. The maesters and Arryk are already there, waiting for the rite to commence. The sight is too much, thus why you fix your eyes on Aegon.

Otto notices your discomfort and comes to your side, blocking your view of the pyre with his back. He turns to one of your wards, then the other. He motions with his head, wordlessly beckoning them over.

Erryk and Arryk oblige.

"It would be best if my daughter have this moment with her husband," Otto says, "stay back unless called upon."

Arryk clenches his jaw and Erryk purses his lips. Regardless, they nod and speak in unison, "my lord."

Soon, the king, the queen, and the crown princess arrive. It's rather fitting, for right after, there is a loud screech in the sky. Aegon immediately reacts, gasping as his hands fly up to cover his ears. A flash of red soars overhead.

The poor boy is overwhelmed by the sound of beating wings and begins to clamor and panic. You do your best to calm him and instinctively turn to your sister, finding her clutching her swollen belly in worry. You debate whether you should hand her Aegon, but you decide to try and calm the boy, not wanting to strain her by making her carry the boy.

You turn to my father, who wipes his grandson's cheeks and strokes his head.

You kiss Aegon's cheeks and rock him, beginning to sing, "the fishes swim in seas of blue, and dragons breath fire so red— shhh it's alright."

Caraxes soon lands before the pyre and screeches.

Aegon joins suit, screaming into you shoulder as he clings onto me for dear life.

Daemon sees this, jaw clenching at the sight. He watches Otto block Aegon's view of Caraxes, muttering something to the boy. He watches his sister come forward to calm the boy. He watches you rock him. The Hightowers are unified because of his brother's son. He unsaddles himself from Caraxes.

"DAOR!" Viserys screams, just as the blood wyrm cranes his head dangerously close to you. Rhaenyra gasps as he watches Caraxes seemingly try to attack. The king steps forward, repeating the command, making Caraxes pull his long neck back and screech back in offense.

Aegon shrieks in terror of the loud noise.

The king does not flinch, but he does turn to Daemon, "visagon aōha dyni, valonqar!" Control your beast, (younger) brother.

Daemon calls out to Caraxes, ordering him to calm and obey. He soon is on the ground, marching towards his dragon's head, "gīda ilagon!" He raises his hands, "gīda ilagon." Calm down.

Caraxes huffs through his nostrils.

Aegon wails into your shoulder.

The dragon screeches again.

Daemon grits his teeth, looking over his shoulder. He turns to you then his brother, "visagon aōha tresy." Control your son.

Upon hearing this, you glare at Daemon, "he's just a babe!"

Caraxes bleats at the sound of your voice.

"Do not be so defensive. A babe's wailing is meant to be annoying," Daemon rebuts.

"Here," Alicent mutters, taking Aegon from you.

"Ali-"

"It's alright, sister," she turns to you, kissing her boy, "I can manage." She turns to Otto, "might I have your arm, father?"

Otto obliges.

The two walk off, enough that Caraxes was not so close. You can't help but glare at the beast, though you knew any irritation you had towards him was irrational, as he was just a dragon and Aegon was just a boy.

Caraxes cranes over to you again, letting out another loud noise.

Both Daemon and Viserys call out to the beast, expecting the worst from him. Even Arryk and Erryk, who was watched from afar, grip their swords involuntarily and find themselves stepping closer as Caraxes pushes his snout into you.

Caraxes does nothing perilous but does huff. Still, it garners a corrective command from his rider, who comes in front of you

The beast makes a displeased sound, baring his teeth, frightening Aegon yet again. The sound of the boy's cries make you snap, "lyka, Caraxes," you call out, "skoros gaomā?" Quiet, Caraxes. What are you doing?

Daemon turns to you then Caraxes, calling him to obey.

Viserys watches his brother gaze upon you. He watches Daemon take your hand and reach it out towards his ride. His lips part as Caraxes leans into your joined hands. He turns back to his wife and frowns at the sight of his red faced boy. It was clear Aegon was frightened for you with how he was reached his hand in your direction.

The king sighs and comes to him, taking the boy into his arms. Rhaenyra watches his father rock his half-brother. He watches the boy sigh into his arms. She looks away, focus back to Caraxes.

Daemon leans against Caraxes. He mutters softly to him as he presses your hand into the dragon's snout. The beast is finally calm. You feel the warmth of his scales and you wonder if he'd eat you now that you were no longer carrying his rider's children.

Daemon topples back as Caraxes pushes into him, hard enough to brush against you. You gasp when he nudges your chest.

Your husband recognizes the affection and finds himself unable to bridle his own. He pulls you into his chest, pretending it was out of concern— to keep you upright. He presses his arm against yours, his palm resting on the back of your hand. He links his fingers into yours and rests your joined hands atop Caraxes, whispering, "he missed you."

You chuckle, looking over your shoulder to Daemon, "that's not possible."

Daemon leans his forehead against yours and you immediately look away. Though the sentiment hurt, he looks back at his mount and persists, "yet it's true."

Caraxes huffs and begins to curl before you. He then lies down, shaking his head as he did.

Daemon's eyes turn to the pyre, throat tightening at the sight of the two small bodies, wrapped up in cloth. It was no longer white, as time brought a brownish hue to it.

You look at him when he withdraws his hand. You watch his jaw clench as he looks to the distance. You pull away to place a hand on his rib, "do you want to go closer?"

His hand comes atop yours. For a moment, you remember how he said he didn't want your touch, but instead of pushing you away, he squeezes you. His lowers his head and licks his lips, "I am unworthy."

You face him fully. You shake your head and fix his collar, "you are their father."

You entire body seems to react when he speaks your name. Your shoulders tense. Your breath hitches. Your eyes water.

He watches you intently. He takes your hands and clutches by his chest. He frowns and leans closer, daring to press his forehead into you again.

You let him. You close your eyes and let him press against you. Tears rush down your cheeks.

"Would they have liked me?" Daemon whispers.

You chuckle bitterly, eyes opening. You see that his face is just as teary as yours. You sniffle and shake your head, "the gods only know."

Daemon wipes his nose on his sleeve.

You both walk towards the pyre. Caraxes lifts his head to look down upon you. Daemon frowns when he sees just how tiny the bodies are. He notices then they smell like the oil you put on yourself, albeit mustier. He cares little about the unpleasant undertone and presses a kiss on both their bodies.

When he pulls away, he takes deep breath and mutters, "kepa iksis kesīr, Alaeric se Alyrie... shijetra nyke... geros ilas." Father is here, Alaeric and Alyrie... forgive me... good bye.

Daemon turns to you, his hold on you tightening, "gaomagon emā mirros naejot ivestragon?" Do you have anything to say?

You step forward, biting your lips as gaze upon your babes. You release Daemon, immediately bursting into tears. You reach out to them one last time, lips trembling, "I wish you knew how much I love you."

You nearly topple back as you pull away.

Daemon reaches for you, one hand on your arm, the other on your back. He rests his head on yours, his voice is pained as he mutters, "they know," he shakes his head and presses a kiss on your ear. He whispers, "everyone knows."

You crumble. You turn to him and sob into his chest.

He wraps his arms around you, stroking your hair. He calls out your name, "I'm here now."

You whine.

"It would take sword and flame to sever me from you."

When you were calm enough, Daemon leads you off. He is vigilant of his surroundings but more importantly, you. By the time you and him stand far away enough, Caraxes inspects the pyre before him. He sniffs it and shakes his head. He cranes his neck back, looking at his master. They share a silent understanding.

Daemon has his arm around you as you continue to weep into his chest. He rubs your shoulder, looking down upon you, "would you like to give the command?"

You sniffle and look up to him, "what?"

He turns to Caraxes, who is already stood in attention rather knowingly, "I think he would obey if you commanded."

You shake your head, turning to Caraxes, "I do not want to." You face the pyre, wiping your face, "I've given them their sorrowful beginning. I do not wish to give them their sorrowful end."

Daemon clenches his jaw, "very well." He rubs your shoulders, "when you're ready."

You sigh, leaning into him, "I will never be."

He does not reply. He does, however, squeeze your shoulders.

You turn to him, a line between your brows, "when you're ready, Daemon."

He turns to you just as you look forward. He sniffles and turns to his mount, "Caraxes."

Caraxes rumbles.

The prince takes a deep breath, eyes fixed upon his children, "dracarys."

You gasp at the burn of the flames. The fire is so bright, it's like the sun stops shining for a moment. It's fitting, for that is what it felt to lose them. Warmth cascades across the ground. Caraxes screeches upon finishing his task. Aegon weeps again.

Daemon takes you back to the Keep on dragonback. He is grateful you agreed, though he knows it was more because you felt too weak to walk, rather than the fact you wanted to keep his company.

When he arrives at the pit, Caraxes squawks in recognition of the dragon that seemed to have just arrived, judging by the amount of servants and dragon keepers around.

When you land, hear a voice call for you and you look, not recognizing the voice. Daemon does, just as he recognizes the dragon.

Daemon dismounts and helps you down. You hear your name called out again, "who-"

"Princess!"

Your lips part as you turn to see the young man running towards you. You recognize him solely from his hair, "Laenor?"

Daemon eyes the boy as he bows. He eyes the flowers in his hand. Quickly, his eyes are averted back to you when you begin to weep.

Laenor is mortified. He nearly drops the bouquet as he calls out your name.

"Forgive me," you wipe your face and shake your head, "it is good to see you," you say, breaking into a soft chuckle, "to finally meet you."

Laenor gives a half-hearted smile as he nods, "it is good to meet you, though... I hear you have just come from the pyre."

You sniffle and nod, linking your hands together, "yes... I... we-" you turn to Daemon, "put our children to rest."

Laenor nods slowly, looking between the two of you, "my deepest condolences princess, prince."

You turn to him, finding he was offering you pink flowers.

"Bougainvillea," says the young lord, "I thought to bring you flowers since you wrote of picking them oft."

Your lips wobble and you sob even more.

Daemon clenches his jaw, reaching out to you.

He doesn't reach you though, as soon, you've thrown yourself into Laenor's arms.

The Velaryon yelps in surprise but naturally returns your affections.

"Thank you," you mutter, squeezing him tightly.

He chuckles, matching the intensity of your embrace, "it's nothing really, I saw some on my way. I'm glad you appreciate it."

When you pull away, Laenor catches the withering glare Daemon was shooting his way. He widens his eyes, only because he dares not to roll them, then hands you the flowers.

You gratefully take them, "thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I wrote to you just this morn."

"Did you?" his brow quirks, "you might be glad to know you needn't do anymore."

Your brows furrow.

"I..." he smiles softly, "... am promised to Princess Rhaenyra."

Daemon's brow quirks.

"Oh," you mutter, "oh..." your lips wobble, "d-does that mean you will be staying here?"

Laenor chuckles, "yes, I-"

He grunts when you embrace him again.

Daemon looks away and scoffs.

"That's wonderful!" you sob, "oh, my dear Laenor."

Laenor chuckles as he pulls away, "surely mine own company is not so much a relief from my uncle's."

"Careful, boy," Daemon snaps, eyes narrowing, "I respect you, but that doesn't mean I like you."

Laenor's eyes widen again, "of course, uncle."

"In any case," you wipe your philtrum, "I am glad to have a friend."

Friend... I could be your friend, thinks Daemon.

Laenor nods, "as am I."

With that, Laenor walks off and you turn to the Bougainvilleas in your hands.

"You write to Laenor about flowers?"

You turn to Daemon, seeing him grind his teeth. You nod simply, "upon his request."

He opens his mouth but then shuts it. Would you have obliged himhis request if he ever wrote back to you? He banishes the thought and turns to the ground, "you should plant them."

Your brows quirk at the thought.

"Grow them in your garden," he turns around, walking back to Caraxes.

You watch him caress his dragon. You mutter to yourself, "that's not how that works."

You wait for him to finish doting on his ride. You stare at your flowers as you do so.

When Daemon turns back, he sees you gently caressing the pink buds. He imagines you doing the same to his cheeks and lips; it makes him rapidly shake his head and call your name.

You look up at him.

Daemon's lips are curved into a frown, "I do not keep you prisoner."

Your brows furrow, "what?'

He motions with his head, "go."

You turn to where he motioned, eyes immediately falling on Laenor. You look back at him, "I-"

"He's surely famished from a long ride," he slowly turns back to Caraxes, stroking his scales. The dragon huffs, lying down. "I doubt you've eaten yourself."

You stare at him, brows knitting together.

He turns back to you, "go to him. Be with your friend."

You pull your head back, "I-"

"I wish to clear my head," he pats Caraxes, "I'll do it in the sky."

Of course, what he really wanted was to find solace in your arms, but he tries to convince himself flying will be just as good. After all, that was how he calmed himself before... before you.

"I'll be back before dark," he mutters, walking off to mount Caraxes.

You watch him climb on his dragon's back. You watch him as he commands Caraxes to stand.

You nearly ask him to stay, but your memories convince you to do otherwise.

You gasp softly when Caraxes takes off.

[sinsodom]

Through with all.

What i don't get is the fans reaction. You point out that he is so bad. Please where?? We still don't know shit what happened and why?? Why judge a cover by it's book??

What did he do besides saving the kid meanwhile tucking her to bed cause she had a fever?? If a possessive man wants to lock a person up, they can. He never really kept her away, just giving her the choice to stay back and mc just doesn't. He even says it. But MC just sucks and cant stay back. (and yes he knew she can escape, hello??)

Don't get me wrong here. He is weird. But you guys complain more abt that than that he came back and Mc just was like: oh what a happy sunday!! Lets go home and sleep in his place and continue our lives.

Until now we know that we know nothing. And saying that he is a bad guy is just as always too fast imagining. If he is undercover he has to do some things. Nothing points clearly out that he is on the bad side.

Most of you don't know how life works, it showed. Undercover you cant take risks. The drugging part wasn't even one?? Hes a colonel and can't tell what he does so he gave her the choice. She didn't trust him so he had to act. (wasn't too inoortant to get kevi cause when she wanted, shed leave) First mc is persistent and can't be beaten and than shes not finding out what's up with all?? Come on.

