#a bitch will be back on ao3 in the new year it appears

[grittyreadsfic]

besties, we’re so back

[thelastofhyde]

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

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 15k

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

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

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

The mirror is not clean enough to see yourself.

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

It’s something new to fidget with.

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

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

If you do, you’ll blame him.

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

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

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

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

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

You were careful all night to never speak of him.

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

And then it happened.

You didn’t say his name, no.

Not aloud.

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

But it was enough to make you want to leave.

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

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

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

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

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

There were usually three of them.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t have an answer.

You didn’t get to give an answer.

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

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

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

Javier Peña was none of that.

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

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

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

It was like, nothing.

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

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

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

That was never part of the plan.

Neither was skipping dinner, though.

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

His hair, freshly cut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you stumble to the elevator.

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

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

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

“Déjame. (Let me.)”

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

He catches you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m glad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thud against the nightstand.

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

The undressing is gentle and so unlike his usual impatience.

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

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

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

He looks like he wants to.

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

Against your forehead, lips that linger.

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

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

Vermont, ‘98.

That’s where it all began.

Your dad, turning fifty.

Javi just hit forty.

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

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

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

Wrong.

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

Textbooks on the table, glasses on your face.

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

Peaceful and quaint, until it wasn’t.

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

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

You put your head down, breathed more subtly.

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

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

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

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

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

Inching towards the exit, footsteps light as a feather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not in the mood.”

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

“I have an early flight.”

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

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

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

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

“I ain’t done talkin’ to you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t remember which direction you turned.

“Quit running, you bitch!”

He was still following, how was he still following?

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

He was getting faster. Maybe you were getting slower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thumb swiped over your palm.

Your mouth winced, your arm pulled back.

He held you in place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was instinctual, no thought placed behind his action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took you back to his own cabin instead.

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

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

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

Late june brings nothing but gloom.

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

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

Tonight, you’re appeasing them.

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

Truth be told, you don’t want to go.

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

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

In the mirror, it’s still lopsided.

The clock sits at eight forty-seven.

They’re 2 minutes late.

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

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

Dive back in, search again.

An empty tube of lipbalm.

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

A broken earring.

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

Bile burns the back of your throat.

He opens on the fifth knock.

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

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

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

The air’s uncomfortably quiet.

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

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

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

The silence returns.

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

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

You notice his bedroom door is shut.

It’s never been shut before.

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

He blinks, slowly.

It’s hard to tell if it’s from guilt.

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

He doesn’t answer.

You keep talking.

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

“This needs to stop.”

You don’t have to question it.

You do, anyway.

“What?”

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

“I don’t underst-”

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

He’s stern.

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

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

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

Everything, you want to tell him.

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

“I just thought-”

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

I know, you mouth.

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

When he calls to make sure you got home safe.

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

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

Javier Peña is not your boyfriend.

So why does he act like it?

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

Kid.

That makes you angry.

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

“Don’t call me kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, the back-and-forth stops.

Silence.

You take the lead.

“So, what? That’s it just... over?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too late, you want to say.

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

“Corazón, I’m so sor-”

The car honks, again.

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

Another honk.

You never make it to the line dance.

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

Love’s a verb And not a bandage

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

A promise of casual, turned into something fragile.

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

All you remember is a pounding at your front door.

1 am. Too late to be causing ruckus.

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

Pause.

This could be anyone, anything.

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

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

You let him invade your senses.

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

You pull back. He follows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, you do trip over them.

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

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

The gold of his skin shines brighter.

The red on his skin appears darker.

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

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

Later with Javi never seems to come.

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

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

‘I’ll get these back to you later.’

He’d never made you that dinner.

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

You’d never gotten those panties back.

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

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

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

Distractions are not welcomed, your patient needs tending to.

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

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

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

It does the trick, unlocks his tongue.

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

He hisses.

You’re pressing too hard on his fragile lip.

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

A splotch of red stains your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

Javi sighs, gives in.

He always gives in, to you, eventually.

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

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

He doesn’t need to.

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

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

He’s rambling.

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

You listen closely, swallow up every morsel he offers.

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

He chokes.

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

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

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

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

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

He nods.

“Did you help her?”

Another nod.

“Did you get her someplace safe?”

This time, a reply.

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

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

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

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

“What more could you have done?”

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

You whine out his name.

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

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

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

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

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

The words catch in your throat.

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

But mostly because he kisses you.

Desperate, hungry. Groaning into your willing mouth.

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

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

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

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

When Javi fucks you, he fucks with purpose.

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

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

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

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

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

When did Javier Peña stop wanting you?

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

By July, things change.

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

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

Boredom leads to hobbies.

At first, you try pottery.

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

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

You hate it, running.

You sweat, you ache, you exhaust.

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

The heartache.

The headache.

The agent.

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

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

The pink shirt still lives on one of your hangers.

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

Not right now.

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

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

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

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

Today, however, it’s more challenging.

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

You have to come, kiddo.

The phone-call still echos through your thoughts.

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

You’d wanted a better explanation than that.

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

You had no plans.

Bring your friends then! The more the merrier!

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

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

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

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

He said it, like that would persuade you.

Keep asking about ya, the whole lot of them.

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

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

You’d hung up.

Immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

Until you come to a screeching halt.

Double over.

Place your hands on your knees.

Dry heave.

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

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

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

You’ll have to see him.

Spend time near him.

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

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

For not quitting the force.

For being your dad’s friend.

For not wanting you the same you wanted him.

Want him.

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

You’re usually more careful.

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

You pick your pace back up.

Manage only a handful-or-two steps.

Your feet fly out in front of you.

Land ass-first on the gravel below.

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

You groan and prepare to get back on your feet.

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

Big mistake.

The hand tugs you.

You glance up.

And meet the eyes of Javier Peña.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You come up empty handed.

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

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

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

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

Wedding attire, a post-party glow.

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

Had he smiled, then?

Had he even been there?

Or was he merely a product of martinis and negronnis-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I- What?” Confussion.

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

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

Adjusts your piercing, swipes his thumb over your cheek.

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

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

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

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

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

Or both.

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

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

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

Your father’s voice.

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

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

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

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

Maybe it’s sadness you see.

There’s definitely remorse.

Guilt, too.

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

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

But none of that matter, anymore.

You’re already walking away.

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

He calls out your name, loudly.

Attracts the nosy eyes of people around.

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

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

He reaches out for your hand.

And quickly gives up on the thought of holding it.

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

He knows the answer.

You still give him it, “yes.”

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

You feel his eyes on you.

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

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

You’re laughing but it’s mostly fake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not her fault. You know.

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

Your dad is.

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

Even from here, you can hear him bragging.

So then Peña’s on his ass.

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

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

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

He’s exaggerating.

The guy was barely going 5 miles an hour!

He stepped out the vehicle at his own will.

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

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

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

If you step inside the frame, it cracks.

Shatters.

And maybe he knows that.

Knew it all along.

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

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

The feeling lasts all but four seconds.

“Kiddo!”

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

It takes a moment, but you wave.

“Come over ‘ere!”

Not the response you were hoping for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not a sight you want to see.

It fills you with dread.

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

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

“London.”

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

All eyes snap to him.

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

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

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

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

That peaks your interest.

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

“Really?”

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

With Javi, friends could mean anything.

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

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

So it’s best you don’t inquire on it.

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

“Mr... Bond?”

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

You can practically hear it, in his voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His lips press against your hairline before speaking again.

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

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

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

It’s too late though.

You’re already snoring against his skin.

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

For a minute, it feels like she knows.

She knows why Javi knows.

You should be panicking.

Both of you should.

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

But you aren’t. Neither of you are.

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

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

Your dad gives an unceremonious oh.

Your mom rolls her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pulls her close, kisses her shoulder.

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

Open, celebrated, acknowledged.

Not secretive, dirty, scandalous.

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

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

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

Your heart drops.

Javi’s seems to do the same.

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

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

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

But I’m actually bloody Motherfucking batshit crazy

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

You’ve lived plenty of such moments.

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

And all because you heard his voice.

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

He’s facing a woman.

She’s pretty.

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

And a well-rounded belly.

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

You’ve never seen her before.

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

She’s a total stranger, to you.

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

A very pregnant, non-stranger.

“We gotta get this kid some better taste.”

His hand rests on her bump.

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

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

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

You won’t let it fester.

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

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

Was she the reason things between you and him ended?

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

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

Surely, he couldn’t have.

But, then, why couldn’t he have?

You were never exclusive.

You were never anything.

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

Your heart’s palpitating.

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

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

Because, how could he do this to you?

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

Love you so deeply and leave you so easily?

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

“He’s a real kicker, ain’t he?”

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

But, no, it’s too distant. Too far.

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

He’s handsome, in the typical sense.

Blonde haired, a nice smile.

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

“He?” It’s Javi who echoes.

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

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

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

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

The bile in your throat burns more than ever before.

The misplaced anger bleeds into sadness, shame, embarrassment.

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

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

Friends his own age.

Worlds apart, yet nothing but a shelf between you.

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

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

The little girl perks right up at that.

Eyes widened, head off her father’s shoulder.

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

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

“Quit lying to my kid, Peña.”

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

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

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

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

Your breathing stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flicker up to the shelf and-

He’s no longer standing on the other side.

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

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

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

You wake up early.

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

Making the most out of your time upon foreign land.

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

The truth lies in that you can not sleep.

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

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

A quarter past six.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your ringtone is the culprit.

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

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

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

“Corazón.”

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

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

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

Sadness that it sounds so broken down the line.

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

“I’m here,” it’s only a whisper.

It’s enough to shut him up.

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

“You’re in London,” he states.

“I am,” you affirm.

He hums, sips something.

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

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

“Yeah,” you spare him the details.

The truth.

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

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

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

You sure felt alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For answers, for clarity, for closure

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

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

Even then, it kills you to do so.

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

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

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

“What answer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The image doesn’t quite form.

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

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

Refuge he’s willing to share with you.

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

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

“Promise me you’ll go, corazón.”

Your reply is instant, “I promise.”

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

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

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

“How you feeling, kiddo?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of them have, really.

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

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

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

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

“You’re literally in my room!”

“Which is literally in my house!”

Downstairs, your mother yells something unintelligible.

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

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

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

Tupperware, clasped in his hand.

The contents are hard to decipher.

Luckily, your father spots you eyeing it.

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

Your stomach growls, hungry and unfed.

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

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

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

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

Immediately, you spot chicken.

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

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

Your father continues, practically talking to himself.

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

“Cazuela de ave.”

A change into warmer, drier clothes.

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

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

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

And that fact is partly what warms your insides.

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

Objectively, you think, he’s gorgeous.

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

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

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

The scent alone is enough to have you salivating. 

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

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

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

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

A real date.

Only, this isn’t even a fake date.

You guys don’t do that.

“It’s- It was my mom’s recipe.”

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

He’s never mentioned his mother.

Or much about his family, really.

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

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

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

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

Open.

His eyes, his mind, his heart.

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

“Was she a good cook?”

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

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

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

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

It’s disturbingly beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like nothing about her was wrong, all of her perfect and angelic.

“She was brave, too. I’d like to think I’m just like her in that respect. She didn’t let anything stop her from doing things she set her heart on, and she never let her inabilities hinder her,” he’s getting a little emotional now, you can hear it in his voice, see it in the lump he swallows back. You stretch a hand across the table and watch as he leans on you for support, fingers interlocking with your own. “There was this one time when I was a kid, I was swimming in a river and got stuck in a current. She dived right in to save me... She didn’t even know how to swim!”

You don’t know what to say.

You opt for saying nothing, silence speaking more than a thousand words.

Give his hand a reassuring squeeze, feel him squeeze back harder.

Your stomach rumbles, but it doesn’t ruin the moment in the way you feared it would.

“Listen to me being a sap and starving my poor lady to death,” still, he tugs your hand closer and plants a kiss on your knuckles. You’re still trying to process the possessive adjective he’d used to address you. My. His. “Eat up.”

Both of you settle back in your seats.

You pick up your spoon, scoop up a piece of chicken out the steaming bowl and-

“Asi no, corazón (not like that, sweetheart),” he spews out, panicking to pry the cutlery out your hand. He ignores the questioning looks you give him. “You drink the soup first, eat the filling after. Like this.”

Leaning over the table, he scoops your bowl up in his careful hands and guides it up to your lips.

When your lips part and rest against the bowl’s edge, he tilts it and you feel it’s warmth invade your mouth.

And then your chest, branching out over your heart, your lungs, your stomach.

Horned-up bias you so often show towards Javier aside, it’s one of the best things you’ve ever tasted.

Like a hug on a gloomy, wet day, all wrapped up inside a ceramic bowl.

You hum, hands taking over his own to allow him back into his own seat, focusing his attention on drinking his own soup.

“Javi, this is...” You trail off, eyeing the small ring of liquid pooling at the bottom of the bowl. One more mouthful and you’ll get your taste of the stew’s fillings. “Amazing. Your mum would be proud.”

Instead of modesty, instead of 'thank yous', instead of bashfulness, Javier smiles, takes another sip from his bowl.

“She would have liked you.”

You stare across at him and find no jest in his eyes.

They’re as open as before.

“Really?”