All in all. Im sure he is undercover to find out all about the fleet, experiments and co. To save mc again. What they all did and do. Mc is just too proud to clearly make him tell all, like she did before. She prefers the easier way.

So no. Caleb is no Bad guy. He is just undercover and MC absolutely doesnt follow. Up with him so he had to control her somehow. After Kevi got saved i was like: ooooh he knew and instead of bothering her, they did it. And mc fucks it up again. Sorry but i would drug her too.

All in all i am shocked how dark the community wants him to be. Making and forcing up conclusions and theories that don't even fit. A bit dark is okay but you want him to be basically ww2 asshole. What is wrong with you guys. Rapes and shit?? Forced?? Are you crazy?? Chillaxx.... He isnt what you want him to be. Accept it. And wait for the future facts from him.

Until now he is sacrifing everything he has and feels for mc. Lets not forget that mc is always a target cause of her core....

For me, mc is absolutely disappointing in reacting to caleb. Cant always be 1 with her but the whole story she reacted wrong for me being devot all the time and just eating all with no further things. I wouldn't talk a word to him and look at him until he explains something. That was like: yes please hurt me again and again, no matter the consequences, mc needs it.

Ew. Story was good, community just kinda ruined it.... Sadly.

Have a nice day yall 💚

Ps: NO ONE reacts like this, having a beloved back when you thought he is dead. No one. Facts.

[tonysbed]

Secrets I keep | Part 2

Max Fewtrell x Norris!reader

Lando Norris x Sister!reader

Daniel Riccardo x Norris!reader

summary: You and max have been dancing around your feelings for years but jealousy gets the best of us all..

not proofread

series masterlist | masterlist | previous | next

-

“I hate people” You say as you sit down at the small table in Daniel’s kitchen. He sets breakfast on the table and raises an eyebrow “I know, but why now?”

You turn your phone to him and show him the post that kika had send you earlier in the morning “Is it that unbelievable that two super attractive people are friends?” You chuckle at his words which makes him smile.

It slowly fades “Has lando said anything to you about it?” You shake your head but lean a bit back “Actually.. He did ask me yesterday what we are” Daniel raised an eyebrow “Really? And how did that go down?”

“Told him we’re friends. Then I asked why. He said he was just wondering and then told me to forget he asked” You shrug and take a bite of your breakfast.

“Hm. A tad weird no?” He says, sipping his coffee. You shrug “He can believe whatever he wants. And he’ll know where to find me if he has questions” Daniel nods and focuses back on his food.

“So, what is the plan for today?” You ask curious “Well, I’d say finally going to let you hold a koala and I got an invite to a party. You know these people too” He says with a smile. You smile wide “Koalas? Finally!” He chuckled “That’s the only thing you heard, hmm?”

“Absolutely. But yeah we can go. What kind of party?” He shrugged “just a party. nothing fancy” “no fancy clothes?” He shakes his head “Thank god. I didn’t pack fancy”

“As if we couldn’t just go and buy something” You roll your eyes at him “Finish up. I wanna see koalas” “Relax, they won’t run away” “You never know”

-

danielriccardo

liked by yn, landonorris, maxverstappen1 and 1m others

danielriccardo she finally got to hold a koala! and meet someone who looks happier than her 🐨👀

*tagged yn*

yn happier than me? more than you. You’ll get wrinkles from smiling this much

danielriccardo Im only smiling because you’re here

yn charmer much?

danielriccardo always for my favourite girl

yn dont make me blush, riccardo

danielriccardo 😁

user @/landonorris ???

user tagging lando as if he’s stupid

user he can read yk

landonorris are you ever coming home, or what? 😂

yn never. this place is to beautiful

landonorris daniel, i’d like my sister back

danielriccardo can’t do anything, sorry mate

user now why is he so close to her.. 👀

user sure, friends

user woman and men can be friends yall

*liked by yn*

-

yn added to their story

[caption 1: night out 💙 caption 2: I expected more patience from him.. he stood there for 20 minutes..]

franciscagomez girl, you’re telling me you two aren’t a thing??

yn yeah?

sure…

yn why is everyone so weird all of sudden. I’ve visited daniel alone before

that was different..

yn sure.

landonorris be safe please!!

yn will be. i’m with daniel, remember?

yeah that doesn’t calm me down..

yn ttyl 🫶🏻

yeah yeah 🤍

-

Drinks had been flowing for a good amount of time. It was safe to say that neither you nor Daniel were on the sober side. You stood next to him, while he was sitting on a chair, explaining something to the guy next to him.

One of your friends, who was rather clumsy, pushed you over and right into Daniel’s lap. You let out an surprised squeal and hold onto his shoulders for support. In an instinctive way, his arms wrap around you and leans against you in his drunken state.

You smile at the filming person who is laughing along you, while the friend who fell tried to get back up, which was even harder while laughing.

You helped her and watched them go to the bathroom. You now finally look at daniel, who’s lap you were still seated on. He raised an eyebrow and smirked.

“If you wanted to sit, you could’ve just said something.” You laugh and turn to face the rest of the group “You’re an idiot”

“I’ve been told before” He laughed and you felt his thumb caressing your side. You sigh and let your head fall on his shoulder “Should we go home?” You hum “My feet hurt” “Told you to go in sneaker” “Shut up” He chuckled “I’ll call a cab”

-

You stumbled into the door and steadied yourself on daniel’s arm. You kicked off your shoes “I’m so dead” “Me too. Sleep?” “100%. I’m eating tomorrow.”

He nods and kicks off his shoes as well. You flop down on the couch “that’s not your bed” “I’m to lazy to walk there” He laughed and stumbled over to you. Before he could say anything, you moved and held up the blanket, inviting him.

“Not the plan but sure” He laid down next to you, looking at you. You make him turn and lay on his chest “Definitely comfortable” You mumble before your knocked out cold.

He laughs softly before closing his eyes as well.

-

Lando had been kind of worried about you. He knew how daniel could get when he was drunk. He had stopped the aussie from doing stupid things before while partying. He let his head fall backwards with a groan.

Max looked up from his phone and sighed “Just text her” “So I’ll get the same answer as before? No thanks”

Max rolls his eyes “I’ll be on stream if you’ll need me.” He got up and walked into his streaming room. Lando stayed on the couch. It was already late in australia, he knew that. You should’ve been back already.

His phone lights up and he sees his mothers name.

‘Did you know about this?’ Attached was a picture of you, sitting on daniel’s lap.

He opened the message

Lando sets his phone down. The picture engraved in his mind. This was out of character for you. Or was it? Did he even know who you were? Were you as close as he thought?

His thoughts were interrupted by Max poking his head in the door “Should we order some food? I’m starving” Lando nods “Sure”

“What’s up with you?” Lando shakes his head “Still about Yn and daniel?” “There is a picture from tonight..” Max raised an eyebrow as lando picks up his phone and shows it to max.

Max’s fists clench at his sides and he has to restrain himself from a sarcastic comment “Oh”

“Why would she lie? I mean, she could’ve told me! I’d rather know from her than the internet” “I’m sure she’ll explain.” “I hope.” “Let’s order food and get your mind off a bit.”

-

You had woken up with a raging headache. You tried to sit up, which didn’t work. You look up and see Daniel’s sleeping face. You feel his arms still wrapped around you and pause. Why in gods name are you in this position?

You gently lift his arms and slip out of his arms. You get into the guest bedroom and put your phone down to charge. While your phone was charging, you got some ibuprofen, water and set some down on the couch table in front of sleeping Daniel.

Your phone finally turns on. You’re horrified when you see missed calls from your mom, and texts from various people. You check your moms messages first and freeze again. When did that happen? You on Daniel’s- The fall.

Oh great.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and try calling your brother. It was around midnight in the uk so you weren’t sure he was going to pick up.

“Yn?” “Lando! Oh thank god. Thought you might be sleeping” “no, i’m not. I can’t sleep actually” You hesitate “The picture-“ “I don’t wanna hear it. Why would you lie to me?” “Lando-“

“no. you go and say you’re friends and that’s what I see? Who are you trying to fool here?” “We are just friends!” “sure as hell doesn’t look like it”

“Lando. We were drunk. I was pushed and landed there” “Sure. Well, good to know you’re okay. I’m going to bed.” “Lando please” The line goes dead and you sigh. Great.

You go and call your mother, who was a bit more understanding but still didn’t quite believe the story you told her.

A knock on the door startled you “yeah?” Daniel slowly opened the door “You okay?” You nod “Headache is getting better. Did you take your ibuprofen?” He nods “So..there’s-“ “A picture yeah. Mom and lando already ripped me one.” He sighed and sat down next to you on the bed.

“It is so out of context! This is really annoying.” He nods again and looks at his hands. You stand up “I’m gonna go and eat something. You coming?” “Yeah”

This time, the kitchen was silent. Neither of you knew what to say after last night.

-

“So when is he supposed to be here?” You ask Daniel as you put on your hiking shoes “Any minute. Oscars quite on point when he’s supposed to be there.” In that moment the doorbell rang.

Oscar stood there, smiling softly “Good morning you two! How have you slept?” You roll your eyes “Fine. We really shouldn’t have had that many drinks tho” Oscar chuckled “Yeah I saw. What did Lando say?”

You three make your way downstairs “He wasn’t mad about the sitting in his lap thing at all. He thought I was lying tho when I told him we’re just friends, which isn’t a lie. We’re really not together. Nothing.” You say defeated.

“I’m sure he’ll calm down and you’ll get to talk to him.” You nod “I hope. I really didn’t lie to him” Oscar pats you on the back “It’ll be alright. He’s bark no bite”

Daniel laughs “That’s what i said too! He couldn’t be mad at you forever even if he tried. He loves you way to much” Oscar nods in agreement “He’s always talking about you. Sometimes I feel like I know you better than Lando” You chuckle at that.

“Ill text him once we get back”

-

yn

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri, danielriccardo and 926.467 others

yn when in australia ☀️

*tagged oscarpiastri / danielriccardo*

oscarpiastri my hair oh god

yn I loved it 😂

danielriccardo yeah, i’m sure lily loved it too 😂

oscarpiastri I hate you both

yn 🧡

danielriccardo never going on a hike with you ever again

yn why? I made it to the end

oscarpiastri after laying on the floor and refusing to get up because you know who is ignoring your messages

yn now that is mean

danielriccardo no, just the truth

user Is lando ignoring yn??

user I would too if my sister would have something going on with my friend

user we don’t even know if they do

user have you not seen the pictures??

user and? you need to chill out. not every woman who has a guy as friend wants to date him

*liked by yn*

user see? she even liked the comment.

user the difference between daniel and oscar 😭

user daniel is so boyfriend coded

-

Daniel closed the trunk and made his way to the driver seat. You stare out of the window. Neither of you have actively acknowledged what had happened the night before. The hike with oscar took your mind off it all a bit but you were sure. You had to get to lando before it all gets to his head.

The ride to the airport was quiet. Only as you finally made it and Daniel got your stuff out of the trunk, he finally looked at you.

“Here” “Thank you” “I’ll bring you to your gate” You nod and you both walk in silence. It wasn’t as comfortable as it had been a few days ago.

As you arrived at your gate, you hug him. You stay like that for a few moments before you pulled away.

“yn?” “Daniel” He looks at you a bit nervous “We’re good, right?” You smile softly “Yeah, we’re good. I’ll text you when I land.” He nods “Have a good flight” You wave at him as you leave.

caption: Home sweet home 🇲🇨❤️

franciscagomez weren’t you supposed to be back in like 5 days?

yn lando is ignoring me because of the picture. There’s more to that.

oh..hope you guys figure it out. Gossip sesh w alex soon?

yn 100%

-

Max got a bit mean, oops. Let’s see what she’ll do and what Lando does next 👀

I’ll try posting every 1-2 days. I don’t do tag lists btw

[corkinavoid]

Obsessed With You by Cosmicandy

Theater gothic/Phantom of the opera

(For some horrific reason I couldn't think of a trope)

DPxDC Phantom in the Opera

9/2 sat

Went to Gotham City Opera to see Eugene Onegin with B & Dames. The performance sucked ass (as modern takes on classics usually do), but during Tatyana's aria, some tech guy dropped a rubber chicken from catwalks right on stage. I bet it was on purpose since the lead's voice sounded much similar to the sound that chicken made. Wish I could shake the dude's hand, that was truly the crescendo of the whole scene.

15/2 sun

Came by GCO on the way to WE. Had some time to spare, so decided to go in and find the rubber chicken guy to thank him for the laugh last week. Thought he might appreciate the positive feedback since he was defo yelled at for the stunt. Turns out everyone blames it on a 'ghost'. Using 'Phantom of the Opera' as a cover story is poor taste, in my opinion, but on the other hand, it worked, and who am I to judge.

17/2 mon

Got curious and pulled up the records of GCO employees. No one matches the guy I've seen on the catwalks.

18/2 tue

Blackmailed Damian into drawing the guy. No match through the face recognition program. Should have expected that, really; the one cute guy with a sense of humor I meet (or see, actually), and he doesn't exist.

20/2 thur

Can't stop thinking about the rubber chicken guy. Might have to go back to GCO and ask about the whole ghostly rumor. Last time, no one bat an eye at the 'ghost' excuse, now that I think about it. Has it happened before? Is it a go-to explanation for any prank no one wants to take credit for?

26/2 wed

Visited GCO at night. Seen the guy, but the cam footage came back corrupted when checked downstairs. So maybe the fact that his hair was floating and glowing in the dark was not a hallucination.

27/2 thur

Definitely not a hallucination! Good news: got a sample. Bad news: after analysis, the data also came back corrupted. Weird news: the hair keeps glowing even after it's been cut off.

2/3 sun

The guy's name is Danny. Ghost story confirmed. I'm having a crisis.

4/3 tue

I'm not sure if I want to know absolutely everything there is to know about him or I want to forget everything I've already learned. But then, I've already got so far. Might as well commit to the bit?