“Mhmm. She always liked pretty girls smart enough to put me in my place.”

“Kiddo?”

You’re ripped out your own head by your father’s voice and his hand, waved repeatedly in front of your face.

“Hmm?” 

“You okay there? I was talkin’ to you but you seemed lost in thought.” There’s a little excitement in you father’s voice as he presses his cold hand to your sweated forehead, the prospect of you still being ill, still needing taking care of, filling him with the relief of keeping you in your parents' home a little longer.

“I’m- Yeah, just tired, s’all.”

“Ok, let me know when you’ve finished your food,” he presses a kiss atop the crown of your head, and you hold back the pointless comment of not risking getting himself or your mother sick. “Need to get the tupperware clean ‘fore I give it back to Javi.”

Your stomach twists and longs for the meal before you, while your heart shatters into pieces you doubt will ever be repaired.

[maybege]

What If - Part 4

Summary: Mandalore approached and you cannot help but feel like something is about to go terribly wrong.  

Pairing: alpha!Paz Vizsla x omega!fem!Reader

Wordcount: 6.2k | Rating: E (18+ only!)

Warnings: A/B/O dynamics, explicit sexual content, size kink (Paz is big-big), (semi-)public sex, oral sex (m receiving), unprotected sex, creampies, knotting, cockwarming, dirty talk, praise kink, Angst with a capital A, fluffy fluf

As we say in German “Was lange wärht, wird endlich gut” which is what I am using as my excuse for why this took so long. The truth is: depression is a bitch, real life is a bitch and creativity and time for writing are like the same side of two magnets that do not want to even go near each other. Anyway, we made it!!!

There are a few people I gotta thank for this. First and foremost the iconic, the brilliant @mostly-megan who not only suffers through all the random AU ideas I have (and there are a LOT of them) but also brainstorms with me. The Ragnar Scene and also a very (very!) lovely scene towards the end of this part would not exist without her and for that, I am very grateful. Then, of course, the ever-present, ever-lurking genius that is the Boba Tea Anon who is in the Paz trenches right there with me and encourages me in everything I do (even if it is just a – I promise one day I will do a Lord Huron Paz piece!). Also, a very special shout out to Neyo (@galacticgraffiti) who gave the Mando kids their names, suffers through The Horn Knee with me and is always there to cheer me on. And then, of course, all you Paz girlies (gn) who make me feel like a sane person while I ramble about a faceless man who appeared for a total of 23 minutes (if that) and is – canonically – dead anyway. You make sharing my writing worthwhile in the first place and I will be forever grateful for getting to share my writing with you.

And with that – on to the last part (and the new canon for me lol). Please let me know what you thought in a comment or a reblog!

masterlist | crossposted on AO3

There was a certain impatience to him you had not expected at the last meal. When the announcement came that you were approaching Mandalore, Paz – who had spent the dinner between you and Ragnar – had pulled you into his lap, his arms like iron around your body. Ragnar had wandered off to the front with all the other foundlings, expectantly looking up at the clan leaders.

You had turned your face into Paz’s neck, trying to get his scent on you. You could not believe how you had only known this man for a few days – a week, at most! – and yet his scent was the only thing that seemed to calm you down. And it was no different for him.

The alpha’s hand immediately found your scent gland and you shivered as the soft leather brushed over your skin. It did not take long until he pulled his gloves off, settling them into your lap, before resuming his motions.

The nervous energy in the room was palpable but it was practically radiating off him and it inevitably affected you as well. Where you had been excited, if a bit reluctant, a few weeks ago at the prospect of reclaiming Mandalore, now there was only a strange sense of dread in your stomach. One that even the alpha could not dissolve.

“When you wake up tomorrow, some of us will set foot on our homeland for the first time in too many years,” Briggs announced, his serious gaze roaming over the packed hall, “I cannot promise you it will be easy. I cannot promise we will all wake up to the sight of Mandalore. But we will die trying.”

You could see Ragnar looking back at his father who tilted his head. A gesture meant to be reassuring but only resulted in you questioning whether Paz would be one of those dying. You shifted nervously, causing Paz to tighten his hold on your waist.

“Calm down, love,” he rumbled quietly behind you, “It will be alright.”

Forcing yourself to nod, you gripped his large hand tightly, trying to burn into your brain what it was like to touch him,

“Rest well and rest assured that tomorrow will mark the start of a brand new era,” Briggs raised his glass, “And let us toast to our home!”

“To our home!”

Everyone lifted their glasses and the conversations resumed, a constant background roar that reminded you of the countless fates that were tied to the success of this mission. A strange feeling started in your chest, and not the kind that Paz’s presence usually caused.

You shifted again, watching as the crowd dissipated and the foundlings were walked off to bed. Their excited chatter moved down the hall and something cold clenched your heart when you watched Ragnar wave at his father.

Immediately everything quieted down. With everyone returning to their own conversations and the hall being considerably more empty now, Paz did not waste any time. His hands landed on your thighs and you managed a wobbly smile.

 “What is going on in your pretty head?” he asked you, his fingers skimming over your thighs, “You’ve been squirmy all evening.”

“Who says something is on my mind?”, you popped a berry into your mouth, grimacing at the sudden sour taste.

“True,” he laughed, “You might have just spent dinner thinking about when you can finally sit on my cock again.”

“Paz!” you gasped, “you cannot – I mean – what if –“ You glanced around with flushed cheeks, relieved to see that no one had seemed to hear his indecent theory.

He laughed again and the sound made your heart and body melt. “I will never tire of making you flustered,” he murmured, his big hands pulling you closer, “Though I actually would not mind having you cockwarm me tonight, sweet omega,” his fingers brushed the underside of your breasts and you shivered, “I would be lying if I said I could ever get enough of you.”

“I actually had something similar in mind,” you admitted shyly, slipping off his lap and enjoying the way his hands followed you and his body leant into you. As if he wanted to keep touching you, as if he never wanted to let you go. Your heart skipped a beat and you smiled.

“I … would like to try something?”

He leant back, his legs spreading with the movement and your teeth dug into your bottom lip at the sight of the obvious bulge in his pants. “Oh yeah, omega, and what would that be?”

You made a few steps away, making sure that your robe (a dark blue, just like his armour) swished around your form as enticingly as possible. Paz’s head turned to follow your movement from your place in front of him to a chair in a dark alcove, dressed in shadows where you knelt down right in front of it.

The big alapha hummed, rising to his feet, knowing exactly what it was you had in mind. “I think I can get behind that idea.”

From the other sounds that were floating through the cantina, you knew that illicit things were already well underway. Most of them likely more graphic and adventurous than what you had in mind. Still, you felt a little nervous at the prospect of sucking Paz Vizsla’s cock.

But for some reason, this was exactly what you needed. You wanted to bring him pleasure, so much pleasure.

You watched as he pulled off his cape, folding it expertly before motioning for you to stand. He dropped it on the floor, his hand steadying your elbow as you sunk down on the soft fabric. “Don’t want you uncomfortable,” he announced, before sitting down in the chair.

He looked big like this, bigger than usual. And oh so confident it already made your panties wet. His knees spread, the trunks he called thigh caging you in and you watched with bated breath as his fingers undid his codpiece, expertly freeing his cock.

He was already hard and dripping precome, the knot at the base slightly inflated and you squeezed your thighs. It was not like you had never seen his cock before and it certainly was not as if he had not fucked you before. Yet, the sheer size of him and the thought of taking him in your mouth overwhelmed you a little.

Where were you supposed to start?

But when one big rough hand closed around his shaft and Paz started to jerk off right in front of you, you could not help but to simply … dive in.

Opening your mouth as far as it would go, you closed your lips around his tip, one hand struggling to fit around him. The grunt he let out, paired with a twitch of his hips, had you smiling around him.

“Stars above,” he cursed, “Warn a man next time, won’t you, love?”

You looked up at him, teary-eyed, while your tongue licked the underside of him. Or at least the part you could reach. He was heavy in your mouth, heavy and big and he tasted of something that made you want more. Slowly, you moved forward trying to take more of him but soon enough, he bumped something at the back of your throat and you sputtered.

Before you could panic about breathing, Paz had pulled out of you, his large hand cupping your cheek while the other was still wrapped around the base of his cock. “Deep breaths, omega,” he soothed you, his hand leisurely stroking himself, “You are doing so good for, trying to take it all.”

“You’re so big,” you marvelled, wrapping your hands around him, “I want it all, alpha, I – Paz, I really want it all.”

“Want my help?” he asked, “Might have to be a little rougher, though, sweet omega, and I can smell how much that turns you on but I need you to tell me – Are you sure?”

You nodded eagerly, darting your tongue out to lick at him. “I am sure, alpha,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the tip, “I promise.”

“If it is too much, tap my thigh three times, understood?”

You nodded again, shifting on your makeshift pillowed. Your thighs were already drenched at this point and you wondered whether you could come just from sucking him off. It seemed like you would be able to do a lot of things when it came to Paz.

His grip on your face loosened just the tiniest bit. “Open up for me,” he ordered, pulling your face towards him, “There we fucking go. Gorgeous.”

“I will never tire of this sight,” he groaned, “You struggling to take my size, trying to be so good for me,” he shifted, his hips surging forward and you smiled with pride when you did not gag this time, “Can I go deeper, love? Is that okay?”

With your position between his legs, your jaw wide open around him, you could not really nod. But Paz seemed to recognize the excited twinkle in your eye because you could hear the grin in his voice when he muttered a “Stars, you’re perfect.”

You took great care to keep your breathing even and through your nose, experimentally swirling your tongue around him every time he pulled out of your mouth. His thrusts grew heavier, his hold on you tighter and you swore you were this close to coming just from the sheer sight of his shaft covered in the sheen of you.

It was not long before he came in thick spurts on your tongue. You struggled to swallow it all, your throat working overtime as you did your best to swallow around him. “Good girl,” he praised you, “My good fucking girl.”

Your heart jumped in your chest as you licked him clean, not quite ready to let go of this intimacy.

His hand came to your chin, gently scooping up some of the come that had spilt from your lips. “Here you go,” he offered his coated thumb and you sucked the digit into your mouth without hesitation. You could never get enough of his taste.

“Let’s retire for the night, love,” he suggested, “We have a long day ahead of us.”

*

By the time you got settled in your bunk, you knew it was only a few hours before everything would start. Before you had to say goodbye.

Paz had excused himself, leaving you to get ready for bed alone before he appeared by your side, dressed completely in his armour.

“Are you okay?”

“Said goodbye to Ragnar,” he explained, sitting down on the little cot, hunching his shoulders over so he would not hit his head.

“Oh.”

Somewhere behind the curtains, someone snored.

Paz grunted when he laid down, his giant arm reaching out and pulling your back to his front.

“Is this okay?” you asked quietly, “It’s a tight fit.”

“It’ll be okay,” he murmured, grunting when he pulled the curtain closed, “I will not spend my last night without my calmer.”

“Aren't you uncomfortable?” you asked, your voice small, “With – with the armours and me and all the …”

“I will not spend my last night without my calmer,” he repeated, leaving no room for doubt. It took a bit of shuffling to turn you around but when you finally were facing him, you already felt much better. You tucked your face into his neck, breathing in his scent as he wrapped both arms around you.

Your heart was squeezing so hard in your chest that the emotional pain became physical.

What if this was his last night? What if you would never see him again?

And what if you did? Would it ever be like this again? Would he want to keep you as his calmer (or more?) when Mandalore was finally reclaimed?

Paz shifted, his large hands running over your back until one settled at the back of your neck.

“I got you,” he rumbled, “You’ll be safe, omega, I promise.”

You swallowed away the need to tell him that it wasn’t your safety you were worried about.

 *

The next morning was worse. It barely qualified as morning and you were sure you had not found any sleep. You had just been shifting all night from side to side, desperately burying your nose in his neck to soak up every little bit of his scent that he could give you.

You were not sure if Paz had slept either but when the alarms sounded in the room at the same time, it took him a minute to get up. Everyone was shuffling around the packed room silently, most of them already dressed and armoured. Ready to descend to the surface of Mandalore.

Despair was clawing at your insides. You felt like you were watching something from the outside that you knew would fail. That you knew would destroy everything you held close to your heart.

And yet, you watched helplessly as they lined up, preparing to board the ship that would take them into the atmosphere.

It was silent – eerie – as if everyone knew something big was about to happen. And you couldn’t move from his side. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. You needed to be here with him.

You watched as Paz double-checked his weapons and your mouth quirked up as you remembered how the man had seemed like a weapon on his own the very first time you had seen him. And how true it was, now that you saw guns and rifles packed to every piece of his armour that could carry it.

Your smile fell just as quickly as it had appeared. Would this be the last time you got to see him?

You had been scared a lot of times in your life. Like when your parents had taught you how to swim and you had been convinced you would sink to the bottom of the sea. Or when you had taken a bad fall in one of the hiding places and scuffed your knee. But that childish fear of creatures and heights was nothing compared to the existential dread that settled in your stomach.

It wasn’t fear that something could go wrong it was fear that you knew something was going to go wrong.

And could you really risk this?

“You, uh, you will come back, right?” you whispered, already hating how needy you sounded. But you needed to hear him say it. You needed Paz Vizsla’s words to be the ones to tie you to the hope of a future together.