8/3 sat

Was invited to see La Traviata tomorrow. Can I still call that reconnaissance, or am I in date territory?

10/3 mon

...it was a date. On an entirely unrelated note, Teddy Hyde ruined all my attempts at coming prepared.

18/3 tue

Heard a new rumor among GCO staff members. They suspect the ghost in their opera is having a crush on Red Robin. Not sure where they've got that idea, but it sure took them some time to notice.

19/3 wed

Damian keeps staring at me at dinners. Maybe I should take that portrait of Danny that he did down from the wall over my bed.

22/3 sat

Going on a date today, and this time, it's definitely a date! Feels like I should be having a crisis over dating a ghost, but somehow, I'm only having a crisis over outfit choices.

61/0° gBs

hEy, yoU're keEEpinG a DIary¡ aboUt Me!¡ ThAt"s cuTe FUCK OFF DANNY THIS IS PRIVATE INFORMATION GET OUT heHeheEhe no~

~•~•~•~

The thing is, I loved the song. And I loved the aesthetic. And I had such a goddamn hard time figuring out how to fit them together; I went through at least three different setups before deciding fuck it imma write silly boys being silly and wish for the best.

Dare I say it turned out cute as fuck, even though I still missed the mark on theater gothic aesthetic for the most part. Anyway, have a few pictures for general vibes!

[Just so you know, if you enter 'sex with a ghost' into google, the first few results will be the lyrics to 'Sex with a Ghost' by Terry Hyde, which is why Tim's research has been rather fruitless]

[hanniebaeee]

Clueless: Smitten

Jeongin x fem!reader

Warning: unhinged group chat as always, other than that, nothing!

Genre: friends to lovers, fluffffff

Summary: You and Jeongin go to the same MMA class, and he is absolutely smitten by you. And you two are good friends too. The problem? You treat him like a child, when all he wants is to ask you out. And that's where his unhinged gang enters.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Jeongin wiped the sweat off his brow, giving his opponent a nod after their sparring session, and turned around to see you pulling on your gloves. Your ponytail swayed as you hummed a tune to yourself, and Jeongin swallowed hard.

He did his best to control his impulses (such as the one he had right now to to come over and kiss the hell out of you).

But he was not weak (mostly). He was Yang Jeongin, the future ace of this gym and your soon-to-be love interest - if only he could figure out how to get you to stop patting his head like he's some cute puppy.

“Hey, Innie!” you called out, flashing him a smile that made his knees weak. “Good job!”

He smiled and thanked you, as you came over, and did that one thing that made him want to scream into oblivion. You ruffled his hair with that adoring smile on your face. And it made him feel like a toddler.

As soon as you were out of earshot, Jeongin let out a groan and grabbed his phone. He knew what this would lead to. Obviously. But he needed his brothers.

---

Jeongin: Ok. I'm gonna cry.

Chan: Aren't you at class??

Jeongin: She did it again.

Jeongin: She ruffled my hair. AGAIN.

Hyunjin: LOLLLLLLL

Jeongin: Shut up. I’m serious.

Felix: Omg. Is this the MMA girl?

Jeongin: YES. I can't understand why she treats me like a damn child.

Minho: Because you act like one?

Jeongin: YAH. I need a plan to make her see me as a MAN.

Jisung: Bro, just spar with her and like…accidentally tear your shirt or something. Girls love muscles.

Hyunjin: You do not have the muscles for that to work.

Jeongin: HYUNJIN.

Hyunjin: I’m just saying 🤷‍♂️

Felix: Invite her to dinner! Like, after practice? Nothing says “boyfriend material” like a home-cooked meal.

Seungmin: Cooking takes time. Which he doesn't have. He’s so obviously in the friend zone. He needs something that works fast.

Chan: You’re all missing the point here. Jeongin, be honest. Do you flirt with her?

Jeongin: I TRIED.

Jeongin: I told her she looked good in her gloves once. She said thanks and told me where to buy the same pair.

Minho: Wow. That’s rough.

Hyunjin: Okay, new idea.

Hyunjin: Go alpha on her. Next time you spar, pin her down. Like real close. Look her in the eyes and growl something like, “You’re not getting away from me this time.”

---

Jeongin rolled his eyes. Here we go.

---

Jeongin: That's crazy.

Jisung: No, wait, Hyunjin’s onto something. Girls LOVE dominance.

Chan: Or, you know, you could try talking to her like an adult.

Jeongin: I’m trying, hyung, but every time I look at her, my brain short-circuits.

Felix: Omg wait. This is perfect. You could do the classic “let me fix your form” move.

Felix: Stand behind her, adjust her stance, hands on her hips. It’s foolproof.

Seungmin: It’s not foolproof. He’ll trip over his words and fall on his face.

Jeongin: Oh my God.

Changbin: No, no, I’ve got it. Show up outside her place with some flowers and confess.

Hyunjin: Or better yet, let’s sign you up for a fight. Invite her to watch. Show her you’re tough.

Minho: He’ll get punched once and she’ll call an ambulance.

Jeongin: WHY DO I EVEN ASK YOU PEOPLE.

The next morning, Jeongin walked into the gym with a nervous buzz, the ideas his brothers had fired at him the night before poking at his brain.

Jisung: Bro. Let me paint you a picture.

Jisung: You’re sparring. She throws a punch. You dodge.

Jisung: Grab her wrist, pull her in close, whisper, “Is that all you’ve got?” Then SMIRK.

Jeongin: Why would I smirk???

Jisung: Because it’s HOT.

Minho: Creepy. Definitely creepy.

Hyunjin: No, he needs to go bolder.

Hyunjin: After sparring, pin her against the wall in the locker room. Close the space, and say, “You drive me insane, you know that?”

Chan: Please do NOT harass her in the locker room.

Felix: Yeah, don’t listen to Hyunjin. What you should do is compliment her strength. Like, “Wow, you’re so strong and gorgeous.”

Seungmin: That’s so cringey. She’ll laugh in his face.

Felix: Okay, why don't you come up with some genius ideas then?!

Changbin: No, listen to me. Women love confidence. Next time you walk in, wink at her. Just a subtle one. She’ll notice.

Jeongin: If I wink at her, she’ll think I have something in my eye.

Jisung: Then STARE at her. Give her those bedroom eyes.

Jeongin: I don’t even know what that means.

Hyunjin: Oh my god. This is so easy. After practice, challenge her to a one-on-one sparring match. Get sweaty. Let her feel your power. And if you win, you say, “Winner gets a kiss.”

Chan: She’ll knock him out first.

Minho: Honestly, I’d pay to see that.

Jeongin: I will block you all.

Hyunjin: NO YOU WON’T. You love us.

---

Jeongin was standing in the gym’s parking lot after his class, trying to call Chan to come pick him up, when he saw you approaching him. You were smiling, your bag on your shoulder, your hair, that's usually in a ponytail, now left open.

“Hey, Jeongin,” you said, your voice light and teasing as usual. “Nice work today. You’re really improving.”

He stuttered a thank you, and smiled at you nervously, his cheeks heating up.

And then it happened.

You reached out, ruffled his hair affectionately, and grinned. “Such a good boy.”

Jeongin froze. His brain short-circuited. Good boy?!

He could literally hear his brothers screaming in his head.

“Say something,” Minho’s voice mocked.

“Pin her!” Hyunjin roared.

“WINK, YOU COWARD!” Jisung howled.

Instead, Jeongin stood there like a statue.

“Innie?” you tilted your head, eyes soft with concern. “You okay?”

That snapped him out of it.

“Y-yeah! Totally fine!” He cleared his throat. This was it. This was his chance to say something smooth.

“Uh…you’re…really so strong and…so gorgeous?”

The moment the words left his mouth, he wanted to die.

You blinked at him. And then, to his utter shock, you laughed - a bright, genuine laugh that made his heart do a somersault.

“Well, thanks, Innie. You’re not so bad yourself.”

As you waved goodbye and walked off, Jeongin leaned against a car, face in his hands.

---

Jeongin: I HATE YOU ALL.

Chan: Ok calm down. What happened?

Jeongin: I TRIED FELIX’S LINE.

Jeongin: SHE LAUGHED AT ME.

Felix: Wait, was it a good laugh or a bad laugh?

Jeongin: HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!

Hyunjin: LOL

Changbin: Did you at least wink?

Jeongin: NO.

Jisung: Bro. Amateur move.

Seungmin: Probably should’ve gone with the “winner gets a kiss” idea.

Jeongin: I’M NOT DOING THAT.

Minho: You’re hopeless.

Chan: Guys, come on. Jeongin, did she seem like she was into it?

Jeongin: She called me a ‘good boy’.

Hyunjin: RIP.

Felix: Don’t give up! She laughed. That’s good!

Minho: Yeah, she’s laughing because she thinks he’s a puppy.

Felix: Puppies can grow into wolves, bro.

Jeongin: You’re all insane.

Changbin: Hey, wolves mate for life. Just saying.

Jeongin groaned, shutting his phone. If this was the kind of help he was getting, he might as well wing it.

Jeongin lay sprawled on his bed, phone in hand, mind racing with thoughts of you. He had officially entered what Jisung would call his ‘simp phase’. Your Instagram page was open, each photo worse than the last - worse because it made him fall harder.

There was one of you holding a tray of cookies, grinning. Another of you proudly presenting a painting up to the camera. The cat one nearly killed him - you were snuggled up with your orange tabby, its paw on your nose as you laughed.

And there was one with the MMA team - you had your arm looped with his in this one, your head tilted slightly towards him. It was a group photo, but that's all he could see. the two of you.

“I love her,” he whispered to himself, then immediately groaned into his pillow. “Oh my god, I love her!!”

---

Jeongin: Guys.

Jeongin: I’m in love with her.

Chan: We know.

Hyunjin: Wait, did you just figure that out?

Jeongin: No, but it’s hitting me all over again. I’m looking at her Instagram.

Jisung: Omg, show us.

Jeongin: No way.

Minho: Wow. Stalking her Insta and gatekeeping? Bold of you.

Jeongin: Shut up. She’s perfect. She bakes. She paints. She loves cats.

Minho: Cats? Suddenly she's a lot more interesting.

Jisung: Innie, DM her something flirty.

Jeongin: That’s so cringey I might die.

Chan: You guys are going to ruin his life.

Hyunjin: He needs to grow a spine. Just do it, Jeongin. Be bold.

Felix: OR…

Felix: Next time she posts something cute, comment something sweet. Like, “You’re so talented.” Compliment her! Girls love compliments.

Seungmin: That’s decent advice.

Jeongin: I can’t do that. She’ll think I’m obsessed.

Minho: You are obsessed.

Jisung: Or… Post a thirst trap. Let her know you’re hot too.

Jeongin: A thirst trap?! Like what?

Jisung: I dunno. Shirtless mirror selfie? Women eat that up.

Changbin: You don’t have enough abs for that.

Jeongin: I DO! STOP ATTACKING ME.

---

The boys were no help, as usual. Jeongin flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He was doomed.

But then, as he refreshed your page, he saw it - a new post.

It was you and your cat again, this time with a caption that read: "My goodest boy 🐾."

Jeongin stared at it. Good boy. Again. The word that haunted his every waking moment. And yet, when you used it like this, he kind of wanted to melt.

He felt his thumb hovering over the like button. His mind raced.

“Cute cat!” No, too boring.

“You’re adorable.” No, too forward.

“Can I be your good boy?” Oh god, Hyunjin was invading his thoughts.

He slapped his phone face-down on the bed.

He couldn’t DM you. He couldn’t comment. What he needed was a real plan to show you he wasn’t just the kid you patted on the head.

---

Hyunjin: New plan. Jeongin, buy her flowers. Deliver them to her home.

Jeongin: That’s not the worst idea.

Jisung: But make it sexy. Like, walk in all sexy and say, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, so I had to bring you these.”

Jeongin: YOU WANT ME TO DIE.

Felix: Wait! What if you bake her something? She likes baking, right? It’s cute and romantic.

Jeongin: I don’t know how to bake.

Chan: That’s what YouTube is for.

Minho: Or Felix can bake and you can pretend you made it.

Changbin: No way, she’d see through that in a second. She’s too smart for Jeongin’s terrible acting.

Hyunjin: He could dedicate a fight to her.

Hyunjin: Win a match and shout, “That was for you, baby!” She’ll love it.

Seungmin: Or hate it.

Jeongin: WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS.

Chan: Please don’t listen to him.

Jeongin: Oh my god, my life 😩

Felix: 😅😅😅

Hyunjin: Look, Jeongin, at the end of the day, just be confident. If you act like a man, she’ll treat you like one.

Jeongin: Easy for you to say. You’re not in love with her.

---

Jeongin tossed his phone aside, heart pounding. He didn’t know what his next move would be, but one thing was certain: he was in too deep to back out now.

The gym that usually buzzed with activity was so quiet now. Jeongin stood across from you in the sparring ring, his gloves up, his nerves barely contained. He couldn’t believe he’d agreed to this.

Sparring with you? His brain was already a mess when you just existed near him. But now, you were in front of him, bouncing lightly on your feet, your focused expression somehow making you look even more stunning.

“Ready, champ?” you teased, your grin playful as you adjusted your gloves.

Jeongin swallowed hard, trying to focus. “Yeah. Ready.”

With a wink, you moved quickly as you circled him. Jeongin mirrored you, trying to keep his stance solid.

It was going fine. Really good actually. You were good with your arms, and he tried to return the pressure, throwing a one-two combo at you. You dodged effortlessly, and then out of nowhere, you hooked your leg behind his, pivoting your hips to execute a perfectly timed trip.

Jeongin yelped as his balance gave out, and suddenly he was on the mat, his back hitting the ground with a loud thud.

“Nice match,” you said, already kneeling over him, one hand braced on the mat beside his head. You leaned over slightly, your face hovering above his. “You okay?”

Jeongin glitched in real time.

It was all too much - your bright eyes, your playful smile, the way a few strands of your hair stuck to your forehead, glistening with sweat. He could feel the heat radiating off your body, and the concern in your voice made his heart stutter.

“I…uh…yeah,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

You tilted your head and asked, “You sure? I hope nothing hurts?”

“Pretty sure I’m dying,” he muttered, half under his breath, closing his eyes and exhaling loudly.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!” he squeaked, his face burning red.

You laughed softly, leaning back to give him space and extending your hand to help him sit up.

“You did well, Innie. Just gotta work on your balance.”

“Yeah,” he said dumbly, staring up at you like you’d hung the stars in the sky.

You tapped his cheek lightly with your gloved hand. “C’mon, champ. Let’s get you up.”

---

Jeongin: I’m never sparring with her again. Ever.

Hyunjin: What happened?

Jisung: Spill.

Jeongin: She KNOCKED ME DOWN.

Felix: Oh nooooo.

Jeongin: And instead of just walking away and letting me die with dignity, she kneels over me.

Hyunjin: Oh, that sounds spicy.

Jeongin: SPICY?! IT WASN’T SPICY. IT WAS HUMILIATING. She hovered over me with her PERFECT FACE and eyelashes and asked if I was okay. Like I’m some helpless little kitten she rescued from a tree.

Felix: Awwww. That’s so cute!

Jeongin: IT’S NOT CUTE, FELIX. IT’S A CRIME AGAINST MY MASCULINITY.

Seungmin: What masculinity?

Jeongin: SEUNGMIN, I SWEAR.

Minho: You’re spiraling again.

Jeongin: I could smell her shampoo. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

Hyunjin: Uh huh

Felix: She thinks you’re cute AND talented.

Jeongin: I WANT HER TO THINK I’M HOT.

Minho: Maybe try not to land on your ass next time.

Jeongin: Wow, great advice, hyung. I feel so much better.

Hyunjin: Bro. She’s into you.

Jeongin: SHE IS NOT.

Changbin: I mean… isn’t that kind of symbolic? Like, you’re already floored by her?

---

If the locker room was soundproof, Jeongin would've screamed so loud.

---

Jisung: Okay, okay, so she thinks you’re adorable. And a child.

Jisung: But if only she knew that you're basically ready to give her a child

Felix: OMG. Jisung, no.

Jeongin: WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?!

Jisung: Am I wrong? Didn’t you literally say the other day, you'd do anything for her, even give her your last name and your firstborn child?

Jeongin: THAT WAS A PRIVATE THOUGHT, YOU GREMLIN.

Chan: What the actual fuck is going on in here?

Jisung: Oh, perfect timing, Chan-hyung! Any tips on the said topic? Since you've already done it.

Chan: Jisung. Please.

Felix: 🤣🤣🤣🤣

Hyunjin: This is so out of control, and for once it's not me 🤣

Jeongin: EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU IS THE WORST.

Chan: Jeongin. Does she actually think you’re a child, or are you projecting because you’re too scared to confess?

Jeongin: I don’t know.

Changbin: Oh, he knows.

Minho: 100% projecting.

Jeongin: I somehow feel like every time she looks at me she sees a ‘cute little brother type’

Hyunjin: Then you need to show her you’re not a little brother type.

Felix: Exactly! Be confident. Flirt back. Stop acting like she’s going to break you.

Jeongin: She already DOES break me!

Hyunjin: BRO. MAN UP. Or I swear I’ll walk up to her and tell her everything.

Jeongin: IF YOU DO THAT, I WILL END YOU.

Chan: Okay, enough. Stop overthinking it. Just talk to her, show her your genuine self.

Jeongin: But what if I mess up again?

Seungmin: You’ve been messing up this whole time, and she still likes you. You’re fine.

Hyunjin: True. She probably thinks your flustered baby deer energy is charming.

Jeongin: Oh my God

Jeongin thought he could pull it off. He thought he could just quietly distance himself from you without anyone noticing. After all, it was for the greater good. If he didn’t interact with you, maybe he could convince himself he didn’t feel anything.

But it didn’t take long for the cracks to show.

He started avoiding eye contact at the gym. No more conversations after practice. He skipped group water breaks and focused on solo drills. He even fled the gym the minute his class was done.

And you noticed. Of course you did.

Because he was literally the highlight of your day. Jeongin was a clueless idiot, because he definitely couldn't see how much you adored him, and this distance was getting to you.

---

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed as you watched Jeongin avoid your gaze for the fifth time that day. Normally, he’d flash you his shy smile or wave when you caught him looking. Now? He was all formal, barely sparing you a glance.

Something was definitely up. You waited patiently for him to come to the locker room. And of course he took the long route just to drag it out.

You huffed in annoyance before calling out, “Jeongin!”

He froze, his water bottle hovering close to his lips as he turned toward you like a deer caught in headlights.

“Oh. Uh, hey, Y/N.”

You tilted your head, scrutinizing him as you asked, “Are you okay? You’ve been weird lately.”

“Weird?” he laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, I’m just… focused on training. That’s all.”

“Focused on training?” You raised an eyebrow. “Ok, so ignoring me is part of that?”

“No! I am not-” His ears turned red as he shook his head no.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice and asked, “Did I do something? Are you upset about the spar-”

“No!” he interrupted, eyes wide. “It’s not you. It’s me.”

You blinked. He did not just say that.

“Did you just hit me with the breakup line?”

Jeongin looked like he wanted to crawl under the mat.

“I…uh…I have to go.” He practically sprinted to the locker room, leaving you standing there, more confused than ever.

---

Jeongin: Guys. I fucked up.

Felix: WHAT DID YOU DO.

Jeongin: She asked if she upset me, and I panicked.

Hyunjin: Wait.

Hyunjin: You did not tell her it’s not her, it’s you.

Jeongin: HOW DO YOU EVEN KNOW THAT.

Changbin: OH MY GOD.

Jisung: LMAO. DID YOU REALLY?

Jeongin: I panicked!

Minho: This is officially the funniest thing you’ve ever done.

Chan: Okay, let’s not bully him.

Chan: Jeongin, why are you avoiding her?

Jeongin: Because I don’t want to make things worse. She already treats me like a kid. If I keep acting like an idiot around her, she’s never going to take me seriously.

Seungmin: Avoiding her isn’t going to make her take you seriously either. It’s just going to make her think you’re mad at her.

Jeongin: But what if I do something stupid?

Hyunjin: Bro. You already did the stupid thing. The bar’s on the floor.

Felix: Seriously, just TALK to her.

Jeongin: You say that like it’s easy.

Jisung: Because it is easy. Walk up to her, say, “I think you’re amazing and also I have a huge crush on you. Wanna kiss?” Done.

Jeongin: I’d rather eat a dumbbell.

Minho: Please do.

Felix: Okay, but seriously, Jeongin, if you don’t fix this, she’s going to think you hate her.

Chan: And it's gonna hurt you more than it hurts her. Or whatever.

Jeongin: Fine. I’ll talk to her. But if I embarrass myself, I’m never speaking to any of you again.

Minho: Can’t wait.

---

The next day, you were warming up when Jeongin approached you hesitantly. You glanced up, surprised.

“Oh, look who finally decided to stop ghosting me.” you said, and it broke his heart to see that you weren't giving him your usual smile.

He winced as he said, “I wasn’t ghosting you.”

“Sure felt like it.” You said, crossing your arms. “So what’s going on? And don’t give me the ‘training focus’ excuse again.”

Jeongin sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been… overthinking some stuff.”

“Stuff?” You tilted your head, waiting for him to elaborate.

“You,” he blurted out, then immediately regretted it.

“Me?”

“Yes. I mean -” He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Look, Y/N. You’re amazing, okay? You’re smart and funny and strong, and you make me feel like an idiot half the time because I don’t know how to act normal around you.”

You blinked, taken aback. “Jeongin -”

“I like you,” he interrupted, words tumbling out in a rush. “A lot. And I know you probably think I’m just some kid, but I’ve been trying so hard to prove I’m not. And it’s probably really obvious now, and I’m sorry if I’ve been weird or -”

“Jeongin.” You stepped closer, cutting him off.

“Sorry.” He looked at you, panic written all over his face.

But you smiled, your heart softening. He was so damn adorable, you wanted to bite him. To say the least.

“You don’t have to prove anything. I never thought of you as just some kid.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. And for the record…” You reached out, ruffling his hair with a grin. “I like you too, Innie.”

Jeongin covered his face with his hands, whining, but he couldn’t stop the huge grin that spread across his face.

"C'mere you," you said, and Jeongin surged into your arms, letting you hug him tight.

---

Jeongin: SHE LIKES ME BACK. OMG. I'M HYPERVENTILATING.

Hyunjin: NO WAY.

Felix: OMG!!! YESS!!!

Jisung: What did you say? How did it happen? Give us details!

Jeongin: I just told her I like her. She said she likes me too.

Chan: See? Told you honesty works.

Hyunjin: So when’s the wedding?

Minho: Well, that's what you get for being such a good boy.

Jeongin: OH MY GOD.

Seungmin: Congrats bro

Changbin: Go celebrate. Go get outta here!

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @eastjonowhere @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan

[avelera]

I've been thinking about this meta and laughing actually because I want to reiterate, the foundations of Jayce's Season 1 plotline was clearly a typical morality play where he has an angel and a devil on his shoulder and he's tugged between politics and science.

To briefly sum up the meta above, what subverted this very reductive plotline was making Mel not evil (actually, not evil at all, just her own person with her own goals which are indeed mostly altruistic) and to make the motivations for Jayce 90% of the time to be helping Viktor and their work.

I think originally, the plot was supposed to be "Viktor and Science are Good" "Mel and Politics are Bad" "Jayce is Seduced by Bad Politics and Sexy Mel Away from the True Value of Brotherly Friendship and Science" with him only coming back too late to his Good Science Bro and realized his Evil Politics and Girlfriend Mistakes after Viktor has tragically decided to go full Machine Herald after Jayce's abandonment.

Now in this simplistic version, this failed morality play on Jayce's part is a Tragedy because he realizes his mistake and returns to his bro after it is Too Late and now he must use the lessons he learned to Save His Bro from Evil (that Jayce caused with his initial abandonment).

Then a bunch of other better storytelling drafts happened and we got the plot of Arcane as we saw it BUT

BUT

The thing that is absolutely cracking me up about this proposed timeline of storytelling decisions and where it got us (which I firmly believe to be true) is that it led to the absolute gayest take on Jayce & Viktor ever like, seriously, by fleshing out this story the way they did, it went from "Save the bro you tragically abandoned" to "Save the man you did EVERYTHING for because only YOU can rescue your soulmate across all timelines, all possibilities, and you must give more than you did before, you must give everything of yourself to this cause and you do so gladly, in the most romantic gesture of all time." Like...

Ok, I'm gonna say something potentially unpopular here but I don't really blame Christian Linke for seeing Jayce/Viktor as brotherly, because that's what like 99% of straight male showrunners see when they write the gayest relationship of all time and given what we know of what Jayce & Viktor looked like in the earliest drafts, it probably was more brotherly in the earliest versions that he had the most influence on before he handed it over to better writers and artists.

(I speculate the reason for male showrunners not getting how romantic the "friendship" stories they're writing are is because for many cis straight male creators, "brotherhood" as defined by "not blood relatives but more than a best friend" with another man is the closest relationship you can have, while romance is just a relationship with the best sex you'll ever have, maybe, or just the woman you're "supposed" to settle down with, whereas for women and queer writers, they tend to write the love interest as being your most important person, not a blood relative but more than a best friend, and this is where the wire gets crossed because these cis male writers don't realize they've written a catnip romance for everyone who isn't them ANYWAY I DIGRESS).

SO, this re-write of Jayce's reductive morality-play plot where Science Bro Good and Politics Girlfriend Bad to make Mel and Viktor more nuanced and complicated and not really dragging Jayce into two directions because he's doing everything for Viktor 1) makes all his motivations realign to be just about Viktor which is insanely romantic. But 2!!!

2) In the original morality play plot with Science Bro Good, Jayce returning to Viktor in S2 but it's Too Late is just tragic but it could still just be a story of betraying a friend and your own principles.

But in the revised arc, where Jayce did everything in S1 for Viktor, including overthrowing the government, but in S2 realizing that he wasn't helping Viktor in the way Viktor wanted, that he should have instead stayed in the lab to help Viktor instead of trying to save him elsewhere, and then re-writing Jayce's entire life purpose in S2 to be about saving Viktor's soul and oh, also the world I guess, goes from being "Reductive Jayce making Amends for Leaving his Science Bro for Evil Politics Girlfriend" and instead makes it, "Man who gave everything for his best friend but it wasn't enough to save him then course corrects and figures out how to give his best friend what he REALLY needs, but only does so tragically too late, and must then go on a Tragic Quest, tear himself down to shreds and build himself back up again to become a vessel of but one singular goal, which is the salvation of his Science Bro's SOUL, rescuing him from a fate of loneliness worse than death, because in all timelines, in all possibilities, only HE can rescue his Science Bro from himself oh, and also the world, I guess." And it just becomes the most insanely romantic story of all time.

And I can see how in the foundations of the old story, this would be a much more "friend-coded" story for Jayce and Viktor but because of all the nuanced writing levels that were added later, it just got 10x and then 100x more romantic until it's the most undeniably, mind-breakingly romantic story ever of literally saving one another's lives and souls over and over again across the multiverse because only you can save each other, you are doomed without one another, and yeah, if originally you just wanted to show Jayce being torn between his evil politics girlfriend and his good science bro buddy and then spending act 2 redeeming himself for his act 1 temptations then yeah, I can see how as CL or other show runners you might not have realized what you were cooking until after it came out of the oven!

I feel like so much of the silly Mel vs. Viktor discourse when it comes to Jayce would be resolved if people realized that the plot was originally conceived as a basic morality play arc with Mel as the devil on one shoulder and Viktor as the angel on the other for Jayce.