“Someone already scared for me?” Paz tilted his head and while you knew this was supposed to be a joke, his voice did not sound very light. Like he knew it too. That feeling.

“Well, I mean you have Ragnar,” you shrugged, pulling the cloak closer around you, “And I mean your tribe needs you, you are a great warrior and –“

“Exactly,” he interrupted you gently. You watched as he approached you, his steps heavy and measured and you swallowed. “I am a great warrior,” he repeated with his fingers under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him, “Which is why I will come back to you.”

“But –“

“Listen to me,” he whispered, his hand cupping the side of your neck, scenting you so gently your eyes fluttered close, “I vow to the stars, I will come back to you, love.”

That was the last thing he said to you before he boarded the ship.

*

If somebody asked you what happened during the time you were waiting, you would not be able to tell them. As soon as Paz embarked on the with the scouting group, it felt like time stood still. You barely knew what you were doing. You were pacing the entire length of the ship it seemed, Ragnar keeping you company for a few of those pacing trips before he distracted himself by playing with the other foundlings.

You tried to approach your feelings rationally. You had spent a lot of your time these past few days in close proximity with Paz. He was an alpha, you were an omega, obviously there were some biological components that could have contributed to your feelings for him.

But that was exactly it. Your feelings …

At the thought of Paz not coming back, it felt like your heart ripped into two. You could not fathom a world without him in it and, more importantly perhaps, you could not fathom your life without him in it. You wanted him to come back and when all the tribes settled in their parts of Mandalore, you wanted to be as close to him as now. You wanted to spend your evening with him and Ragnar and you wanted to know what his days were like, what his role was in his clan.

Whether he wanted to keep you in his life as well.

Waiting was pure torture. Communications were cut and all that remained was the cold silence of the ship. You avoided the cockpit and strategy meetings, Briggs (thankfully) seemed to understand your reluctance and did not press you on the matter. Until Axe Woves came to warn the ship of the Imperial that had settled on the planet and the fight that had broken loose.

That was the meeting you had insisted on attending, hoping that – in whatever capacity – the stoic alpha might drop some comments about the people on the surface.

“Is,” you swallowed, “Is he well?”

The beskar-clad man, much to your frustration, said nothing at all.

Which was not very helpful.

The fight continued and troops were dispatched and you stayed, keeping the foundlings safe and quiet. In fitful dreams, you heard yourself confessing your love to him just before he disappeared never to return again. You woke up with cold sweats until you crawled into his bunk, pressing your nose into his pillow and willing yourself to think of a future in which he came back to you unharmed.

Sometimes, you could hear Sluice and Chants converse about what to do if it all failed. Whether to settle back in Nevarro was another possibility or if the tribes should stick together to find a new home.

All you could think was that you would not leave Paz on this planet.

You could not leave him.

It was morning when the announcement came. You had buried yourself in his cot, his sheets pressed to your nose as you took trembling breaths when the PA system stuttered to life, the mechanical voice echoing through the empty hallways.

You had retaken Mandalore. The air was breathable and you could safely land on the surface to meet the victorious troops.

The joy and excitement that spread through your entire body could not be described. Nothing could happen to wipe the smile off your face as you frantically searched for the one good dress you wanted to wear when you saw Paz again. You wanted to please him and kiss him and tell him you loved him. And maybe, if you were very lucky, he loved you too.

Stars, how you hoped he would.

But that elation stopped short when you set foot onto Mandalore. You could not even look at the surrounding landscapes, the fallen home of your ancestors – when you spotted the group but no Paz. A quick glance around did not reveal him either and suddenly the feeling of dread was back again.

Briggs was standing there too, and you knew the man long enough that when you saw his eyes getting glassy at your sight, he did not need to say anything anymore for the tears to fall.

This was it then.

You always wondered what it would feel like to live with a broken heart. Now you knew.

The pain in your heart was unbearable and you suddenly wished that you had never left the bunk this morning. That you were still curled up in his scent and his blankets without the knowledge that the alpha you wanted to spend your life with was dead.

“Where is my buir?” Ragnar asked somewhere behind you and you could hear it in his voice. How he tried to sound strong but he was just a child. A child without his father.

He made his way to the front and stopped by your side. You put your hands on his shoulder.

“I am sure he will be fine,” you assured him, not believing your own words, “He – he must have … another mission somewhere, right?” you looked to Axe Woves who avoided your gaze, “Right?”

Ragnar grabbed your hand. “Bu said if he is late, I need to distract you.”

“What? Why?”

“Because we're family,” he said it so effortlessly, “and because I know he will come back but you might worry and you shouldn’t worry.”

You were not sure what happened first: the stopping of your heart or the break in your breath. Paz told him you were his family? Ragnar considered you … his family?

“Do you wanna play a board game?” the boy asked and the breath rushed back into your lungs, “Bu taught me a few games for when I wait for him to come back.”

“He did?” you asked, your voice faint as you followed him back to where someone had set up a small open-air cantina at the ramp of the ship. You ignored the looks Briggs and Chants gave you. Ignored the way that Bo Katan bowed her head as if to pay respect to you as if you had something to mourn.

Not now, you told yourself as your heart cracked in your chest. Maybe tomorrow you could bury yourself in Paz’s bunk, breathing in his scent until there was nothing left but your own grief.

Tomorrow, you promised yourself, Tomorrow I will know he is dead.

*

The sun was setting over the mountains and Ragnar made no sign of stopping the game anytime soon. He had patiently explained the elaborate card game to you before dealing the cards. And then he had continued to play with you the entire day. Sometimes, people joined you for a round or two. The first had been Din Djarin – the man with the green baby. He had not said anything but you could feel the sadness coming off him in waves.

Then there had been The Armourer who had stayed for only one round, occasionally speaking to Ragnar about his helmet ceremony (the first having been interrupted only a few weeks prior). She was followed by Sluice, Bo Katan and finally, Briggs.

“Mind if I join?” the older man had asked, only sitting down when you nodded.

“Not at all,” Ragnar spoke up, relieving you of the to find the energy, “Do you know the rules?”

Briggs had left after two rounds, his warm hand on your shoulder the only indication of what he had come here to say. My condolences for your loss.

The tears had burned hot in your eyes but you forced yourself to keep playing. Ragnar won most rounds and the one he did not, you were fairly sure he lost on purpose. “No worries,” he assured you with childish wisdom, “Sometimes it takes a little longer to get the rules.”

“That is okay,” you forced yourself to smile, “How about we take a break for some food?”

“Good idea!” the boy jumped up, “I will get some of the berries and you stay here and watch the cards!”

Before you could protest, he had raced to the small buffet table.

You both welcomed and feared the moment of solitude this afforded you. It allowed you to take a deep breath, to let your shoulders and your guard fall. Maybe even a few tears if you were quick about it. You did not want Ragner to see you like this. He seemed to be determined that his father was alive and well – that he would return – that you could not bear to be the one to break his heart.

“Bu!” Ragnar shouted and you whipped around immediately. It took you a moment to find Ragnar but when you did, he had his arms wrapped around the legs of a large man. A man dressed in dark blue armour.

 “Paz,” you sighed, feeling tons lighter. Ragnar threw himself at his father who caught him though you did not fail to notice the way his legs almost buckled.

Stars he was hurt.

A new wave of panic washed over you and you did not realise you had stood up until the stoll toppled behind you. Several pairs of eyes were on you but you only cared about one.

Paz set Ragnar down and whispered something to him. You watched as the boy nodded, skipping off to Din and the Armourer. And then Paz walked towards you. Though walk seemed too weak a word for the way his heavy steps came closer and closer, his looming figure soon right in front of you.

Paz was right in front of you.

“You,” he growled, taking your hand without slowing his stride, “Come with me.”

“Paz, what happened?” you asked, trying to look him over, “Are you hurt? Did – Were those Imperials we spotted on the radar? Axe Woves and Briggs and – oh stars, we need to get you checked out and wait – are you bleeding? Where does it hurt maybe I can –“

A door swished open and you glanced around in confusion. This was not the infirmary. This was not even a proper room if the cleaning supplies on the shelves were anything to go by.

“Paz, you need – oh!” your hands gripped his shoulders tightly when he lifted you onto a surface. Was it a table? A counter? Stars, you could not bring yourself to care. Not when he was standing in front of you, panting like he had the fight of his life behind him.

Which he probably did.

Your heart clenched again, from fear or joy you could not tell.

His large hand fiddled with your dress and with a rip, your entire front piece was hanging off you in tatters.

“Alpha,” you cried, moving your hands from his shoulders to his chest, “Alpha, are you all right? I was so worried.”

The big man stepped between your open legs and you took a deep breath. The smell of adrenaline burned your nose but you could not help but notice the arousal that was in the air as well. He was angry and determined and the way he did not even look at his hands when he tugged on his belt made you glad you were already sitting down.

“Keep calling me that and I will be,” he grunted, opening the snaps of his armour and finally his fly.

Your eyes were fixated on his hand around his cock. “Pull down your dress,” he instructed instead, “I want to see your tits.”

You hurried to do so, almost ripping the fabric entirely in the process but you could not care less. Not when you had your dream of an alpha standing between your open legs, getting ready to fuck you. The ruined fabric pooled around your hips and the cool air made your nipple pebble. But then Paz was right there, the bulk of his body between yours and you could feel his cock against the inside of your thigh.

He pushed the tip of his cock against your folds, slowly circling your clit and you whimpered. Why did everything he did feel so good? “Ready?” he asked, spreading your wetness around and you found yourself wishing that you could see. That you could see how big he was against you, how his hand gripped himself, how his brows might furrow in determination and the set of his lips as he pushed inside you.

But you could not have everything in life. And for this moment, the feeling of his cock stretching your walls was enough. He was here, he was alive and he made you feel so stars forsaken good.

“Fuck,” you sighed, “Paz …”

“That’s good, huh?” he grumbled, slowly pulling out before pushing back in. You could feel your walls ease around him, your juices covering his shaft and the gland on your neck pulsed with the need to have him scent you.

He remained still for a few moments and you took a deep breath, breathing him in again and trying to get yourself to realize that he was alive. Your alpha was alive.

Paz started to move, then, and slowly pushed inside you again before building up a steady rhythm that had him deep, deep inside you. And all you could think, between bouts of pleasure, was that he was alive. Paz was alive.

“Fuck,” you whispered, your hand shaking as you gripped the edge of the table, overcome with emotion, “A-alpha, I was so scared. “

A particularly hard thrust had your hands fly around his neck. “I was protecting you,” he replied, his voice shaking, “You were never in any danger, omega, I would not allow it.”

“I wasn’t scared for me, you di’kut,” you cursed as you hastily wiped away the tears streaming down your face, “I was scared for you!”

Paz grunted at your admission, pushing inside you again and pulling you as close as he could with the armour in the way. “And I was scared of never seeing you again,” he confessed into the darkness between your faces, “That I was breaking my promise to you.”

“Wh-What,” you gasped, feeling his cock grow inside you, “Alpha, what is happening?”

“Oh fuck,” he grunted, “Sorry, ‘mega, sorry, I didn't mean to – oh shit, love, you gotta stop squeezing me.”

Easier said than done. In fact, it seemed impossible. Because as soon as you realized that it was his knot swelling inside of you, all you could think about was what it would be like to be knotted by him. Which turned you on beyond belief.

The mental image of him filling you up to the brim, the giant size of him staying inside you, made your walls flutter and your high approach so much faster. Paz’s movements did not stop and you could feel the ring at his base growing and growing, catching on your entrance with every thrust and making you yearn to keep him inside.

“Alpha, will you – Can you – oh!” he hit that spot inside you again that made your blood sing and you fell back against the wall, completely at his mercy.

And then the light went out.

Your body tensed with fright and you squeaked, thinking something had gone horribly wrong. But Paz did not seem deterred and you faintly remembered that the light switch was somewhere on his side of the room.

There was a sound you could not pinpoint, followed by a loud clatter and then his hand was at the back of your neck, pulling you to him and you squirmed at how he folded you in half, his cock still nestled deep inside you and then he was … kissing you.

You gasped, the feeling of his lips familiar against yours and everything you had dreamed of.

“Fuck it feels good to fill you up,” he murmured, the praise making your cheeks warm.

Your legs were still trembling around his hips and you tightened your hold around his neck. Your nose bumped against his scent gland. Add that to the feeling of his smile against your shoulder and even retaking Mandalore could never rival the feeling of being scented by him.

“That good, huh?” he teased you, his lips moving against your skin.

He had some stubble that tickled your sensitive skin and you gasped, the sensation opening you up even more.

And then he pushed inside you one last time as you came around him. The knot at his base swelled with no signs of stopping, locking you together as he filled you up. You shivered at the feeling of him twitching inside you, spurts of come filling you up in a way you had never experienced before, increasing the pressure inside you that made your walls clench. He continued to rut against you, causing your clit to rub against his pelvis again and again, prolonging your peak.

After what felt like an eternity, you came down from your high, relishing in the feeling of him still pulsing inside of you. It was strange, something you had never experienced before, but the closeness made you sigh contentedly against his lips.