The bones of Jayce's plot in Season 1 is of a good-guy scientist who is tempted by the allure of politics and fame, with a beautiful femme fatale politician seducing him towards power on the one side and his humble 'brotherly' relationship with his scientific partner representing Jayce's 'true self' that he is drawn away from by her machinations. It's a very, very old school, reductive, male-centric plot that literally boils down to "bros before hos".

It even makes sense for S2, with Jayce overcoming his corruption arc in S1 and returning to his "bro" only for his prior sins to tragically launch Viktor's own corruption arc as the Machine Herald only after Jayce has learned his lesson.

And then the Arcane writers and Fortiche subverted this plot. Here's how:

They made all three characters multi-faceted adults with their own agency and motivations. None of them are puppets for the others or, if they are, the time one character spends controlling the choices of another becomes part of that controlling character's sins that must be atoned for (namely, Jayce resurrecting Viktor against his will, Mel manipulating Jayce against his will, Viktor trying to control everyone against their will).

For example, they made Mel complex and interesting and a good person in her own right. Yes, she still has elements of the beauty, danger, and allure of a femme fatale but by making her her own person with her own plot and motives, none of which are malicious (at most, they are self-serving until she changes her views on Hextech and how best to bring peace to Piltover).

Jayce is still torn between Mel and Viktor but he also fully has his own agency, as many are quick to point out. He is often dragged around by the manipulations of others too (Mel yes, but also Marcus, Vi, and Ambessa influence Jayce into bad decisions). Part of his arc is learning how to be true to himself and his own goals after his time spent in the Anomaly future. But, even there, you can still see the bones of the original morality play arc, where the "Good Ending" for Jayce is to go back to his lab partner "bro" and bring both of them back to being true to themselves.

Viktor isn't just helplessly standing by while Jayce ignores him. In fact, Viktor often deliberately cuts Jayce out of his experiments. He doesn't tell Jayce about the Shimmer, or the self-experimentation, or even about Sky's death until after Jayce resurrects him with the Hexcore. Viktor has agency, he has his own goals, and while he frequently chastises Jayce for abandoning their shared dream in what I believe is another hint of the bones of the original morality play plot, he also has his own flaws and his own journey to go on independent of Jayce.

Much of the silly bickering I see between Mel and Viktor fans comes down to who "deserves" Jayce, who is "erased" by not ending up with Jayce, whether or not Mel is manipulative, or if Viktor thinks about Jayce at all when he's busy pursuing his own goals, and I think all of those are absurd arguments.

Mel is manipulative, it is part of the bones of the morality play plot that has her as the antagonist, but they made her so much more than that, that I think it's an active disservice to the character they made to reduce her story down to whether or not she ends up with Jayce. I get why people get hung up on it, because I do believe it's the core of the first draft of her plot, but the richness of her character comes from moving beyond that. Indeed, in S2, the least important part of her character is her relationship to Jayce. She has her own stuff going on.

Whether or not Jayce is a victim of manipulation or whether or not he pursued power for its own sake is also showing an understanding of the basic, core plot they built the richness on top of. Jayce was seduced by Mel's manipulation and he did grasp after power, but they enriched his character by making his goals more noble and more tragic. He's always trying to fight for Viktor, for Hextech, for their shared dream, and for making Piltover a safer, better place, but how he goes about it often makes matters worse until he learns, grows, gains wisdom, and makes terrible mistakes he arguably can never make up for fully.

Jayce also isn't fully a victim of Mel's manipulation, just as she is not fully a mastermind able to control his every move. He breaks away at a certain point and makes his own (poor) decisions in ways that frighten her and make her regret her actions, until he grows enough to recognize the wisdom in her advice (though he later grows again and recognizes the original manipulation, which leads to him breaking up with her in 2.08 because Mel's sins are still there and they are the reason she and Jayce don't have hope for a future together once he realizes he can't trust her because actions have consequences in Arcane).

As for Viktor, he doesn't like Mel. In that, I think we again see the original morality play roots, with him as the angel on the shoulder disliking the devil who is seducing Jayce. But they enriched his character by having him respect Jayce's choices even as he may have privately disapproved of them, and to have his own arc to worry about with his failing health, and his other flaws like intellectual tunnel vision/naiveté, and his tendency to self-isolate in the face of his terminal illness. He has his own stuff going on.

They also subverted the morality play arc to a certain extent by having Viktor stop being the angel in S2. Indeed, the framework more or less falls away entirely and it become Jayce trying to save Viktor from himself, and from Jayce's own mistakes of not destroying the Hexcore, while Mel is busy with her own story of politics, war, and magic.

Anyway, I hope some of this makes sense. But I think if people just recognized that yes, there are elements of Mel as a bad guy in the fabric of the story, of a story where Jayce is in a balancing act between his demons and his angels, but that good writers came in and layered real people over these simplistic plots, made it so Mel's story isn't just about Jayce, Jayce's story isn't just about getting corrupted by a femme fatale, and Viktor's story isn't just about being abandoned by Jayce, and thus elevated the trope beyond its tired-out, simplistic roots, there'd be a lot less wank.

[justanothermemestrider]

Nothing Ever Stays Dead - Part 3

Okay.

Is this part basically that one scene from Arcane with Jinx and the flare? Yes. Yes it is.

Did I listen to Guns for Hire by Woodkid nonstop while I was writing this? Yes. Yes I did.

Am I ashamed? Absolutely not XD

Thank you guys so so much for the support this fic has received so far. I've been having an absolute blast writing it, and that's largely because I know you guys have been enjoying it. So thank you :)

As usual, there is violence, angst and general 40kness under the cut, as well as hella lore inaccuracies both for the sake of the story and bc research is hard (I did try, though lol). Apologies for any spelling and grammar mistakes.

Thanks so much for reading and I sincerely hope you enjoy!

"Down there. You see them?"

Ellicent followed Gadriel's outstretched hand with the optical scope. She adjusted the knob on its top, focusing the lens on where his index finger was pointing.

Her eyes widened. "No way."

"Oh yes, " Gadriel chuckled. "I've been following them all day."

Ellicent lowered the scope to look at him. "The hell are a bunch of topsiders doing all the way down here?"

Gadriel shrugged. "Same reason people go to zoos, maybe?"

Ellicent rolled her eyes. "Har har." Crouching on the edge of the rooftop now, she put her eye to the scope once again. The tourists looked like Mid-hivers: merchants, maybe, other some other kind of artisan-type. No where near as wealthy as those who lived in the spires, but compared to what those in the Underhive had, they might as well have been. There are two groups of them- roughly three in each. They're walking on opposite sides of the street, as if pretending not to know each other. With their real-cotton clothing and long embroidered coats, however, they're more than conspicuous anyway.

"Seriously though," Ellicent said. "What are they doing down here?"

"If I had to guess? They want to hit the marketplace."

"You mean the black marketplace?"

"Guess there are still things topside doesn't have that we do."

"Yeah. It's nothing good, though"

"Who knows, then," Gadriel said. From his tone, Ellicent could tell that he had no interest in discussing the topic any further. She rose to her feet, folding the scope up and handing it back to him. "So. What's the plan?"

"Simple pickpocket, I think. Anything too loud, and we risk alerting the Arbites."

Ellicent nodded. "One group each?"

"Yeah. But we'll stagger it. Make it look random, lest they think we're working together."

"Gotcha."

Gadriel smiled. "One other thing." He stuffed the scope in his trouser pocket, then opened his jacket and reached into the pocket sewn into the lining. From it, he extracted two, metal objects. Ellicent thought they looked a little like pistols. She looked at him sharply. "What are those?"

Reading the expression on her face, Gadriel shook his head. "Don't worry. They're only flare guns."

"Flare guns?"

"Yeah. You know, the things soldiers use to signal each other with? They shoot a big bright light into the-"

"I know what a flare gun is, Gadriel," Ellicent said. "What I don't know is where the hell you got two of them from."

"Same place I got the scope from."

"Which was?"

Gadriel chewed the inside of his cheek- the way he always does when he's thinking. "Do you remember... uh... you remember that Arbites supply drop that landed the other day... "

Ellicent's mouth fell open. "You didn't."

He shrugged. The non chalance of the gesture absolutely infuriated her. "Gadriel!" she hissed.

"I know I know," he said. "And before you say it, yes, if the Ultramarines were to somehow hear about it, they'd never let me join."

Ellicent hadn't been about to say that. Now that she'd heard it, though, she couldn't resist. "If that's the case, maybe I should tell them," she muttered.

Anger flushed Gadriel's face. But after a second or two, it fades into resignation. "Ellie," he said. "Can we please not do this now?"

Ellicent clenched her jaw. On her tongue, a retort waited impatiently to be spoken. But in the end, she swallowed it. As grated as she was feeling, she also empathised with him: she didn't want to do this right now, either.

Gingerly, she reached towards him, plucking one of the flare guns from his hands. She held it up to her face, rotating it in her grip as she examined it "What have you got these for, anyway?" she asked. "If their not good for sticking up the top siders, why do we need them?"

A silent "Thank you" flashed across Gadriel's face. Then, holding up the remaining flare gun, he said. "I thought we could use them as warning signals. You know for when we're not together. If you were to find yourself alone anywhere and you needed me, you just fire it in the air, and I'll come find you. I'll do the same with mine."

Ellicent tested the device's grip in her hand. Felt just like holding a pistol, except lighter. "Are they loaded?"

"Yes. But I wasn't able to get any other shells for them. The only one they've got is the one in the chamber."

Ellicent smirked. "So it's only a one use thing?"

Gadriel's cheeks coloured slightly. "It's better than nothing," he replied.

Ellicent rolled her eyes again. But, nevertheless, she decided to humour him and pocketed the device anyway. "Was there anything else?" she asked him.

Gadriel shook his head. "No."

"Time we earn ourselves dinner, then. I'll hit my topsiders first?"

"As always."

Ellicent gave him a smile. Stepping in close, she wrapped her arms around his neck while he wrapped his around her waist. Craning her neck slightly, she kissed him hard on the lips. "Be careful," she whispered.

"You too," he said.

Without another word, they parted ways; Ellicent scampering down to the street while Gadriel followed from the rooftops.

* * * * ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That little job had gone off without a hitch. Ellicent had chosen the mid-hiver in the middle of her group: a fat man in a three piece suit and a ridiculously large moustache. She'd pretended to be a beggar, stumbling out of an alleyway and shoulder checking the old man. As he struggled and swore, trying to shove her off him, Ellicent had swiped a purse from the inside of his coat. There'd been an entire handful of gold in there. Between that and what Gadriel had scored from his group, and they'd been fed for two whole weeks.

She hadn't need her flare that day. And for all the days that followed, she hadn't needed it either. But she'd kept it anyway. Even after Gadriel left and never came back. Even after her life became the hell scape that it is now, and the last of her hope had shrivelled and died, she'd kept it. Just in case. Just in case she needed it.

Just in case she needed him.

Just like the day he had given it to her, Ellicent stands on the edge of a rooftop. She doesn't know what sort of building this is: only that it's the tallest she could find in the time she had. Her gauss cannon was heavy on her shoulder- the alien gun was almost as big as her- but she couldn't not leave without it. Even if Gadriel didn't come, Severus almost certainly would. He knows about the flare. When he sees it, he'll know what it means, she's trying to do, and he'll want to kill her for it.

It's not worth it, her mind tries to reason. It wasn't even him. You know it wasn't.

That's the thing, though, she argues. I don't know. That's why I've gotta try.

Just in case.

Ellicent clasps the flare gun in both hands. Rests a finger on the trigger. Slowly, almost cautiously, she raises the device above her head.

If you were to ever find yourself alone... just fire it in the air, and I'll come find you.

Anxiety is a serpent in her gut, wet, heavy and slithering. Her throat is dry as sand and as she clutches the flare gun its metal clatters from how much she's trembling.

Just fire it...

... I'll come find you.

Before she has the chance to have a second thought, Ellicent squeezes the trigger.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The flare shines more brightly than any star or ship light. Its smoke is the colour of blood; its light, that of a bleeding heart. It hurts Ellicent's eyes to stare at it, but she can't being herself to look away. Half an hour, it burns for. Feels longer. Like an eternity. Like another fifty years. Hope and despair war within Ellicent's chest as she watches it. She doesn't know which is winning, they're both so evenly matched.

The smoke is the first to dissipate. Shedding layer upon layer until its colour is no longer discernable. The flare hangs on a little longer, spitting and spluttering like a soul clinging onto life. But, eventually, it too runs out of strength. Ellie watches it tumble from the sky, a shrivelled blackened husk of solid ash. The dark of night returns with a vengeance, and all Ellicent is left with is a hazy, silhouetted view of the city's jagged skyline. Tears prick her eyes. Seems the war in her chest finally has a winner.

"Stupid," she whispers. Dropping her arm, she looks at the empty flare gun. Her lip curls with contempt. With all the strength she has left, she hurls the thing off the rooftop. "Stupid!" she shouts after it. The only reply she receives is deafening, sickening silence.

Ellicent covers her face with her hands. Another self-reprimand is already poised on her lips, but when she opens her mouth to voice, the only thing that comes out is a sob.

Stupid girl, she thinks to herself. What were you thinking?

The plating of her necronian hand is freezing against her face. She presses it so hard into her brow, that she reopens the cut that Severus had given her just hours earlier.

It wasn't him. It was never him.

He's gone.

He left you.

He's never coming back.

So consuming is her anguish, that Ellicent doesn't hear the footsteps coming up behind her. Even if she did, though, she wouldn't have reacted. Only person it can be is Severus- if he's going to kill her, she'd rather his face not be the last thing she ever sees.

Then she hears his voice.

"Ellie?"

Ellicent's heart stops dead in her chest. She drops her hands from her face.

It's not him, her thoughts cry. It's not him. It's not him. It's not-

Ellicent turns around.

She has to look up to see his face. He'd always been a little taller than her, but whatever procedure the Astartes use to turn boys into Angels of Death has swollen his body to almost five times its original size. Dust and grime stain his blue armour. The aquillia on his chest is severed down the middle by the particle beam she'd fired at him earlier that same day. The right side of his head is a mottled mess of angry red skin and silver cybernetic studs.

But, just like his voice, his face is just as she remembers.

"Gadriel," she whispers.

His face is a riot of emotion. Shock, disbelief, sadness, joy, everything else in between.

Gadriel walks up to her with hulking steps, heavy enough to shake the roof. They bring Ellicent back to the night's on the roof of his mother's house; how it too, would rattle and shake under his weight. Dropping to one knee, he sets his hands on her shoulders. The ceramite gauntlets they're encased in are cold and heavy.

His expression, though, is anything but.

"Oh, Ellie."

Before Ellicent can speak, he embraces her. Careful not to bruise her on his armour, crouching low enough that her head can reach his neck.

At first, Ellicent doesn't react. She doesn't know how. Her mind is still playing catch up. Trying to process what's happening, what it means, whether or not it's even...

"Is this real?" Her voice is weak and frayed. It feels like her mouth is full of broken glass. "Are you really here?"

Gadriel draws away and slips his thumb under her chin. As gentle as if she were made of porcelain, he tilts her head up so he can look her in the eye.

"Yes," he says softly. "It's me. Gadriel. I'm here. I'm right here."

Ellicent's heart detonates. A fresh wave of sobs rises up in the back of her throat. The first one escapes as something crosses between a whimper and a cry. She throws her arms around his neck. Buries her face in its crook. Breathes in his scent and feels his skin against hers.

It's him. It's really him.

Her sobs return stronger than before; almost enough to knock her off her feet. This time, though, they are not of despair. They are of sheer, unadulterated joy.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Gadriel does not remember the last time he'd been embraced. He doesn't remember the last time he'd given one, either. Astartes do not partake in such displays of affection. Forearm grips and shoulder clasps were common enough, but anything more than that is just simply not done. Such things are for humans- for families, friends and lovers- and Astartes are not human.

That message has been drilled into Gadriel ever since he had joined the Ultramarines; ever since he was eighteen years old. And yet, when he sees Ellie standing on that rooftop- the tears in her eyes, the blood on her brow, the emotion on her face- he wasn't an Astartes anymore. He was a teenager. A boy. Back in the Underhive, on the roof of his mother's slum, staring up at the stars with the girl he loved curled up in his arms. Like his cheek-chewing habit, these are things that his re-education could not stamp out. It may have quietened them, covered them, forced them into the recesses of his thoughts. But they were always there. And while first seeing Ellie had awoken them, the sight of her flare and the sight of her standing before him now brings them to the very forefront of his mind.

Gadriel holds Ellie as tightly as he can without crushing her against his armour. Her tears are hot against his skin. Her arms, both human and robotic, squeeze his neck so tight it actually hurts. But Gadriel couldn't have been happier. He doesn't think he's ever been happier. Not since the last time he had held her; the last time he had been human.

That's it. That was the last time I was embraced.

It had been her...

Gadriel's eyes start to sting. Before the tears can fall, he buries his face into Ellie's hair. But the feel of it, the smell, the memories they both bring flooding back, only chokes him up more.

"I can't believe you're here," he breathes. "I... I thought you were dead."

A shudder runs through Ellie's body. It's difficult to tell, but Gadriel thinks it might be a laugh. "Yeah," she says meekly. "Yeah, I've thought that a few times myself, too."

The quip takes him completely off guard. Despite himself, he lets out a short choked laugh of his own. "I... Throne, Ellie. I can't even..."

"Things changed when you left," she said. The way her voice breaks across the words wrench Gadriel's hearts like nothing he's ever felt before. "I changed."

Drawing away from her slightly, Gadriel frames her cheek with one, enormous hand. Throne, she looks so small. Small and fragile. Nothing like the tough young woman he remembered. "I know, Ellie," he whispers. "I know. But it's not your fault. You did what you had to to survive. I know you did."

Ellie's arms unfurl from his neck and fall to her side. The leather tunic she wears is sleeveless, giving Gadriel a full, unimpeded view of her necronian left arm. The grafting is expert, but untidy. The edge where it attaches to her clavicle, shoulder and chest is ribbed with scar tissue. As her shoulders tremble in time with her sobs, that tissue stretches and flexes, as if they were wires buried underneath her skin.

"Where have you been, Gadriel?" she asks. "You mother and I, we waited for you. We waited and waited, but you never came back."

Gadriel can't bear to look at her. Dropping his gaze to the ground, he winces as a vice closes around his chest. "I'm so sorry, Ellie. I wanted to come back, I promise I did. But..."

His voice trails off. But what? How could he possibly explain it? That he'd been forced to forget her? That his duty had left no room for him to think about anything other than service? That, as part of his transformation, his heart had not only been duplicated, by reprogrammed to beat for the Imperium instead of her?

No. He couldn't say that. Couldn't say any of it. It's not an excuse. Even though they are the truth, they don't justify what he's done. What's happened to her.

Gadriel's tongue turns to sand in his mouth. Without anything to say, any answer to give her, all he can think to do is pull Ellie into his arms again.

She does not return his embrace, this time. It's the most excruciating thing Gadriel has ever felt.

"Sergeant!"

Gadriel freezes. Under his breath, he mutters a curse.

Ellie wrenches away from him with unnatural strength and speed. Her face twists with fear and her hands reach to grasp the gauss cannon hanging from her shoulder. The weapon is too large for her to hold like a rifle, so instead, she holds it like a heavy bolter; down low and aiming from the hip. She points the weapon past Gadriel's right side, at something to his back. But Gadriel already knows what- who- it is.

"Who's he?" Ellie asks.

Steeling himself, Gadriel turns. Titus stands on the other end of the rooftop with his helmet on and his bolter raised. His face is completely hidden behind his visor's permenant glare, but Gadriel knows that whatever expression he's wearing is even fiercer than that.

Eyes never leaving Titus, Gadriel extends a palm towards Ellie. "It's alright," he says gently. "He's a friend."

"He doesn't look like a friend."

"Sergeant!" Titus' voice booms over his vox speakers. "Step away from her now!"

"Titus," Gadriel pleads. "Listen. We can work this out. "

"There is no working with heretics." The lieutenant takes a step forwards. "Get away from her now! I will not ask you again."

"I knew it," Ellie says. "I knew it was too good to be true."

Gadriel whips around. "Ellie-"

"This is a set up!" She steps away from him, levelling her cannon so both he and Titus are now in her sights. Her fingers touch the trigger, and the gaping maw of the alien gun glows a sickly green. "You're not here for me," she hisses. "You're only here for Severus. You're trying to play me!"

"That's not true." Gadriel's voice is thin and desperate. "I couldn't care less about-"

"Watch what you say, Sergeant," Titus warns.

"Damn you, Titus!" Gadriel shouts, throwing the lieutenant a vicious snarl. "Just let me-"

Ellie's shriek cut both space marines off. "Both of you shut up!"

The look in her eye, Gadriel can only describe as wild. Terror, anger, grief, pain, they're all raging within her expression. Twisting her features so terribly that for a second, Gadriel struggles to recognise her.

But he doesn't give up. He won't.

"Ellie, listen to me," he says, striding up to her. Ellie points her weapon at him, but with his forearm Gadriel shoves it to the side. "I'm here for you," he says. "Only you. I don't care about Severus. If I'd known you were here, I'd have abandoned my mission sooner.`

Ellie stares at him with wide, watering eyes. She breathes hard through her mouth. "I..."

"Fire that thing at me if you want, but I'm not going anywhere." As the next words leave his mouth, Gadriel's breath hitches in his throat. "I will not abandon you again."

He reaches for her again, this time to touch her arm. Ellie flinches from him, glaring like she's anticipating an attack, but not before Gadriel's fingertip brushes her shoulder. Startled, she steps away, the grip on her gauss cannon visibly tightening.

Gadriel swallows a mouthful of tears. "Ellie-"

"Did you hear that?"

He blinks at her. "What?"

Ellie shifts her aim away from Gadriel and points her weapon towards the sky. "That noise," she whispers. "Like humming."

Gadriel pauses to listen. She's right. If the night hadn't been so still, he doubts anyone could have heard it; but just beneath the whisper of the moving air, there is, in fact, the a slight, energetic hum. Stranger still, it's a sound Gadriel recognises. From where he isn't sure, but he can't shake the feeling he's heard such a thing before.

"Gadriel!"

He turns at Titus' voice. The lieutenant's visage is unchanged, but his tone is suddenly laced with alarm. "Get out of there, now!"

It's then that Gadriel's mind finally clicks.

The humming... It's the sound of a cloaking device.

Without a second thought, he leaps for Ellie. Grabbing her around the middle and holding her to his chest, shielding her body with his own. The moment he does, hundreds of sharp, heavy projectiles start raining upon them.

The humming sound ceases as the cloaking field disappears. In its place rise the thunder of a spacecraft and the scream of firing weaponry. Gadriel recognises both; not from experience or even from training, but from the mission brief he and his brothers had received just this morning.

"Severus is a known xenos collaborator. Specifically, he has formed some twisted working relationship with a war band of Dark Eldar..."

The thunder is the engine of a combat skiff. The screaming, the sound of shredder weapons unleashing a hellfire of razor-sharp spikes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And part 3 is done babyyyyyyy

Hope you liked it ^^

Part 4 should be up in a couple of days

Till then, stay safe out there kids

Taglist: @solspina @beckyninja @egrets-not-regrets @wolf-feathers12 @jaghatai-khock @lemon-russ @moodymisty @hatsubara-8chan @nereidof40k @yanagikou @fyxestroll @yurihasurunbara @lylakoi @justfreakynothingelse

[hailtheaeon]

WAH WAH

“I don’t need no wah-wah”

Content warnings: angst, heartbreak, frustration, self deprecating thoughts, doubting oneself, kissing, handjobs, nipple play.

Special thanks to @hailthegodsong you’ve been so sweet and kind helping me out on this together. ILY.

You never felt too good in crowds, or with people around. The anxiousness bubbled up in your gut, and sometimes, it could even get to a point where you’d vomit. It was embarrassing really, your best friend could socialize perfectly well. He could dance and flirt and sing and laugh with about anyone, charming everyone in his path while he cleared a line for himself. He was like some sort of sun god, there was a glow about him, he was electric. Electric gold.

And, of course, he managed to sweep you up too. Immediately rushing over to you and plopping down in the seat next to you before getting up clumsily and asking you if he could sit there. You silently nodded, immediately feeling disdain rise inside you. But, when he grinned that perfectly white wide tooth grin, and pulled a perfectly sharpened pencil from his pocket to hand to you, you immediately were smitten. You were convinced no one could hate him.

So, even if you didn’t want to, you accompanied him to a friend’s birthday party, a friend you didn’t know. And you couldn’t help but be shocked when he grabbed your hand firmly and yanked you out of the house, eyes wide, breathing heavy, hands shaky and cold with sweat. You’d never seen him this affected by anything?

His eyes pleaded with you to go, like how so often you’d do the same. And even if you’d wanted to leave from the beginning, you couldn’t help but feel so confused. He absolutely loved parties, it was one of his favorite things. “We’re going?” you tilted your head, lips parted, eyes squinting at his.

He rolled his eyes and huffed out a breath that sounded more like a child’s sulk. He pulled you further, opening the door and shoving you through, you made an audible ‘oof’ at that with a bitter chuckle. “Don’t you want to leave?” he turned the question back at you, not cool. You weren’t going to let him flip shit back into you. “You hate parties, I’m doing you a favor.”

A favor? This was the first time you’d had fun at a party or any social gathering in ages. You’d been the designated driver as always, but you’d managed to chat up a conversation with Dave, Danny’s friend. You didn’t feel the minutes dragging, nor did you have the immediate itch to go home. Why could you never have your fun? It surely felt that way.

You couldn’t help but scoff, eyes widening at his audacity. Yeah, you didn’t like parties, but you also agreed to go with him. In fact, you wanted to, you loved watching him flourish. And he made sure to never leave the room you were in, always at arms length. That was good enough for you. Plus, you’d been catching up. You were actually having a good time. “I was fine, Josh.” You can’t help but spit back. “You’re the one shoving me through the fucking door like you’re moving a couch that’s a little too big.”

He looked equally as frustrated as you at your response to him. He marched down the driveway, letting go of your hand. He dug into his pockets and pulled out his keys for his jeep and clicked it, the jeep making an audible ‘beep’ and its headlights lighting up. You weren’t dumbfounded. What in the fuck happened in the short forty-five minutes you’d been there? You rushed to the car, opening the passenger door than shutting it a little louder than intended.

Josh looked over at you, bottom lip wobbling before his eyes went watery. He gulped, eyes darting away from just a second before they looked back at you. “He was there.” Josh finally spat out, biting his bottom lip so hard he drew blood. He yelped then pulled his teeth away.

“Him?” you were sure you knew who it was, just wanting some sort of confirmation. His eyes darting over, a nod, a gulp, a nod. Fuck, anything would do. Josh had this guy he had fallen for, and he thought the guy did too, the situationship went on for two whole years. Josh, ever the kind man, waited and waited. The man who begged him for sexual favors being the same man to tell Josh that ‘he wasn’t ready’ and ‘he just needed to work through some things’. And even though you knew Josh didn’t believe him, he’d wait. Because maybe, just maybe he was wrong. But after two years Josh got impatient and snapped, asking why they wouldn’t date. And at that, the same guy who would butter him up to get what he wanted blocked Josh right when he texted him that. Apparently he had no use for Josh anymore, and that killed him. Josh felt weak, unlovable, and most importantly, used.

And used he was. You were disgusted someone could do that to him. No one deserved that, Josh being prime example. And as you asked that, there was a sense of hesitation before he nodded. You could tell he was trying to hold himself together, but everything would come crashing down. Because Josh was emotional, not one to ever bottle his emotions. Though you mainly saw him smile and laugh, he would always let himself grieve.