Paz was quiet save for a few grunts, his hands grabbing your hips, keeping you as close as possible.

“I’ve never been knotted before,” you admitted between kisses.

“Really?” Paz asked, his mouth pausing on yours, “How does it feel?”

“It feels kinda nice, alpha,” you whispered, pulling his face closer to yours again.

Paz did not say anything for a moment, his laboured breath loud in the small room. Then his hands cupped your face and you could feel his eyes on you and you wondered if he was able to see you despite the darkness. Probably not, after all, it was his visor that usually enabled him to do so. But he made you feel seen with how his thumbs brushed over the apples of your cheeks, still wet with tear tracks or how his lips softly landed on yours.

“I don’t think I told you yet,” he said against your mouth, “But you are beautiful. To me, you are the – the most stunning omega I have ever seen. When I was down there – when I … I dreamt of what it would be like to see you with my own eyes.”

A flutter started in your chest. An awful flutter of hope that had you thinking of futures beyond the next few days. He could not mean what you thought he meant, right?

“But you helmet –“ you started, trying to rationalize away the hope in your voice.

But Paz had other plans. “I want to court you,” he said, sounding as determined as ever, “Stars, I want to properly court you, love, whatever that entails for your clan but I asked Briggs and –“

“What?”

“I wanted to make sure that I did everything right,” he explained, his hand warm on your back, “So I asked him about any customs I might have to know, that last night before we left and – and for a second there it looked like I would never get to ask you. But I can, love, I can ask you now. Will you let me court you, ‘mega? Will you let me spend the rest of my life with you and Ragnar and all the other foundlings the stars let us have?”

“You – you want children, too?” you asked, feeling like the breath was stolen out of your lungs, “M-more than Rganar, I mean?”

You could feel his smile against your neck, the tip of his nose buried in the valley beneath your ear. “Course I do,” he confirmed, “Ragnar is the biggest gift of my life, I won't say no to that joy again.”

A laugh bubbled up in your chest and you could feel your walls clench around him. Paz moaned, his cock twitching inside you. “Is that a yes, then?” he asked carefully, his hand wandering up to cup the back of your neck. He moved away from you,

“Yes,” you breathed out with the biggest smile on your face, “Yes, Paz.”

The scent that surrounded you made you euphoric and you realized that it had been Paz all along. That sweet scent that made your heart beat faster and a smile appear on your lips? Paz fucking Vizsla.

“Open your eyes, mesh’la,” he asked you quietly, his breath warm on your face, “Look at me, sweetheart.”

And you did. Your eyes blinked open and it took you both an eternity and a second to get your eyes used to the seemingly blinding light of the storage room. But then your eyes met his and you saw Paz Vizsla for the first time.

He had dark eyes, just like you had daydreamed, and his hair looked just as soft as it had always felt. It was matted to his forehead in places and he looked … exhausted, like he had not slept in days. There were bruises on his cheekbones and you could see some dried blood and dirt on his jaw. But all of that was overshadowed by the brightest, biggest grin on his face.

It made the corners of his eyes crinkle and you could not help but smile back, absolutely in awe of the man in front of you. What were you supposed to say the first time you saw the face of the man you had fallen hopelessly in love with?

“You are handsome,” is what you settled on finally, carefully brushing your fingertip over his crooked nose.

He huffed out a laugh, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “Thank you, my love,” he rumbled and your heart skipped a beat at him calling you his. Because you were, truly, whether you had realised it before or not, his.

“I love you,” you blurted out, feeling oddly shy.

“I love you too,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, “There is no version of this life in which I do not love you.”

“You will have to tell me about your scars,” you whispered, your eyes roaming over his face, catching on one that cut through his eyebrow, “Every single one.”

“I will,” he promised, kissing you again, “We have a lifetime for it.”

[redwritesx]

It's Heaven, Bitch - Chapter 2

Read on AO3

Adam Hazbin Hotel x Reader

Story Summary: Reader is new to Heaven and assigned to work underneath Adam. Adam takes an interest in them, exploiting the power imbalance that comes with it and enjoying it like the misogynistic sadist he is. Story warnings: Mature MDNI -Adam is an asshole, he can often be manipulative, controlling, misogynistic and just overall a jerk -Power imbalance and dom/sub themes -Dubious consent at times -Age gap (by literally thousands of years) but nothing underage Chapter Summary: Emily continues helping you learn more about the Seraphim Hall and your new role, and you get a proper introduction to Adam.

★゜・。。・゜゜・。。・˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★

You wake at the perfect time to the chirping of birds outside your balcony, it always seemed they began their twittering a couple of minutes before your alarm was due to go off.

Stretching your arms and small wings with a yawn, you sling your legs over the edge of the bed, urging yourself up to get ready for the day. You quickly shower and go through the motions of your morning routine before slipping into your work uniform.

They had provided you with a few sets on your first day of work. It was a simple white button-up shirt, tucked crisply into a dark grey pencil skirt. Other than that you had been free to choose your own shoes and accessories, within reason of course. You were still working in a professional environment and it was expected of you to maintain a composed and well-put-together appearance.

Yesterday hadn’t been the best of days for you after you had unintentionally bumped into (quite literally) one of the most important beings in the Great Hall.

But you were determined not to let that throw you off, just like Emily said, you had to continue giving it your best and it would all work out for you. It had to work out eventually right? After all, this was Heaven!

With a renewed enthusiastic outlook, you sprang down the stairs of your apartment building to the ground floor and began your short walk to work. You were glad to have been given an apartment so close to the Great Seraphim Hall, given the fact you weren’t yet able to conjure portals or fly as a newbie.

You push through the golden front doors of the building and climb the single set of stairs that led to the floor your office was situated on. Before you can enter your office door, Emily practically side-swipes you.

“Heyyy! Good morning, how are you!”

She’s cheery as ever, her optimism almost infectious.

“Hey Em” You laugh, feeling warmth in your chest at being close enough to the young Seraphim to use friendly nicknames with her.

“I’m pretty good, how about you?”

“I'm simply wonderful! I wanted to come get you first thing as I realised no one has officially shown you the mailroom yet, so I thought it’d be good to get that out of the way this morning. The room tends to get busy throughout the day”

She smiles sweetly at you.

“Oh yeah, sure! Sounds good -”

Not even a millisecond passes after the final syllable leaves your lips and she snatches your hand in hers, skipping through the corridors and back down to the ground floor with you in tow.

You reach the mailroom, a large marble archway marking the entrance. As you follow Emily inside your breath is taken away by the scale of the room, it's almost like something out of a fairytale.

The ceiling stretches up exceptionally high and has beautiful paintings covering it depicting angels dancing in a garden filled with lush foliage and vibrant flowers.

Seemingly endless golden shelves line nearly every inch of the walls, save for a few spaces where there were more marble archway entrances. They were lined above the one you had just entered through, 3 more stacked on top of each other all the way up to the ceiling.

That made sense, so the mail room was accessible from all main floor levels, which seems about right considering there were at least 4 stories between floor and ceiling in this room.

The only catch being you’d have to fly into the mailroom from any exit that wasn’t on the ground floor as those entrances held no floors or balconies of any type, they simply led to the open air of the room.

The room already had a few angels fluttering gracefully back and forth, collecting and depositing packages from various shelf levels. It almost seemed a somewhat antiquated process, you pondered what kind of system was in place to keep on top of where everything was in the massive room.

“All incoming mail goes on this side of the room, and outgoing on the other side” Emily turns her back to you and runs a delicate finger along one of the shelves as she speaks.

“It looks complicated at first but it’s easy to get the hang of, I promise”

How you were going to ‘get the hang’ of collecting or depositing anything on shelves above the ground floor level you weren’t so sure.

You absentmindedly take a few steps backwards as your eyes slowly wander all the way up to the very highest shelf, the sharp angle you hold your gaze at making your head spin with vertigo.

You suddenly gasp and abruptly stop as your back gently bumps into something soft and tall. Before you can process it or make another move, a familiar mask leans forward into your field of vision directly above your head, the face wearing a grin.

You yelp and jump away like you had touched hot lava and back up a good few steps. Before you stood the man from yesterday, the Adam. He’s leaning casually against the archway with his arms crossed while watching you.

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this, babe” He quips and you blush hard.

His more gentle and teasing tone was at least better than the livid outburst you’d been on the receiving end of in your last encounter.

“I’m sorry!” You want to cringe at the way you practically squeak.

Emily has turned to you both now, a glint of warning in her eye directed at the first man.

“You’re here early, Adam” She says in an almost accusing tone.

“I work when I wanna, Em-ster. Today I just so happened to feel up for an early start, don’t get used it”

She scoffs but there is a small hint of amusement there.

“Well, since you’re here then it’d be great to officially introduce you to the new assistant that Sera and I informed you of”

She’d mentioned you to him? You wonder if that was before or after you knocked his drink all over him, the memory does nothing to help the blush on your cheeks.

She gives your back a small and reassuring touch, coxing you towards the intimidating man.

“This is Adam” She continues, although both of you knew you had already learnt his name.

You tentatively reach out a hand.

“It’s nice to meet you”

You force a smile, still a little shaken from the interaction you had with him yesterday. His yellow glowing eyes flicker down to your hand and you briefly worry he might leave you hanging.

But he breaks the awkward silence and reaches forward, grabbing your hand in his own gloved one. It practically swallowed yours whole, the size difference between the two of you was rather prominent.

He shakes it, albeit weakly.

“Sure, nice to meet ya, ‘assistant’”

There’s a patronising edge to the way he says your job title.

“What’s she even assisting with anyways?”

He directs the question to Emily but before she can answer his fingers suddenly tighten around yours and he reels you in closer to him.

“I’m sure I’ve got a few things I could use a hand with” He snickers and shoots you a suggestive wink.

You snatch your hand back, blush now burning hot, and stumble back a few steps again.

This...this is the first mortal man? It felt like you were being flirted with by a 20-year-old at a modern age bar, not like you were speaking with the most ancient human soul in all of Heaven.

“Adam, cut it out”

Emily’s tone is stern, but it also comes across as if she’s not at all surprised. Was he like this with everyone...or every female at least?

“She’s going to be helping with all sorts -”

The Seraphim continues casually, definitely not at all shocked at the man’s behaviour like you were.

Adam pushes off from the archway and begins stalking towards you in a slow, sauntering manner as Emily speaks.

“- like arranging meeting rooms, supporting with paperwork, organising people’s schedules...”

He’d begun to slowly circle behind you and Emily was in her own world, eyes cast off to the side and she lists through some of the tasks that you’d be doing.

You don’t dare turn to follow the man with your gaze, not wanting to look scared or defensive. However, that’s exactly how you feel when he has completely disappeared somewhere behind you.

“aannddd..” Emily taps a thoughtful finger to her lips, trying to think of anything else worth adding to answer the man’s question.

You squeak when hands are suddenly on your wings, tugging them outwards and forcing them to spread - putting your meagre wingspan on display.

“Collecting mail from shelves level 1 to 3?”

He asks mockingly, referencing your inability to fly or even reach up high while standing.

Although embarrassingly you see that looks about right when you glance over to the closest shelves to you, the third shelf would probably be just about reachable on your tiptoes.

You snatch your wings out of his grasp and spin to face him, backing up once again this time feeling more annoyed than fearful. Your face must’ve conveyed as much too, as the strange mask he was wearing morphs from an amused grin to a mocking pout.

“Awh did I ruffle the wittle baby’s teeny-tiny feathers?”

“What-…I am NOT a ‘baby’!”

You snap in disbelief at his belittling comment. The man rolls his eyes.

“Yea, right, and I’m not 10,000 years old. You got here, what, a week ago?”

You neither confirm nor deny, still staring him down with your fists balled up, trying to ignore the way ‘10,000 years old’ makes your stomach sink.

“Exactly, you’re a fuckin’ baby”

Before you can snap back again Emily interrupts.

“The word you’re looking for is ‘new’, Adam. She’s new and still settling in, so find it within your cold, dead heart to be nice”

You so badly wished you had the bravery to speak back to him the way Emily did, but you knew she outranked him and therefore had the privilege. Unlike you.

“Damn Em-ilicious, don’t go hurting my feelings like that babe. This is me being nice”

His eyes flick back to yours again.

“You’ll know when I’m not being nice”

You hate that he’d directed that sentence your way, it almost felt like a subtle warning and you can’t help but shrink and look away.

The violent mood swings you’d been through so far with this man gave you whiplash. From the livid outburst yesterday, to playful flirting, to mean taunting, to low-key threats...

You didn’t know how to keep up with it all, let alone what you’d done to deserve to be on the receiving end of it. A small voice at the back of your head perks up and reminds you what Emily had said yesterday, about how ‘Adam’s an asshole with everyone’. Maybe that was really just it, this was just how this guy was?

“Alright Adam, I think you’ve terrorised the girl enough for today. We have plenty of other things to be getting on with this morning” Emily seemed intent on ending the interaction much to your relief.

“Whatever you say, Em-sy” He comments nonchalantly and then presses his gaze your way again.

It’s only now you realise his mask is some kind of sleek screen, a very impressive one at that. The eyes and mouth on it were made up of dancing pixels that somehow morphed perfectly and without delay to convey whatever the face underneath was expressing.

“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon, short-stuff”

He grins and winks once more before opening his huge golden wings, only requiring two powerful flaps to reach the highest-up exit of the mailroom. The power of the wind from his departure nearly knocked you down entirely.

You give it a moment to ensure he was definitely out of earshot before speaking.

“He uh…he sure does come up with a lot of unique nicknames, huh?” You turn to Emily, and she shoots you the most exasperated look ever.

“Oh don’t even get me STARTED. When I met him, I made the mistake of introducing myself and telling him he could call me ‘Em’…Ever since then it’s been nothing but Em-ster, Em-ilicious, Em-sy, Em-this, Em-that, UGH!”

You have to stifle a giggle at her outburst, it’s rather cute, although you feel sympathetic.

Something she had said causes your ears to perk up too.

“When you met him? Like, you weren’t around..before him? M-maybe that’s a stupid question, I don’t know – “ You nearly back out feeling incredibly uneducated.

She smiles sweetly as usual and shakes her head, a beckoning hand reaching to call you to walk with her as she leads you out of the mailroom.

“Not at all, always ask questions! We don’t expect you to get all this stuff right away of course”

You nod, following her lead through the hallways, unsure of your next destination but trusting her all the while.

“But yes, I am technically a couple-thousand years younger than Adam. Many Seraphim were around before him, before Earth, before it all. But not all Seraphim, some of us have come into divine creation since those times”

You nod again, head swimming with all this new knowledge.

“So, needless to say, I’ve been where you are right now. Learning all about Heaven and everything that comes with it...As well as learning how to handle Adam”

The fact that it almost seemed she was suggesting ‘learning all that encompasses Heaven’ and ‘learning how to deal with Adam’ were on the same level nearly made you burst out in disbelieving laughter. He certainly was...a character.

Before you realise it you and Emily had reached a door, one that looked different from the normal conference room doors. Emily entered first, holding it open for you to follow.

As you walk inside you see it's simply a large empty hall. Once again the ceiling is rather high, but the floor completely empty. The left wall of the hall was lined with a tall, continuous mirror that ran the entire wall length, the right side lined with grand, stained-glass windows.

There were many aspects of the Great Seraphim Hall that gave off almost magical qualities, it sometimes felt the rooms inside were impossibly endless for what the exterior architecture suggested…it would be a question for another day.

“This particular hall is used for a lot of things, but, I thought it’d be a great place to help you get a head start on portal training!”

Your eyes widen a touch.

“Like, I’m going to be making portals…’open’?”

You weren’t even sure of the correct terminology to use, it all felt so soon for this. But Emily puts your worry to rest.

“No no, you’re not going to be summoning portals, silly!”

Her words are entirely light-hearted.

“Just moving in and out of them. I know they only cover this briefly at the intro, that’s because most regular newbies don’t really need to know how to use portals so soon. They can ease into it over their first few years”

The young Seraphim guides you to the centre of the room.

“I’m afraid for you however, it’s going to quickly become a necessity, at least for you to be able to use the portals others summon for you!”

The girl gestures forward.

“Let’s start small”

She clicks her dainty fingers and you see two portals open in front of you, only a few feet between the both of them.

“Enter one, and you’ll exit the other. Simple! Go ahead and have a look”

You tentatively approach one of the portals, peering through you see the room you are in, but through the crackling frame of the portal. You shoot her a nervous look.

“It’s going to feel strange, always does at first. But the more you do it the easier it gets and the further you can travel via portal over time!”

You look back at the buzzing portal, it couldn’t be that hard right? You’d just step through and appear on the other side.

Without giving yourself time to think it through any further you shut your eyes and hunch your shoulders before jolting forward into the portal.

Your head suddenly spins and your balance felt as if the floor had been pulled from beneath you, your legs crumbled underneath you and opening your eyes felt like a mistake. The room was now spinning wildly as if you were completely drunk, nausea building in the pit of your stomach.

But distantly, you noticed you had landed on the outside of the other portal. You had officially popped your portal cherry. It felt like utter shit.

Warm hands were on your shoulders, they helped ground you.

“That’s it! You did it! I’ve seen people literally pass out cold from their first time portalling this early after their arrival!”

Her words aren’t entirely reassuring, considering she held back that info until after you’d hurtled headfirst through her portal.

“Tha…That fucking s-sucked…”

You admit honestly. Somewhere distantly you feel as though you hear her giggle.

“It’s okay, just breathe. It’ll pass”

And it does pass. The moment it does, she wants you to do it again. You’re much more reluctant now given your first experience, but she assures you the worst is past you. And she was right.

Your next couple of tries at portaling the same distance are far more tolerable.

Pleasant? No. But tolerable.

She begins widening the distance between portals and it challenges you, but you feel your body and mind adjusting each time. You spend the next good couple of hours practising this with her, finding the progress you’re making to be slow but satisfying.

Eventually she claps two hands together happily, signalling the end of your session.

“That’s enough for today! You’ve made great progress, it’s going to take some time before I’d suggest using any kind of long-distance portal, but you’re headed in the right direction! We can practise more over the coming weeks. But right now I’d say it's time to grab lunch”

She was right, it was just gone 12pm. Time had completely slipped by you in your portal practice.

“I’d love to come along with you, but I’m afraid I have some stuff to go and take care of!”

Emily flutters up on her wings after exiting the hall with you, and you smile reassuringly.

“No worries, I know my way to the Food Court by now!” You reassure her.

She reaches down from her position hovering in the air and takes both of your hands into hers affectionately.

“You’re doing great. I’ll see you later alright? And don’t hesitate to give me a shout if you need me, anytime”

“O-of course. Thank you, Emily” You reply earnestly, genuinely so glad for a kind being such as her to be here for you in this situation.

She smiles warmly once more before turning and fluttering away on her six wings.

You weren’t lying, you did know your way to the Food Court, however you hadn’t eaten there alone yet. Your first few days Emily had shadowed you throughout your entire shift, and the two of you had gone together to collect some food from the Food Court to bring back to your office.

You hadn’t admitted it, but yesterday when she wasn’t there with you the entire day, you skipped lunch, feeling nervous to venture too far without support.

However you knew you couldn’t keep this up. You had to get used to working here eventually. It was just nerve-racking as the Food Court was a bustling place, especially at lunch hour, the idea of going there alone made your stomach churn with nerves.

You finally decide that if you can survive hurtling face-first into your first-ever portal, you can survive visiting the Food Court alone…What's the worst that could happen?

[l2vedive]

I LOVE YOU (SJY).

PAIRING: sim jaeyun/jake x fem!reader

GENRES: includes smut (minors dni), heavy angst, hurt no comfort, slowburn, one sided pining, fluff at the end, friends with benefits, classic communication issues trope, university au

WARNINGS: smut, profanity, making out, implied alcohol use, smoking, semi graphic descriptions of smut (fingering, thigh riding, handjobs, cunnilingus, slapping), one line for dirty talk, reader calls jake baby a lot, name calling (bitch and whore directed at someone), jake constantly gets played, made up female character, jake is hopelessly in love with reader (pls get up), reader is a walking red flag invented by park jaeeon, cheating if you squint, one sexual joke lol, other idols have guest appearances (yeonjun of txt, isa / chaeyoung of stayc, mentions karina of aespa), heeseung doesn't talk much i apologise 🙏🏻

SYNOPSIS: in which yn and jake are in a friends with benefits situation. sort of.

WORD COUNT: 9320 words.

PLAYLIST: here.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: aaaand it's finally here !!!! this was originally written for itzy which is still published on my ao3 acc , however , i decided to rewrite it for enhypen to get over my writer's block rhksjdjed . i hope you enjoy it regardless <33 the dialogue jake says in june is from richard siken's masterpiece "crush", which i suggest you read because it is a very good book. jake stans this one's for you !!! :DD

TAGLIST: @help-i-cant-find-a-username @cherrybxmbby @woozisnoots @fairyofhee @asyleums @cha0thicpisces @aliensrme @enhygene-phen @slut-4-jake​ @princesjy​ @axartia​​

i.

It's September when the papers on the desk slide down to the floorboards: the steel painted blue table is cold against your skin, almost burning you with intensity until Jake pulls you back up to his mouth by your hair, and has you pressed up on the wall just by his bedroom door. Jake's tongue smoothes over the fresh set of hickeys on the nape of your neck, your collarbone, your tits, and your chest bursts with fire with every touch and feel. It gets hotter when he hears the needy whines coming from you and, Oh my god, Jake thinks. I need to kiss her. I need to. Your jeans, that you never got to take off completely, are tangled by your feet and your thoughts stop when Jake slips another finger in, curling it just right.

"Fuck," You glance at the window over at Jake's shoulder, the light of your computer reflecting on the pane as the clock hits 12:00 AM.

"Hm?" Jake hums against you and it sends vibrations throughout your body, enough for him to hit the spot.

"Happy two years, pretty." Jake mumbles when he finally pulls away and puts his fingers in your mouth. The sight alone is enough for him to feel hot and bothered all over again as you suck off the boy's fingers. Jake smiles through his plump lips, smeared by your leftover lip gloss from when you kissed him earlier.

You hop on the beans of your toes as you get your jeans back up. Your bra's still hanging onto one shoulder and your shirt is nowhere to be found. The hickeys on your neck are still fresh and sore, forming hues of purple. Jake hands you his shirt instead. For you to wear and for you to take home to wear. (He sort of hopes you sleep in it too. Hopes you think of him before going to bed.).

You pop a cigarette in your mouth and he lights it up for you, leaning in close. His skin burns as the flame meets the hilt of his thumb and his heart sort of aches when you immediately soothe it with a kiss.

"Happy two years, Jaeyun," You say casually. "Do you have a wish this year?"

"None that I can think of," Jake replies. You watch, blowing smoke as he attempts to shrug a new set of clothes back on, running his hand through his disheveled hair. Out of habit, he moves to brush the strands of hair that might poke your eyes away before tucking it behind your ear delicately.

Jake loves you. Despite that this is always how it goes and not just everytime you celebrate your "friendship" anniversary.

Because with you this is always how it goes.

"Yeah, same," You say. Your eyes are dark and they're focused, playing into his. He knows. For as long as Jake has known you, you've always had one. And it is always a secret.

You always ask him first. So that when it's your turn to be asked, you can pretend. You can say no and end it there. Because that is always how it goes with you. You've got a habit of keeping skeletons in the closet even with your best friend.

But Jake isn't stupid. He always knows what you're up to. It's in the way of how you carry yourself after every fuck, how your eyes seem to lower and darken, how you don't fix up your hair neatly like you always do for school every morning, letting it fall just like that.

(He thinks you're setting up a metaphor for it. Like, you have this prim and perfect picture exterior to outsiders but when night falls, he gets the real you: unpredictable, messy, needy, full of want and unashamed to say it.).

Jake always knows.

He wonders if this is why you don't say anything. Jake wonders if this is why you always seem to hide from him, despite being friends since forever. He wonders why you look at him in ways he knows that would make him feel things, why you're picking up his shirt, helping him put it on, and giving him an open-mouthed kiss before walking out.

The bitter aftertaste settles on his tongue. "Please stay," Jake says. "I love you."

Instead, you hear it as, "Don't smoke and drive." 

ii.

It's October and Jake doesn't dress up for Halloween.

But you do, and you are undeniably hot in a skimpy impractical security officer uniform, with a devastating amount of cleavage that Jake wants his mouth on.

Jake had never really planned on going tonight, but he kind of had to, because all his friends were going and you were definitely going. He really wished he hadn't though. His friends are long gone, flirting with the other partygoers left and right, and by the time he has reached the bathroom to pee, he could hear obnoxious loud moans.

He is considering going home and slipping into his bed to watch a movie until you emerge from the crowd of people, looking pretty, hot and sexy as hell. Do not fucking look at her.

But it's no use because you're walking towards him with a devilish smirk tugging on your lips. "Hey, Jae," you say. "C'mere." You smell like fruit punch and alcohol and you're too close for Jake to be at ease.

You promptly push Jake onto the couch, plopping yourself onto his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck, your legs on either side of Jake's. It's hot in the room all of a sudden and Jake's breath hitches in his throat.

You're in public. Where people could see you. You never do anything sexual in public.

"YN," Jake starts. "What are you doing?" His brow furrows, obviously confused.

"Shut up," Your breath is in Jake's ear and it's warm and tingly and enough for the hairs behind his neck to stand. For his cock to twitch in his jeans. Jake finds that his hands are gripping your ass.

Jake moves his head away to look around the room before looking back into your eyes. You have contact lenses on and he feels like falling into it. But he knows that by the time he has, when you approach him on campus tomorrow, you won't remember anything. It's blue and it's powerful and it's pulling him in. He thinks blue suits you. His favourite colour with his favourite girl.

Despite his hazy view of you on top, Jake is about to stop you and ask what you mean until you lace a fistful of his hair in your hands behind his neck and kiss him.

And even though you've kissed a lot, this was extremely different. For so many reasons.

For one, oh my god. You are on his lap, half-naked with your ass in his hands and your tits pressed up close, and Jake actually prays his boner doesn't build up a tent through his jeans. Second, you're in public. And third, you never had sex in public. At least not with him. But now he gets to feel the experience of doing so in your kiss. You are so good. You are so fucking good . Jake knows that you know what you're doing with every soft bite on his bottom lip, every flick and suck of your tongue dancing with his, every moan devoured by him.