The drive back to his apartment was silent, the radio wasn’t even on to distract you from the way your heart ached at his hurt. He didn’t even acknowledge you when he opened his door, he didn’t help you out like usual either and it kind of pissed you off? You understood he was upset but there was no need to shut you out.

So, like the mature adult you were, you stomped out of the car and grabbed his arm as he walked back inside. His eyes shot to yours, flinching slightly. Tears were now streaming down his face, snot pooling from his nose and his face was splotchy and red. He didn’t even bother to wipe the tears that were threatening to drop from his jaw, just staring at you like a kicked puppy. His bottom lip stuck out in an obvious pout.

You sighed, dropping your hand from his arm. His eyes darted to yours and immediately dropped to the floor, his beautiful whimsical self reduced to a puddle that rolled down the hardwood floors. He stomped upstairs, slamming the door shut. Okay, so he was really hurt, probably the most hurt you’d ever seen him. And that made you feel so guilty. But at the same time did he have a right to treat you that way even when upset?

But, you couldn’t help but feel the need to help him, to comfort him, to tell him you were sorry and that you understood why he wanted to go. But, did he want you there?

You looked up the stairs, contemplating if you should go up there or not. Josh was a person who loved touch, and he usually liked being comforted so you decided to take your chances. After you ran up the stairs you knocked against the door softly, not hearing a word behind the door. You weren’t used to seeing him like this, Josh wasn’t supposed to act like this. He was supposed to be fun, and mildly annoying to anyone else who didn’t actually know him. You knocked again, hearing a small whimper.

You took that as permission and opened the door, grateful that it wasn’t locked. Slowly opening the door, you saw him sitting, almost laying back in his bed. His head tilted down, his eyes looking at his bedsheets. His pants had little droplets all over his thighs, looking like rainfall. You crawled next to him in the bed, leaning your head down on his shoulder to check his reaction. He let his temple rest against the top of your head. His hand slowly reached out for yours and you gladly laced your fingers with his, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “You okay?” it was a stupid question really, of course he wasn’t okay. But you felt the need to say something.

He looked up from the bedsheets, his big brown eyes red and glossy. He shook his head, licking his lips to wet them. “I don’t even miss him.” Josh whines out, his voice cracking. “I just miss having him, if that makes sense.”

“Josh, you spent two years hoping he’d commit to you, it’s not unusual to feel that way.” you murmured, looking up at him. You reached your other arm around his waist, pulling him closer, tighter, feeling the need to keep him close. You just wanted him to know you cared, even if it didn’t feel the same.

“Seeing him was like a flashback, felt like I was my grandpa remembering Vietnam. Like, you enjoy it in the moment and you think what’s going on is good then it just crumbles. And I feel so stupid for thinking ‘well, maybe he’ll finally settle down’ or ‘he’s just not ready yet’ I told myself that for two fucking years. I could’ve had someone who truly cared about me.” Josh spilled his guts, finally fully talking about it. You felt so horrible that he felt so stupid, so naive. Josh was always the optimist, always thinking of the good side of the situation. And sometimes that could really fuck him over.

“I don’t even think I was in love with him, I was more in love with the idea of him finally loving me. You know? I just wanted someone to care.” he sighs out a puff of air from his lips. You get it, of course you do. It was nice to be cared for, to be appreciated, to be loved.

“So…” You paused, pursing your lips. “You were in love with the idea of him? But more so the idea of him loving and wanting you?” you asked, trying to make sure you got it correct.

“Something like that.” Josh admits with a weak nod, his hands going up to his head to tug at his curls.

You shifted yourself in front of him and grabbed at his hands, pulling them away. “Let’s not do that.” you chuckle weakly, placing his hands in his lap.

You cup his cheeks, making him look at you. And the look on his face is almost longing? But, why would that be directed at you?

“Y/N..” he murmurs your name shakily, his brown eyes meeting yours. “Am I handsome?”

You almost burst out laughing at that question, if not for his pouty, tear stained face. Of course he was handsome, he was one of the most handsome people you’d ever seen. “Josh..” you sigh out. “Of course you are.”

“You’re just saying that!” he huffs out, crossing his arms, trying to pull his face away from your hands.

“No I’m not!” you defend yourself, yanking his face to look back at yours. “Where’s all your confidence, honey? You know you’re gorgeous. You’re a whole diva. And I like you like that. You’re supposed to be loud and giggly and flamboyant. That’s you, Josh.” you explain to him, trying to drill the words into his skull with how close your mouth is to him.

His lips part and his brows furrow, his hands go from his lap to around your waist, pulling you into his lap. He holds onto you like a lifeline, only lifting his head to press a sloppy and wet kiss to your cheek. If he wasn’t in the state he was in, you would’ve giggled or maybe pushed him away with a shove of his shoulders. Instead, you drop your hands from his cheeks and wrap your arms around his shoulders, hugging him tight, scratching between his shoulder blades, lazily drawing circles on his shirt over his skin.

You don’t expect Josh to then push you off of him and curl up, muttering out. “��S fine, I’m fine, doesn’t really matter. It’s all stupid.” he groans, his palms covering his eyes, almost pushing into them.

“No Josh- you’re not fine-“ you start but he cuts you off.

“I am fine!” he says a little too loudly, startling you. This wasn’t how Josh was, and you wanted to be there for him, but why was he making it so damn difficult? “I’m just being a fucking idiot, it’s pathetic, really. It was just a stupid fucking situationship- I need to get over it.”

“That’s not how anyone works.” you can’t help but roll your eyes, sitting down in the corner of his bed. You kept him at arms length.

“It seems like it. Jake can just move on, a girl breaks it off with him and the next day he’s fucking some other girl.” Josh defends his stance.

“That’s horribly unhealthy, he’s using sex as a coping mechanism instead of actually letting himself process everything. And you know how he drinks when it happens, he gets drunk and makes some bad decisions to distract himself.” you try your best to explain, reaching out and taking his hands away from his eyes. They were bloodshot, and very watery. His bottom lip was stuck out in a pout, and it trembled. The sight alone almost broke you.

“And-“ you can’t help but make this point just like you did time and time again. “You’re not Jake, even if you two are so similar. You’re your own person, babe, you know that.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like that.” he scoffs slightly. “I mean, I just wish I was more like him.”

And with that the tears in Josh’s eyes spilled down his face and dropped down his jaw. His knees were pulled up to his chest, he was slightly rocking himself for a little bit of comfort. You pulled his knees away with your hands, sliding between his legs to wrap your arms around him. Once you did that, his legs immediately locked around your waist, he buried his face into your neck, and his arms wrapped around your middle so tightly you felt your stomach cramp.

So, you do the only thing you know you can do. You pull his face away, pulling on the hair on the nape of his neck and immediately press a wet, opened mouth kiss on his forehead. To your surprise, he leans into it, his bottom lip stopping its twitching. It’s working. Lightbulb. So, you continue. Another kiss to his left temple, then his right, then the bridge of his nose, then his actual nose. You almost eat his nose which makes him choke out a slight giggle. He cranes his neck, chasing your kisses. So, you travel them lower, kissing his cheeks, then the corners of his lips, and then his chin. You wonder if you should stop, but his face pushes slightly towards yours. So, you kiss just under his jaw, resting the waters. It’s the same reaction as before, he even slightly hums a little.

Your hands go from his shoulders to his head to brush down his unruly curls, mostly due to him pulling and running his fingers through his hair. He purrs like a cat, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Your thumbs brush over his eyebrows slowly, and you can practically see his eyes roll back at the contact. So, you do it again, slower, and you press your thumbs down just a bit more.

Then, your lips press just under his ear, and he doesn’t pull you away. In fact, his arms lock around you tighter. A wave of confidence bubbles up in your gut, you purse your lips and press opened mouth kisses down his neck. And you’re absolutely delighted when he groans slightly. “Is this okay?” you whisper, mouth just under his ear.

“Please…” he begs, not knowing exactly what he’s begging for. Please continue? Please hold me? Please don’t go? Or maybe it was just… please? He didn’t know, all he knew was that he loved this, he felt adored, and butterflies swarmed his stomach.

“Shhh.” you whisper, kissing down his neck over again. You gulped, pulling away when you felt his crotch twitch, his cock couldn’t help but stir in his pants. Was this too far?

“Do you want me to stop?” you pull away again and he whines, making your stomach lurch.

“What do you want, Josh?” you ask him softly, scratching at the shaved sides of his head, just behind his ears.

He bites his lip, eyes darting to the wall. You can hear him gulp, can see his Adam’s apple bob. “Well, it’s hard to think of much of anything else when you’re basically making out with my neck.” he chuckles, he finally chuckles and that turns your concerned expression into a grin.

“So…” you smack your lips, still holding onto him but feeling slightly awkward.

“I should probably go to the bathroom and fix myself.” he unlocks his legs from around your waist and pulls his arms away from your middle. You grab his arm, not really knowing why you did it.

“Do you want me to help?” slips from your tongue and you immediately turn as red as a beet.

His eyes widen, his mouth parts in a silent gasp. “You’d-“ he coughs. “You’d do that?” he flushes as pink as you, cheeks looking sun-kissed, like he just got back from the beach.

“Josh, I’d do anything for you.” that wasn’t a lie, you would. You went to multiple shitty parties with him, dealt with pushing his drunk self back into his jeep, called him an uber on multiple occasions, cuddled him to sleep when he couldn’t, and now you’d kissed all over his face so he wouldn’t cry any more than he had.

“This is so fucking embarrassing.” he groans, pinching at his nose. He crosses his legs, yanking a decorative pillow from his bed to fully cover himself.

“No, babe, it’s normal. I’m not upset.” you shush him, trying your best to reassure him.

“Okay, okay.” he sighs, the anxiousness in his face wearing off. His legs spread slightly and you scoot from between his legs, eyes going down to his crotch.

You grab the pillow and drop it onto the floor, your eyes looking at his face, then the growing bulge in his khakis. You couldn’t help but despise those pants, he wore them everywhere. It was like Jake and his shitty blue jeans. They both had their favorite shitty pieces of clothing, as did everyone.

You reached your hand out, your fingertips barely grazing before he let out a hiss and pulled you to straddle his thigh. He needed the comfort of someone’s body against his. Your chest pressed against his and he let out an audible sigh of relief, like he was afraid that if you weren’t touching him you’d vanish into thin air. You palmed him through his khakis and his eyes darted to yours, big brown doe eyes pleading at you. He pushed your hand off, unzipping his fly before putting your hand back. His eyes roll back and he lets himself relax.

“Do you wanna lay down?” you ask him while palming him over his boxers. He was at least half hard and deliciously thick. But, this wasn’t about you, this was about him.

He nodded, and you helped push a pillow under his waist and put a couple of pillows behind his back and neck. He was half lying down, half sitting. He pulled you back onto his thigh, puckering his lips.

You leaned down and captured his lips in a kiss, both mouths parted as he sucked on your bottom lip, eyes fluttering shut. His palm went to your lower back, hand fitting under your shirt to scratch at the warm skin.

You reached your hand down into the hole in his boxers and carefully pulled him out, watching his cock slap against his clothed lower stomach. He wasn’t too big, just above average, but he was beautifully thick. You pulled away from his lips and he let out a soft whine, your left hand reached up to scratch at his scalp.

“Can you spit in my hand, please?” you held your hand out below his mouth, just over his chin. Instead of responding he simply gathered up his saliva and spit it into your palm. You kissed his cheek as thanks.

You wrapped your hand around the base, watching his face as you gave one slow pump to lube him up with his own spit. You could’ve sworn you saw a bead of precum leak from the very tip of his cock. Pressing your lips back onto his, you swiped your thumb over his tip and swallowed each and every small groan that left his lips at the small gesture. His hand that was on your back pressed down and pushed you closer, even if it was only an inch. You’re practically sharing breaths with the way he groans, swallowing them with pure bliss. You rock against his thigh slightly, pulling away from his lips to kiss and lick at his jaw and upper neck.

He definitely appreciates it, bucking his hips up into your hand, involuntarily jacking himself off. He lets out a strangled whine, eyes squeezing shut and his brows furrowing. He sucks in a breath. “Haven’t been touched like this cause someone wanted to in-“ he gulps down a breath. “In two years.”

Your smile drops at that. How dare someone ever do that to him? You knew Josh liked to give, you’ve heard his hookups talk about how good he was with his tongue especially. But, you’d always believed in giving back.

Josh twitches with every stroke of your hand, with every soft pass of your thumb over him. He squeezes your hip as if it’s a life raft, feeling himself go off into sea. Every flick of your wrist is like a crashing of a wave that gets closer and closer to shore. Bringing Josh closer and closer to orgasm.

Your eyes continuously flick from his face down to his cock, not being able to discern which sight you like more. Josh’s hand that was previously on your back goes to the back of your head, scratching at your roots to encourage you to kiss all over his skin. And you comply, again reaching down to press kisses all over the exposed skin his crew neck would allow.

“You doing okay?” you whisper, wanting to check in on him, making sure that his whines of pleasure aren’t turning into anything different.

“Yeah.” he breaths out heavily, practically panting like a dog in need of water. “Fuckin’ great.”

You use his encouragement to speed up a bit and he immediately shakes his head. “No, no- not yet-“ he rasps, bottom lip between his front teeth. “Want it to last a bit, please.”

You nod your head and slow back down to slow, languid strokes, making sure that your hand goes from all the way down to the base to all the way up to his tip at every stroke. You don’t want to miss a single centimeter of him.

“Yeah, that’s perfect.” his praise went straight down to your gut, making your stomach twist in the best possible way. He was leaking, you hadn’t even needed to spit onto him again because of it. That was enough to make your head spin.

You squeezed him a bit harder, still keeping the pumps of your hand slow. He seemed to like that, trying his best not to rock his hips up or chase your hand. Though, he did buck his hips a few times, muttering weak apologies every time. You shook your head at that, nipping his gold earring on his earlobe.