He's not so bad himself and he knows it too. You taught him how.

You aren't finished when you start grinding your hips against him and Jake fights every bone in his body to move with you. "Fuck, YN," And it comes out as a hiss rather than a warning. You were too good . Too addicting .

It's even harder when he feels your hand fall back and in between you both, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans, palming him through his boxers. "Come on, Jake," You say, but Jake feels like you're pushing him rather than asking. "Do you want this or not?"

So Jake lets you. For a second until he pulls away and is out of breath. His heart hammers inside of his chest and he's quick enough to get ahold of your hand, stopping you.

He moves to get up, pushing you off of his lap and embarrassingly, you stagger on your heels before falling on the couch. You don't say anything. And even though he's confused, you know he's pissed. You are too.

"I don't always want to fuck you, YN,"

"You're so boring," You say.

"And you're drunk," Jake replies, straightening his posture. Because when you got drunk, you were out like a mad woman. Between the two of you, he was the lightweight and that was actually how the two of you became friends; he was sure he could keep up with you the moment Heeseung had introduced the both of you to each other at his last house party, immediately taking an interest in you. Long story short, he liked you and you liked having him for company, and it just snowballed from there.

But for now, his mind is racing and his clothes suddenly feel tight on him—and no, it's not because of his boner—worse, his throat almost chokes up when he hears: "I'm sober." 

"I don't care," I do. I care so much. "I can't let you do this."

Suddenly, you get up, your faces in close proximity. Jake feels like it’s just the two of you in the room and if that were the case, he would've already screwed you all over the couch himself.

"You want to fuck me, Jake," You say lowly. Your face is stone cold and it almost feels like you're challenging him. (You are.). "I know you do."

Jake shakes his head. He looks at you and swallows. You almost allow yourself to break down all your walls for him with the way he's staring at you.

"Come on, Jaeyunie," You press, the cute tone hanging off the nickname you give him. "I know you want to." You giggle as you curl your finger around one of his belt loops, tugging him closer.

Your voice knocks him out of his windpipe and it's enough for him to know that he's failed from holding himself back. From getting mad at you.

"I do," Jake manages. "I love you, let's stop this. Let's go home."

But he says it like this: "No, I can’t do this tonight." And turns away, disappearing into the crowd.

iii.

It's November and it's raining.

You're all gathered around your living room, watching a horror movie that Jake knows he won't be paying attention to.

It's dark with all the lights off and it's creepier with the faint sounds of raindrops hitting the backyard's porch. There are only two sources of light, however. One from the television where Scream plays and another is from Jake's dimly lit side where you seemed to be texting under the blankets propped over the both of you.

It's quiet most of the time, except for the occasional bickering from Sunoo, who teases Jay for his reactions, and you look bored throughout the film. Jake is, too.

He is about to lean over and make a funny comment about the scene that was currently rolling on screen but he catches a glimpse of your screen and immediately, he feels guilty for looking. Because right there on your screen are messages between you and god knows who, and a picture of you almost topless.

And suddenly, you excuse yourself, phone in your hand before heading down the hallway to the bathroom. Jake doesn’t move, wondering if you knew he was looking. Instead, he waits and settles that you probably had an emergency to take care of.

It's been fifteen minutes and Jake grows worried. By now, almost everyone has fallen asleep and you still haven't gotten back from the bathroom.

Quietly, Jake tiptoes away from his position and instantly jogs down to the bathroom. It's silent and his heartbeat is loud in his ears; he's not sure why he's nervous. "YN?" He calls out. Nothing.

To his surprise, there's no one inside and the door is unlocked for her to look. It's empty and Jake swallows thickly. Once, twice and third is the hardest as he starts to panic. Where did you go?

Immediately, Jake heads upstairs to search for you in one of the rooms. He heads to yours first and it's locked. "YN?" He questions, knocking on the door. He can hear shuffling and movements, and Jake doesn't know what to think of.

"YN!" He raises his voice slightly, afraid not to wake the others up as he slams his hand against the door. No oxygen. No oxygen. It’s heavy, he's aching, his heart is a mess. Breathe, Jaeyun. Breathe . Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Breathe, Jaeyun. Fucking breathe.

The door swings open and he sees you half-naked in bed. In front of you, is Heeseung shuffling to get his pants up. Jake's eyes dart back and forth and the older boy slides behind him.

You say nothing at all as you sit up and put your hoodie back on.

"Hey, man," Heeseung says, but it comes out as a question. "I actually have to be somewhere else right now. See you, Jake." He's gone before Jake could reply.

Frozen, Jake doesn't say anything. It takes him a moment to process what just happened.

"I—," He starts. There is so much that he wants to say but nothing comes up. He feels dizzy almost and his nail beds are bloodied from piercing them into his skin. He releases when he feels your lips on his.

Your lips are soft and it's sweet, and it's nothing he's used to. He's so confused, god, you were so confusing. "I'm sorry," Jake blurts out, because nevertheless, he still loves you. So much.

"Don't be sorry, baby," You say fondly. "You got me." But I don't , Jake thinks . I don't get you. I can never have you.

His eyes are closed when he allows you to kiss him. To touch him so softly and whisper sweet nothings that he knows he'll never stop thinking about when he pictures your hand as his own when he gets himself off at night.

Jake knows that his friendship with you is unusual. You both know it. You turn up every day if you can, allow him to finger you until you're crying and writhing your hips, let him use your mouth on his cock in return until his entire body is rattling with aftershocks by the time he comes. You seem to get whatever you seem to want from him, and stupidly so, Jake allows you.

He loves you. And you hate him. He knows you do.

Jake breathes hard, and he's kind of embarrassed by how easy it is of him to completely melt under your touch. How easy it is for him to get turned on until he gets so primal, lust clouding his head and pulsing his veins. He suddenly realises your positions have switched as his back hits the duvet and he's tangling his hands into your hair, hands brushing down to tilt your chin and have you look at him in the eyes.

You giggle and teasingly untie the laces of his sweatpants, brushing your fingers softly near the areas Jake wants your hand to touch and more, trailing a teasing path that only makes him needier and harder than he already is. Your hand travels down his abdomen, carefully advancing its way into his boxers as you begin to pump his cock. Hot and spilling with pre-cum in the middle of his hips.

"Please kiss me again," He chokes out. "Kiss me like you mean it. Kiss me like you love me, even if it's just for tonight."

You hear it as: "Fuck, YN. Keep going, please."

It's chaos .

iv.

It's December and you have a boyfriend. And it's every December, every year that you have a boyfriend.

Jake is trying to busy himself with the nape of your neck and the way he breathes fans in your hair like he's tired. He is so tired.

You recognise it and kiss him more intensely, shoving him against the car window. Jake feels it and draws back, the taste of your cherry flavoured lip gloss lingering in his mouth, weighted on his tongue like a stray "I love you" caught between his teeth. You attempt to get Jake back into your hold, your hand sneaking underneath his hoodie, but Jake opens his eyes.

"Come on, Jaeyunie, we only have tonight."

"I don't want to do this anymore." Jake says.

You constantly keep the air conditioner on full throttle and never care about anybody else, except when you take what you want from them, and Jake is so fucking sick of it. You are self-centred and a cunt, and it takes it all out of him to not push you away again when you come leaning forwards, kissing him everywhere and pulling his hoodie up. Selfish, insistent, oblivious, insensitive.

"Can you stop?" Jake says, scooting back to the seat. "I'm so tired of this."

The car engine revs up and the lights flash for a second, igniting color into the dark neighbourhood. You hesitantly step on the gas pedal. "What's wrong, Jake?"

"I'm right here, always," Jake says. "I'm right fucking here, in front of you, next to you, and yet you don't see it. You never think of anyone else, YN. It's always about you."

You drum your fingers against the steering wheel and switch on your turn signal. There's another cigarette hanging on your lips. You drive down the lane and into the main road. You're going to drive in circles and it's a perfectly sick metaphor. (Another one to add in Jake's book.).

When the green lights come on, you pull slowly with the brakes and come to a dead stop at the yellow lights, constantly waiting for the red lights and stop signs so you can reach over the armrest and kiss him again.

"You know that's not true, baby."

"Stop that," Jake reprimands. "You know it is."

You take a drag and exhale out the smoke, not bothering to roll down the windows. You glance behind him in the street among the smoke and briskly pull over. "What the fuck is your problem today?" you ask, turning to him.

"Forget about it." Jake says. His skin stings where you've bruised him with your teeth. Where you've touched him. Where he pretends to say it hurts when he's screwing other girls so they won't touch him there. Won't touch him where you've marked him. He feels sick.

"Do you want to talk or are you going to leave?" You shuffle, rolling down the window and throwing out your cigarette. You're angry, Jake can see it.

"Do you have feelings for him?" Jake finally says. His voice embarrassingly breaks in reaction to the question, making him want to leave, walk away, throw up, and cry. You've barely made it back to the block.

You sigh, running your fingers through your hair. "Fucking hell."

"Just answer the question, YN." Jake replies.

"Of course, he's my boyfriend. You're my friend."

"Yeah, no shit, I am!" Jake says a little too loudly, sitting up and staring up at the mirror he's pulled down earlier. He's laughing and it's sour when he says: "God, you weren't kidding when you said you had an amazing sense of humour, were you?"

"Get out." You say. Your voice is so low Jake doesn't recognise you.

Jake pales and he's as white as your knuckles, grip tight on the steering wheel. "What?"

"You heard me, Jake. Get out of my car."

Jake reaches over for a kiss, trying to get you to kiss him again and forget about it. Trying to get you to fuck him over, and all over just like how he does when he fucks you until you both can’t think of anything other than each other's names.

You nod your head. "I gave you two choices. You chose this."

"No, I chose you," Jake seethes, suddenly angry. "I always, always fucking choose you."

"It's not like I asked you to." You snap, closing your eyes. You're too defeated, too tired of Jake's antics.

Heartbeat ringing in his ears, Jake falls back down on his seat. "You're unbelievable," He says. "I can't believe you."

You say nothing at all. It's quiet and it's too long until you turn the car off.

Jake stares at the road ahead of you. "I love you, I didn't mean it," he says.

He says it in this way: he puts his hoodie back on, pulls on the lock and pushes the door open, he gets out and slams it closed.

He cries the whole walk home.

&

It's still December when you're sprawled all over Chaeyoung's bed, watching the other girl type away her essay due upside down.

"You know, YN, someone called me baby the other day,"

You hum in response. "Yeah?" You ask, sitting up and lying on her stomach. "Who was it?"

"Some boy I kissed at Jimin-unnie's Christmas party."

The Christmas party in question is nothing special, just a gathering of friends at Yoo Jimin's place, at least that's what you remember Jake telling you over the phone. Jimin's Christmas parties were a hit and you knew how crazy it usually went. Her Halloween party that you attended last month too (the same one where you and Jake had a confrontation, the one that you remember, the one that always replays at the back of your head), proved how truly popular the girl was. 

Parties were usually your setting. You hung out with most of the popular crowds for this reason. You liked going out, dressing up and having the adrenaline rush kick in your body's system as the loud music booms in your ears and colourful lights wash over you and a bunch of other dancing bodies. You lied to Jake on the phone, laying out those reasons for your shitty excuse not to go. Besides, you weren't really interested in partying and dancing after what happened that night with him. You learn from Sunoo the next day that Jake didn't go either.

"Well," You start. "Jake calls me baby too." You say it like it's nothing and Chaeyoung immediately turns around.

Chaeyoung looks like she's choking down a laugh until she realises you're not following it up with something else. "Like, as a joke right?"

You stop drawing invisible stars on the girl's bed sheets, delaying a response. "Jake calls me baby. Only he calls me that," Your voice lowers down to a whisper, so fragile that it breaks. (A crack in the walls.). "I do too. When we're fucking around."

Chaeyoung blinks at you. "But you're his friend."

"I am. We're friends," You reply, sighing. "I know that."

"Well, if one of you likes the other—I'm assuming it's the both of you , by the way," Chaeyoung hesitates with the way you're blatantly staring at her. "Why won't either of you say anything about it?"

"Because I can't do that. We're strictly friends. You know me, Chae, I can't just change what we have. It's a bit more complicated than that." You're frustrated and you know you have no right to be for the way you've treated him. For the way you're still  treating him. It's not complicated, you think. He's a teenage boy and you're a girl. 

You're LN YN.

You always had things figured out.

Girls are always supposed to have the upperhand with these kinds of things. You learned this the hard way when Chaeyoung had called you during graduation night in high school when she had let her guard down and had a boy shatter her. You’ve always been protective of her; the same kind of energy had channelled into the way you’ve had your situationships, never spilling more than you let on.

You sit in silence for a few more seconds and Chaeyoung clears her throat, saying she has to get back to her work. Before you allow her to continue, you say: "I'll say it. I'll tell him I love him too."

You pronounce it as, "I'll be off. Good luck on your assignment, take a break when you can." before getting your stuff, heading out the door and downstairs, and finally leaving.

v.

It's January when Jake opens the front door and sees that you're parked on his driveway, leaning against your car. You both stay a good ten feet away from each other until you say: "Happy New Year, baby."

And Jake smiles, falling in love all over again, feeling ecstatic with the sudden rush of euphoria in his body. It's the summer-like smile, warm and nice, that shows you're being sincere. You walk over to him and tug him down by balling his white shirt into your fist, kissing him and smiling.

"YN," Jake says. There's an edge in his voice that makes him feel unsure, despite wanting you then and there. "People can see us. We're in public."

The smile on your face widens and it makes Jake's heart hurt. God, she is so beautiful. 

"Let them see. I don't care." You kiss and kiss, Jake pulling firmly on your shirt (his shirt) until you push yourself onto him and he walks you backwards into the house. Jake manages to kick the door shut with his shoe, mouth still on you as he drives you to the edge.

"Jake," You say as he runs his hands up your back, clutching you close to his chest. His heart. His face, pressed into the comforting skin between your neck and collarbone.

"Yeah," He says, more like a sigh.

You don't remember what you were going to say. " Shit , Jake, I—,”

Jake has his thigh locked in between your legs, pressing onto your core. The scene between you two is prodded perfectly against his warm skin. You can't think. You can't think at all.

Jake feels you grinding your hips up and down, rubbing your clothed cunt excruciatingly slow on his thigh and right over his crotch which earns him a mewl from you. Your eyes are closed, and your fingers have found its way under his shirt, nails clawing into his back.

"Jesus Christ, YN ."

Your eyes flutter slowly, and you see Jake appearing more flustered than you've previously seen him. His eyes are filled with astounding desire. "Shut up and kiss me," You say.

And because Jake loves you, he does. Over and over and over again.

vi.

It’s February and there are roses and pink balloons everywhere. It's Valentines' Day.

There are couples kissing and holding hands in the hallway and all Jake can do is lean by his locker and watch. But not in a creepy, stalkerish way, in a way that he sort of pictures you and him like that, and pretend that you both could be like normal people and have a normal relationship.

He's about to turn away when he sees you. You, hand in hand, with your boyfriend, Lee Heeseung. His best friend.

You walk right past him, not batting an eye at him; not even a smile. Because this is always how it goes. It's always like this with you.

You were expressionless yet Jake could see right through the façade, and he knows that the reason why you never look at him is because the moment you do, you lose. 

Jake prays to his lucky stars that you do. Because he loves you. God , does he love you. He always will.

&

It's still February. It's raining again.

You're over. 

You've been over a lot recently, every other day, every Friday. Not to fuck though, which Jake finds weird. Usually, you only ever come over to: A) Fuck each other's brains out and have him fuck you until you're sore in all places, and B) Make him cry; whether the context is him hopelessly trying to get you to fall for him or to abruptly leave to "have to be somewhere else", knowing you say it like that to try and not to hurt his feelings. Jake never knows. You only ever come over for your sexual arrangements and nothing more.

He prompts himself to think nothing of it, taking it as a good, little surprise for himself, and asks you if you wanted to do anything specific. 

"It's your house," You say casually, sliding your phone into your back pocket. "Do you wanna do anything tonight?"

Jake stares at you, reading your face and looks for any signs that show disinterest. You smile, warm and tingly that it's fuzzy in Jake's stomach, as if to let him know that you'll stay regardless.

Another surprise: you make an effort and allow him to make an offer without implying a second.

Jake declares tonight is different and asks you if you want to watch a movie, to which you respond "yes" before suggesting that you head to Jake's bedroom once the movie ends.

So tonight is different, indeed. Tonight he has you cuddled up to one of his plushies on the couch with five metres to spare as Patch Adams plays on the screen. You're not touching, in any way, because you intricately hold yourself off from Jake unless it's in a state of undress, positioning your bodies so that non-sexual contact is non-existent.

It hurts only a little.

You both are friends but that is never how it is between you and him. Truthfully, it hurts.

Halfway through the movie, you have fallen asleep while Jake stays awake to finish as he watches Patch graduate to receive his Doctor of Medicine and bow to his professors and the audience. Occasionally, his eyes dart over to you, whose breathing is quiet and beautiful as your chest rises and falls with your hair sprawled messily on the pillows.

He wants to reach out, hold your hand, touch you, and fit into the perfectly good space between the two of you and lay his head on your shoulder, because, logically speaking, you have had your tongue on his dick and Jake has reciprocated with his on the apex of your clit, and you've seen each other naked countless of times, and all of your fingers have mapped out the pleasures of the others' genitals, but it doesn't work that way.

Jake knows it. For a long time, since the day he has agreed to this illicit affair that you have proposed, he has.

But you're right there, asleep next to him, and the love bite on your collarbone isn't from him, so there’s no point in keeping score.

Jake falls asleep a little later, the words, "Please love me like I do with you," on his lips.

In the morning, it comes off as him cooking breakfast for the two of them and you walking up to him to give him a kiss. You both know where this is going and he lets it happen.

vii.

It's March, and you're over again.

Mostly for good things.

You sometimes do homework together, cook dinner and breakfast together, depending if you stay over, watch Netflix when there's nothing tolerable on the television, and talk about other things that aren't about asking if the other could cum or not.

Jake isn't used to this, but it is something he could get used to. A few weeks ago and years before that, there were rules, obvious rules that you had laid out right from the start.

You still have sex. Just not all the time. It's every Friday that you plan out all the things for you to do other than sex. It's every Friday that you're over at Jake's house to do couple-y stuff and it makes Jake laugh. She has a boyfriend , he reminds himself. You're just a friend. His feelings don't matter to you.

Sometimes Jake wonders if you only ever see him as somebody to screw, nothing more than a fuckbuddy , telling him you're friends just to keep him around. He's not delusional, of course. He could be if he wanted to, or tried, but he also knows that you can't love him like he does and that's okay.

So right now, you're sitting by the kitchen counter, working on some English assignment. There isn't a lot of work going on, to be honest. You've been playing footsie under the table for the past hour, smiling until your cheeks are rosy and until eye smiles have come out of hiding.

It stops when Jake's phone vibrates to the tune of his ringtone, the default iPhone melody; it's distracting and he has no choice but to take it.

"Hello?" He asks into the phone.

You watch as Jake goes from unsure, nail biting, eyes darting to you for approval of some sort, and finally away to lips parted slightly, blush cheeks and bright smiles.

"I guess, I'll see you then." Jake says, tapping his nails on his textbook. He lets out a laugh before ending.

You don't skip a beat. "Who was that?"

"Jiyoon from—, "

"Dance? Yeah, I know her. She’s a bitch."

"She's pretty chill." Jake replies, eyes squinting as he fixates on the polaroid taped on the wall above his desk.

"Is she really?" You say. You haven't looked away, not once, and it makes Jake slightly nervous.

"Well, how do you know she's a bitch?" Jake quips. "She's actually nice, you know. She hugs me whenever she says hi."

You snort. "That's because she likes you, Jake. Like, romantically."

"What is going on with you?" Jake gets straight to the point. Whether you know it or not, he did notice all the staring from when he was on the phone. It's sort of pissing him off that you're getting so hostile about it when you literally have a boyfriend of your own.

"You're going to her stupid party then, aren't you?" You ask. By now, you've turned your chair to the side, your leg crossing over the other and closing your notes to talk.

"She invited me, of course,"

"And how do you know her?"

Jake laughs. He laughs because you're being ridiculous. He feels like he's sitting for interrogation by his older brother after he caught him coming back home at the dead of night at 3 am once.

"She lives on the next block, YN. We were friends in high school. She's nice to me and she's a good person." Jake shifts in his seat to return to his assignment, hoping you would drop it.

But you aren't finished. Jake can feel you burning holes in your head and the intense clicking from your pen is slowly getting to him. 

You're asking too many questions: "Have you seen her?" , "Don't you know that she almost broke my leg during practice because she wanted the center position?" , "Do you really want to go?" Shut up. Shut up. Shut up . Each of them, and he knows you're only doing it to get to him.

And finally: "Are you going with her because you want to know what else she's good at, Jake?"

"Can't you just," Jake harshly slides his chair back, the steel leg screeches against the tiles of his marble floor. "Can't you just leave it alone?"

When he looks up, you're sitting up with your thighs pressed together, hands by your sides as you lean forwards inquisitively. Eyes mirroring each other, Jake stares you down.

"Don't fucking do this to me, YN," His hand curls into a fist, the corner of the notebook page crumpled under his touch. "You've got a boyfriend, don't you? Stop putting your nose in my business."

"It's my business too," You stand, towering over him, your palm flat on the surface of the table while the other rests on the arm of his chair. Your faces, just a few inches away. You breathe hard, your hand curls into a tight fist to keep you from losing it. The paper almost tears apart just by the way you've scrunched it.

(Your walls begin to crumble.).

You can feel Jake's heavy breaths, chest heaving at you, and your heart picks up its pace when his eyes fall on your lips.

"Baby," You start. You can hear his heartbeat racing. Your cells are going insane, screaming at you to kiss him. To touch him. To tell him. But you can’t do that; not when you've already done enough damage to ruin each other. Done enough to ruin him. "Jaeyun. Jake."

"I love you." Jake finally says, his voice barely above whisper.

To you, you hear it as: "We're done studying tonight. Go home, YN." So you do.

He breaks a few minutes later after you leave, locked in his bedroom, crying into his pillows.

viii.

It's April and it's the party.

Jake regrets going.

He's with Jiyoon, who hasn't gone a single minute without trying to impress him. It's nice and he appreciates it, but she’s trying so hard that it's almost embarrassing. But whatever, it's fun. Her party is fun and he tries to forget about her constantly acting cute to enjoy himself. He isn't trying to be an asshole but he always found it uncomfortable when girls around him do not understand the concept of boundaries, which is kind of hypocritical of him to think about because there is absolutely none of that when it comes to the both of you.

It doesn’t really bother him that she's sort of stiff with her dancing, but the music is good and easy to settle in a groove, so he lets her guide him to the makeshift dance floor where he thinks he can see you pressing up to Heeseung and tries not to look your way, trying not to get his heart broken again.

It doesn’t bother him.

He ends up indulging in five more cups of pineapple mimosas and a last minute glass of vodka to top everything all off, because why not?

And he's on the dance floor with Jiyoon, guiding her hips to some new pop song that's currently blaring on the speakers, his hand resting on the small of her back, feeling every movement at once. It makes sense. It's a party and she's enjoying herself. They both are.

What doesn't make sense is how you and your boyfriend have moved a few inches closer to him, dark eyes analysing every movement. Jake knows you're doing this to rile him up, and it's working enough for him to piss you off too. 

You're annoyed.

You wanted nothing more than to yank that bitch off of him and be the one who's dancing with him. But you know you can't so instead, you bring your hand up to the back of Heeseung's neck, and it's like he knows what you're trying to do when he presses his lips to your jawline and starts kissing, sucking and biting, travelling lower to the base of your neck. You can feel him smirk when a moan escapes your mouth. You've noticed Jiyoon has turned to your direction to see why Jake seems to be distracted. You fight back a taunting smile.

Heeseung's hand snakes around your waist before resting it on the small of your back, pressing your bodies together which immediately makes you grind your hips against him as you burn your gaze into Jake's. It feels good, you won't lie.

He tears away when Jiyoon turns away from you, flustered, leaving you triumphant. Good . 

The next time you look back at them, Jake is no longer to be found. Instead, Jiyoon has found someone else to dance with, and probably take back to her room. Called it .

You're not drunk. Not even close. You haven't had anything since you arrived, agreeing with Chaeyoung, who dragged you here in the first place, that the alcohol was cheap shit.

It's a few minutes later (minutes, not moments. You're not pretentious.) when you feel a hand on your wrist, dragging you away from Heeseung, not bothering to excuse you. You get into the first room Jake decides.

"Clothes off, now."

You rebuff. "I was busy with my boyfriend,"

"I don't give a shit," His voice sounds deeper than usual and you wonder if it's because you've actually managed to make him mad.

Jake ignores you and shuts the door behind you, pushing you against the wall and touching you everywhere while leaving open mouthed kisses by your jawline.

"You say we're friends and yet you pull up some bullshit stunt every chance you think is good for you." He says in between.

"Good for me, good for you, same thing," He doesn't even meet your eyes, looking everywhere as he pulls the back strings of your top, letting it fall to the ground.

"Did you want her to be me tonight?"

He still doesn't look at you as he gets on his knees and pulls your shorts down. "No."

You roll your eyes against your will as Jake sucks on your clit without warning, your hand immediately tugging on the boy's hair, having his face nuzzle closer.

"Don't lie to me—fuck—You and I both know why we're constantly in the same place," A moan slips out, and you can feel the ghost of the boy's smirk on you. You don't say anything else, too out of it to tell him to stop. 

You don't have to tell Jake because he knows. Jake knows your body more than anything. Knows your games and the way your mind works.

Jake doesn’t respond and does exactly what he never thought of doing. He adjusts his position, swings your leg over his shoulder, and raises his hand enough to collide with your cunt, where the pain immediately warms up to your pleasure. The slap resonates within the room and it earns him a gasp.