Josh pulls away slightly to pull off his shirt, a thin layer of sweat on his chest that shines in the moonlight that radiates from his sheer curtains. He looks ethereal, and most definitely edible. So, you kiss at his collarbones, sucking small marks into the skin. He grabs for your other hand and puts it at his side, squeezing your hand so you squeeze the side of his stomach. You get the hint and squeeze at his side, crescent shaped indents marking his tan flesh. Your sucking and kissing turns into nipping, your teeth scraping against just under his collarbones. He shudders, back arching slightly off of his bed, and his hand that’s in your hair joins the other one on the other side of your hip. Your hand speeds up just slightly, your fist tighter. You lift your from him to blow your hair off of your forehead. He chuckles, lifting his hand from your hip to push it back before his hand goes back to squeezing you. You revel in his little puffs of air, his soft groans, the way his back slightly arches if you apply just a bit more pressure. He has never looked prettier, mouth parted in bliss, the shine of sweat on his skin, the way his eyes look up to his ceiling.

“Can you squeeze just a bit more?” he pants out and you eagerly nod, your kisses on his left pec, just above his nipple. His head nearly hits the headboard when you take his nipple into your mouth, nipping at the bud and sucking. His hands tighten around your waist and start to rock you on his thigh.

“Ffffuck!” he yelps, hips bucking when you deliver a slightly more aggressive nip. His dick twitches in your hand. You let your pinky feel his balls, tight and firm, but yet so velvety soft. He was clearly so close to orgasm, you just had to give him that one extra boost. You take his hand off his hip and reach down to his balls, softly squeezing them. His eyes immediately dart down to you and he groans louder than you’ve ever heard. His hands on your hips rock you faster, wanting to give you some semblance of the pleasure he was feeling.

You give his balls a harder squeeze and his head flys back, eyes rolling into his skull while his lips part and he groans deeply. You look down and see him twitch, his cock shooting out thick ropes of cum before he softens in your hand, twitches once more and sighs. “Holy shit, that was-“ Josh heaves, trying to catch his breath.

You peck the corner of his lips, nuzzling your nose into his upper cheekbone. Lifting yourself up you rush into his bathroom and grab a washcloth, dampening it under the sink before you return and wipe your hand and his stomach off. You press a soft kiss to his lips, he hums, rubbing your back. “I don’t think I’ve come that hard from a handjob in years.” he sighs, praising you.

The praise sends butterflies swarming down your stomach, and after he’s all cleaned he requests to cuddle with you, which you gladly agree to. With his arm wrapped around you, he asks. “Can we talk about what happened? I wanna know what you’re thinking, because, I’m thinking a lot of things right now.”

“Of course we can.” you nod your head, brushing back his flat and messy curls.

[distant--shadow]

Okay, I have three (3) thoughts about the state of cr's talkback shows atm and I've decided to write them in your ask box. Feel free to ignore:

I think the quality of the questions in the fireside chat was strongly linked to 4sd and, mainly, the tower of inquiry. As much as I like the idea of having a section where evergreen questions can be asked, they really lean towards the “what if the world was made of pudding?” genre of questions and I think that - combined with the attention that gets drawn to the questions by the Jenga game and the milque-toast-ness of the other questions on 4sd - has encouraged the fandom to discuss and focus on those questions more than we used to.

I also really miss the fact that talk machina had a presenter (who, for the sake of clarity, was fired for obvious reasons and I’m not, in any way, advocating for him to come back). The fact that both the presenter of 4sd and order of questions in the tower of inquiry and deep dive sections are random, means that whether the cast elaborate on their answers is up to chance. I feel like, with the cast being more detached from the fanbase than they used to (for good reason) there really should be someone on screen who knows what questions were answered in the past and can guide the conversation so that they don’t spend 10 minutes discussing “think about this AU” questions and then only give in-depth character analysis a single sentence before being distracted by a joke or running out of time. To be clear, this isn’t a criticism of the cast at all, you can’t both give really good, in-depth answers to questions while also coming up with your own follow-up questions and staying engaged in and shaping the discussion as a whole. I’d say Dani is the obvious pick for a presenter but I think her interests are more in the shippy/fanon side (which is fine, I’m not trying to police how anyone interacts with the show) so I’d prefer her questions to be interjections rather than the whole thing.

This campaign has had a significant percentage of it’s talkback shows taken up by overlap with other stuff (party splits, vox machina and the mighty nein getting their own eps, overlap with calamity and downfall etc.) and, in an ideal world, I’d want them to do separate that stuff out and do extra shows about that, rather than letting it eat into valuable question answering time for bells hells.

All this to say: if cr wants to make a talkback show specifically tailored to me, I'm down with them flying me out to America so I can host my new talkback show called “AU? No thank you!” where we exclusively talk about bells hells and all hypotheticals are banned. Nobody but me would enjoy it but I'm the main character of my story so...

appreciate you engaging and putting your thoughts out there via my inbox!

I agree with most of this, I can respect what they were trying with 4sd but yeah it did not deliver the meat that talks did, and I would love to have a simple discussion show like that back (at one point I would have suggested dani as host too, but if anything these fireside and 4sd eps have proven that she is way too fanon-brained/shipping inclined and I personally, can't stand when she interjects without being asked for an answer (though correcting lore is a different case and pretty much always appreciated))

I can deal with a little amount of what if the world was pudding type questions, but ultimately yeah, it does come across as "so what if we got a different story than the one you chose to give us?" there are cases when yeah maybe it wasn't as conscious as a decision or another factor where yeah, I would like to know the alternative, but i agree with ya there.

I will also say that yes, I do think the shape of the questions selected is in part to match the more laid back and goofy vibes of 4sd, the evergreen questions and such really are not a good choice and absolutely there wa sso much going on during this campaign that reaaaallly broke up the momentum (momentum which still managed to feel oppressive), but i would say I do also think an amount of it is just how modern fandom is, to sound like an old guy yelling at a cloud. so many things come into play here, parasocial stuff, attention spans, isolation and selfishness, populatiry contests within fandoms and how that births popular works/notions from fanon being perceived as canon law, etc etc.

as I keep saying, I want people to make, I want people to have fun, but it's a yeowch from me when that feeds back into the source material, or at least spin offs of it. I do think it is a case of both parties being somewhat guilty, ask baby questions get baby answers, if people engage with fanservice and it gets views then they're gonna cater to that because they need eyes on them to exist as a company. I'm really not the person to be doing the write ups about this, but i do think it's important to share my opinions on my most beloved piece of media, in some ways especially because I create so much "content" for it.

I've pretty much always felt like an outsider within fandom space, and whether that's because of what I want out of it, what I want to see for my favourite characters, or my behaviour, or my work - I don't know, but i do know that for years of watching this show I kept well away from the fandom space or even sharing my drawings caus I didn't want it to hinder my experience and enjoyment of watching, and when the stuff I've been trying to avoid is seeping it's way into the actual shows then yeah, it is something I wanna speak out on.

[milessunflowers]

Part 2 though would you be adverse to writing the media's reaction?

And maybe the other drivers learn of their relatioship and their like 'is that all it took to get you two to stop pining after each other!?!? Should have just called the guy smh'. I'd find it even funnier if perrie (is that how its spelled?) Is just done with charles pining after both of them cause he's the one charles goes to with his woe is me bullshit, feel like max would have lando as his like 'gossip about my crushes' person and he's just done with him too.

Sorry if you don't do part two's, also awesome story love it so much.

–🍑

i can absolutely do a pt 2 peach!!

max verstappen x male!reader x charles leclerc

synopsis: it only took a few weeks for your relationship to make it to the public eye, mainly because your boyfriends can't stop yapping.

author's note: peach, i am kind of obsessed with this lestappen x male reader ideas because it's just like 😍 i have no words. it so funny and entertaining to me (trust there is dialogue in this one fr!). like always, feel free to continue to request!

you were hoping to keep things private for at least a couple of months. you should've known better. you did know better.

unfortunately for you, your boyfriends seemed to be allergic to shutting the fuck up. you weren't upset, though. in fact, you thought it was hilarious and adorable. however, charles and max didn't need to know that small tidbit of information.

you first heard that others knew of your relationship from pierre, who complained to you during the driver's parade.

"i can't believe you guys didn't tell me! charles was pining for you two for as long as i can remember! now he won't shut up about how much he loves you and how happy it is now that you guys are dating!" pierre whines, sending a teasing glare to the back of charles's head. charles was too busy yapping with carlos to notice.

"he told you now, did he?" you ask in return, a pinch in between your eyebrows. you had planned to tell everyone together, but your boyfriends tended to become mindless when they were chatting with the others.

"he told me the three of you barely fit on the bed since max takes up most of it, and how you make breakfast in the morning and how he gets the princess treatment!" pierre exclaims, sighing heavily. "it is ridiculous, truly."

the next time you found out others knew about your relationship was when you were on podium with lando and max.

"max here told me you three were together!" lando tells you in a whisper as max's eyes are trained on the race replays. the cool down room was almost quiet, save for max's comments here and there.

"of course he did," you remark quietly with a small eye roll.

"took you guys long enough," the younger man replies, nudging you with his papaya clad elbow, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that made you want to kick his shins. he was like your annoying little brother.

"you don't get to comment, mr. 'i am helplessly in love with my teammate but won't tell him'," you retort with a smirk as he blushes a bright red and laughs nervously.

"fair point," lando responds, dropping the subject entirely and taking up conversation with your boyfriend.

the next time another driver asked about your relationship with max and charles, it had been a surprise to you. lance, who you got on well with, gave you a knowing look after post-race interviews. you had gone directly to max and charles, striking up conversation while you all stood suspiciously close. closer than you normally did. you excused yourself when lance shot you that look.

"finally confessed?" lance asked as soon as you were right next to him. he was more subtle about it compared to pierre and lando. lance had been one of the people you were closest to, from the time you started the early formula series up to now.

lance knew all about your crushes on the other two. "that obvious?" you asks in return, grinning at your friend as he pats you on the back. you knew he was happy for you. "don't worry, stroll. you're still my best friend," you assure him, nudging him in the ribs. he grins and nudges you back.

the final time you heard of your own relationship was from none other than your number one nemesis: danica patrick. she addressed on sky sports, stating it was a rumor and making small, almost unnoticeable bacl handed comments.

hearing her agitating voice, you decided to pull both your boyfriends aside. you explained to them that they should go off the handles and let everyone know about their relationship during their next interviews.

most press rook this in stride. the gossip accounts all over tiktok and instagram were ablaze, the hottest topic being the three of you. of course, there was loads of hate but you could care less. you were happy and that's all that mattered.

TAGS! (if you want to be added, lmk!)

@op-81-lvr-reblogs, @koalapastries, @justaf1girl, @ghostking4m, @spoonfulofmilo

[heavensbeehall]

Letter from Donald Sutherland to director Gary Ross, after reading the script for "The Hunger Games"

Dear Gary Ross:  Power. That's what this is about? Yes? Power and the forces that are manipulated by the powerful men and bureaucracies trying to maintain control and possession of that power?  Power perpetrates war and oppression to maintain itself until it finally topples over with the bureaucratic weight of itself and sinks into the pages of history (except in Texas), leaving lessons that need to be learned unlearned.   Power corrupts, and, in many cases, absolute power makes you really horny. Clinton, Chirac, Mao, Mitterrand.  Not so, I think, with Coriolanus Snow. His obsession, his passion, is his rose garden. There's a rose named Sterling Silver that's lilac in colour with the most extraordinarily powerful fragrance — incredibly beautiful — I loved it in the seventies when it first appeared. They've made a lot of offshoots of it since then.   I didn't want to write to you until I'd read the trilogy and now I have so: roses are of great importance. And Coriolanus's eyes. And his smile. Those three elements are vibrant and vital in Snow. Everything else is, by and large, perfectly still and ruthlessly contained. What delight she [Katniss] gives him. He knows her so perfectly. Nothing, absolutely nothing, surprises him. He sees and understands everything. He was, quite probably, a brilliant man who's succumbed to the siren song of power.  How will you dramatize the interior narrative running in Katniss's head that describes and consistently updates her relationship with the President who is ubiquitous in her mind? With omniscient calm he knows her perfectly. She knows he does and she knows that he will go to any necessary end to maintain his power because she knows that he believes that she's a real threat to his fragile hold on his control of that power. She's more dangerous than Joan of Arc.  Her interior dialogue/monologue defines Snow. It's that old theatrical turnip: you can't 'play' a king, you need everybody else on stage saying to each other, and therefore to the audience, stuff like "There goes the King, isn't he a piece of work, how evil, how lovely, how benevolent, how cruel, how brilliant he is!" The idea of him, the definition of him, the audience's perception of him, is primarily instilled by the observations of others and once that idea is set, the audience's view of the character is pretty much unyielding. And in Snow's case, that definition, of course, comes from Katniss.  Evil looks like our understanding of the history of the men we're looking at. It's not what we see: it's what we've been led to believe. Simple as that. Look at the face of Ted Bundy before you knew what he did and after you knew.   Snow doesn't look evil to the people in Panem's Capitol. Bundy didn't look evil to those girls. My wife and I were driving through Colorado when he escaped from jail there. The car radio's warning was constant. 'Don't pick up any young men. The escapee looks like the nicest young man imaginable'. Snow's evil shows up in the form of the complacently confident threat that's ever-present in his eyes. His resolute stillness. Have you seen a film I did years ago? 'The Eye of the Needle'. That fellow had some of what I'm looking for. The woman who lived up the street from us in Brentwood came over to ask my wife a question when my wife was dropping the kids off at school. This woman and her husband had seen that movie the night before and what she wanted to know was how my wife could live with anyone who could play such an evil man. It made for an amusing dinner or two but part of my wife's still wondering. I'd love to speak with you whenever you have a chance so I can be on the same page with you. They all end up the same way. Welcome to Florida, have a nice day!

Source

Been thinking about this a lot, mostly in regards to his notions on power.

But it's also quiet cool that he basically predicted the plot of TBOSAS before it came out. Snow's obsessive tendencies. The way he thinks love makes him weak. How he sees Katniss as like himself.