"Watch your mouth, baby," You writhe against the firm grip that Jake has on your hips. "You don't want everything to be ruined now, do you? That's what you always say to me."

"What kind of game are you playing?"

Jake doesn't reply and dives back in between your legs, this time much rougher than earlier, sucking on your clit while his only other thought was how the girl who asked him to come must be trying to look for him now, and he knows exactly how long it will take her to search every room until she finds her own and sees you completely at his mercy. This was the kind of game he knew you would play if your places were switched, if he had a girlfriend that wasn't you.

"I always want to fuck you, Jake. If that's what's getting you worked up. And I have been for two years," You manage as you feel him insert two digits inside you. "What else would you want?"

Jake can tell he's got you all to himself by the way you gasp to fight back another moan that's threatening to spill from your lips, by the way you sink your chipped manicures into his scalp as he draws whimpers and whines out of you, never stopping as he leads you to your orgasm.

Your voice mocks him. Teasing, challenging, driving him insane. "You. I love you," Jake lets out.

You hear it as, "Let's put that pretty mouth of yours to good use. Get on your knees, baby."

ix.

It's May.

You don't have a boyfriend.

Jake only knows this upon eavesdropping on your conversation with one of your previous special friends , Choi Yeonjun. The guy's rash, definitely more of your speed, and much cooler than him if he wants to be honest. He doesn't know the full story, sort of just finds out about it by himself, but basically, you two have hooked up for a few months, until Yeonjun realised he was falling for someone and broke off the affair. And five months later, Jake had just moved into town.

A cute story, he guesses, or whatever. But it makes Jake feel twisted, remembering that you've been with other guys, have called other guys baby , and have kissed them where you've kissed him. It's practically the same with everyone.

He wonders, though. Wonders if he's the first guy you have managed to keep around. Wonders if you fuck anyone else behind his back, other than your boyfriend. Wonders if you have ever had a boyfriend during your affairs with other people, or if you were just plainly into fucking him over specifically.

But he's right behind the school building, supposedly here to pick you up, the pungent smell of smoke gravitating under his nose and whirls of curses means that you have company.

The crackle of the cancer stick is faint but it doesn't drown your husky tone when you say: "Shit's stressful."

Yeonjun snorts, backing against his shiny motorcycle. "Trouble in paradise, lover girl?"

"Now, why say it like that. You make me gag."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"Whatever," You stand before the flagpole, left hand tucked away in your (Jake's) denim jacket's pocket, dominant hand flicking ashes onto the ground. "But yeah, there's something of the sort."

Yeonjun's eyes sparkle with obvious mischief. "Do tell, LN YN."

You roll your eyes. "Broke up with him. Found out some whore was leeching off of him. Felt like the right thing to do."

Jake doesn't mean to intrude, and he hadn't meant to stay either. He didn't know you broke up with Heeseung, but then again you never really tell him about anything related to that. He hasn't spoken to the older boy in weeks either. But he hears his name in between and now he's all too interested to hear what you have to say about him when he isn't around.

"Wait, what?" Yeonjun interrupts. "I thought you were going to tell me about Jake."

"What about Jaeyun?"

"So we're on a first-personal-name basis with the secret lover now? You weren't like this with me, YN," All out of it, Yeonjun stomps the cigarette with his boot, aggressively digging its grave.

"Oh, shut up," You laugh incredulously. "Where did you even get that idea from?"

"You're so," Yeonjun trails off. "Here's a little bit of spice—do you like him or something? Is the LN YN finally retiring from her cock parade?"

You scoff. "Idiot."

Yeojun ignores your comment. "Do you?"

You don't answer. The ego lies in your throat like the suspense of a bullet in Russian roulette, steadily pulling the trigger. Jake breathes, never letting go.

Say it. 

Then it strikes him sharply, tearing the barriers of his heart apart. "I don't. He's just someone."

Yeonjun stares, his pierced eyebrow raised. "A friend?"

Of course.  

"No," You say quickly. "I mean, yes. But no."

"You're whistling in the wind here. What is he to you exactly?"

You sigh exasperatedly. Jake doesn’t get why you have to ponder on it so much. You usually just say you're friends and move on.

"He's a friend that I fuck whenever I feel like it,"

"Meaning," Yeonjun is looking at you like you have all the answers to solve every problem there is in the world, waiting for you to unfold them. 

"Friends with benefits, are you slow?"

"Fuck off." 

You shrug, toying with the grey lighter in your hands, lighting it every fifteen (Yes, fifteen. It's been your favourite number recently.) seconds and burning its flame into the rusting steel behind you.

"YN," Yeonjun starts again.

"What," You look up at him, clearly done with the topic.

"Reality check right now," Yeonjun pressed. "You have feelings for him and you have no idea how to tell him, so you keep stringing him around at a distance enough for you to control it."

You take a puff, taking in the kill. "Don't be delusional." You exhale.

"Delusional because I'm right, aren't I?"

"Just drop it already." You snap.

Yeonjun raises his hands defensively, nodding his head as if to say he's letting the topic go. It's quiet again.

Jake tries to figure out if you've been quiet like this before, stuck driving in circles and telling people to get out of your car, sending them home crying. Or if he had been the first for everything. Maybe this whole time he'd been the one complicating things.

You seem to put yourself in similar situations, Jake notes. 

Jake decides he's heard enough. It's enough and it's all he ever hears anyway. He's a friend . You're friends. This is always how it goes with you, despite everything.

You with your dumb (pretty) hair colour, cold dark eyes, rocking your (his) dumb signature denim jacket with your dumb cherry flavoured lipgloss that makes him weak, you who parades around town with guys fawning over you, you who gives them little to no attention at all, and you who picks one of the lucky ones to be your conquests before screwing them over.

You are selfish and you never try.

x.

Jake chases down with your hair flowing against his cheeks to kiss away what dried wetness remains, and eventually crashes alongside you after you get off of him, breathless.

It's June.

The euphoria, however, is short-lived, and you eventually stand and rush awkwardly to pick up your clothes, and get dressed. “You wanted me to go rougher than usual, are you okay?” Jake calls. He knows, he knows that you know. He hopes at least.

“Everything's great,” You say, shimmying into your shorts. “I need to get home, though. It's my turn to cook tonight. My dad isn't home again.”

Jake reaches for a kiss and you don't pull away. He keeps on kissing you, his wet mouth chasing the corner of where your lips would flick upwards into a smile that he's fallen for.

Jake pulls away frowning, sliding your bra strap up your shoulder, and helping you put on your (his) hoodie. He says, "I love you, I'm sorry. He wasn't worth it. I'm sorry that you had to take the things you love and tear them apart, or pin them down with your body and pretend that they're yours forever."

And you haven't moved, you're frozen, and Jake's kissed you, and he knows you'll never forgive him for showing you such vulnerability, for getting past all your thorns, and maybe now, you will leave him alone.

To everyone else, most importantly to you, it comes out as, "Good night, YN. Get home safe."

xi.

It's July, and Jake kisses Jiyoon for the first time. 

It's unplanned, really. He hadn't meant to but it was a spur in the moment with the picture of your smile and mischievous dark eyes in his head. He's always thinking of you. 

But you haven't called or texted since that night and he's scared he might've done so much.

He does, however, kiss her. It happens because things are easy with Jiyoon. It's easy to laugh. It's easy to be happy. It took him a long time to get there, but he tried, tried, and tried.

So, to cut a long tale short, he wants to forget the fact that he messed it up with you and decides that this girl sitting next to him would be the perfect person to start over with.

Jake promises himself that it will be simple, uncomplicated. Everything is simple with Jiyoon. He's nervous (not because he likes her—he doesn't—at least, not like that. Which he feels guilty about since he started seeing similarities with you but whatever.). When she turns to him, he's drumming up the courage to reach over the seat and kiss her (like he would with you.).

"Hey, what's wrong?" Jiyoon ponders, her fingers sluggishly tapping the steering wheel, her brows pinched together in worry. Her eyes are dark, alluring, familiar, Jake thinks. Just pretend they're YN's and fucking kiss her, you idiot.

Jake moves in a little closer, trying to latch onto the belief that he can see those familiar hues in Jiyoon's eyes. He licks his lips, recalls the moments with you, and inhales slowly.

"Jake?" Jiyoon asks, perplexed and befuddled, as Jake places his hand on the head of her seat and moves perilously close. "What are you doing?"

And it's there. He takes control with a forced smile pressed against her mouth, snaking his hand around her neck and pulling her close. 

Her eyes are closed when he flutters his open and he sees it. Out through the foggy window, he sees you. Your figure fades away when Jiyoon pulls away, and he realises he's stopped kissing her.

"You're a good kisser, Jake."

He pulls away with regret, reality hitting him, and feeling his skin flush. "I'm sorry, I can't—,"

Jake wishes he could go back in time and undo the previous twenty seconds of his life the minute his heart leaps into his throat and he sees the comfortable colour of blue.

"This was a mistake, I'm sorry."

He grabs his phone on the dashboard, unlocks the door, gets out and heads home.

xii.

It's August.

It's dark out, and Jake is in your room.

You called him over.

There's fire in just the right places, in your touch cautious on his ribcage, in your mouth asking sweetly on Jake's, in the tepid cooling fins from the vents, turned to just the right power.

You don't have sex with him. Jake softly kisses you on the mouth. It's not your birthday. It's the month you and him met at Heeseung's party. It's not even an occasion to be celebrated. (Unless, you're fucking cheesy then sure.). It's not what people do unless they're in a relationship, but with you, he's found that there are a lot of things a person could do with no strings attached.

You take a step back, partially to catch your breath and half to check the time. The digits are slightly obscured by Jake's fluffy head of hair, but they're still: 12:17 AM.

"It's that night," Jake whispers.

You kiss Jake's cheek, jaw, and bottom lip with your lip glossed, kiss-mouthed smile.  "Yeah, it is." You untangle yourself from Jake carefully, as if you have all the time in the world.

You have a lot of things. A lot of secrets, unsaid promises, sacred thoughts he knew that could kill you inside. Jake thinks about this a lot.

"Do you think we still would've met if it weren't for that party?" You wonder aloud, sliding under your covers.

Jake leans his cheek against the head of the bed, cold steel scarring his skin, face turning to you. He's in deep thought as he drums his fingers on the grey pillows.

"Maybe," He finally makes up his mind, a goofy smile on his face. "I actually have a secret."

"Sounds interesting." You say, smiling. You move to your nightstand to tug on the switch of your night lamp open awkwardly as the last street light outside your window goes off, so as to not pull your left hand away from Jake.

"Leaving me again? This is your house, you know." He jokes.

"Shut up. I need the light," You curl back into the position you were in a few minutes prior, sliding under the duvet next to the boy. "I can't see your face."

Jake chews his lower lip and suppresses a grin. Adoration. It's crystal clear from him.

"Would you want me to know?" You ask. Jake's heart pounds, the last summer rain falls, you soothe him with circles from your thumb.

"I think so," Jake says. You kiss him on the mouth, pure and warm, encouraging him.

And Jake loves you. Nevertheless, since, until.

"I love you." Jake says.

You smile.

It doesn't sound like anything else.

please like and reblog with feedback !!!

— please do not copy , translate or repost any of my works anywhere !!

© l2vedive on tumblr

[ratinayellowbandana]

Prompt: “I feel terrible.” And/or “I want you to kiss me right now.”

I love your fics 🥹 just yesterday I was thinking of your name while perusing ao3 and was wishing for another Imodna fic of yours

hi!! thank you so much for your kind words. it always shocks me when people, like, want to read my writing? so it really means a lot. i'm sorry this took me a little longer. i ended up combining your first one with another prompt and part of my wip so when i eventually publish a fic with an extremely similar scene from imogen's perspective.. dw about it.

anyway, here's some post-resurrection hurt/comfort. we're gonna all pretend they stayed in the castle for a couple days and sorted their shit out.

cw for feelings of helplessness and self-loathing

length: ~1.7k

some prompt lists if you're so inclined || my ao3

~~~

It’s been three days since they got her back. 

Three days since she woke on the worn wooden floors of Pike’s home to a small crowd of friends and strangers. 

Three days since she set foot in Whitestone again, a place she never hoped to return. 

And three days since everyone began treating Laudna as if she's going to shatter. 

The worst part is she feels as if she might. 

The world is too vibrant. Loud. The birds chirping outside the too-large castle window grate on her ears. The silky sheets on the too-soft four-poster bed cling to her in all the wrong ways. Her skin crawls and her bones grind and she can feel her teeth. 

The gnome who revived her said this is normal. She’d been dead, after all. The body would need time to recalibrate. Time they do not have if they want to have any hope of intervening on the solstice. 

Imogen dotes the best way she knows how. With soup and kind words and glares that warn the others to keep back if they don’t want a zap to the forehead. She offers furs from the trunk at the foot of the bed and cool cloths that do little to ease the ache of Laudna’s fragile joints. She brings pillows and keeps watch in the window seat as Laudna sleeps. 

It’s sickeningly sweet and thoughtful and lovely, and Laudna hates it just a little bit because Imogen has spent far too much time fretting over Laudna as of late when she should be anywhere but a stuffy old castle spooning broth to a dead lady whose hands won’t stop shaking. 

Laudna is fine. 

She’s fine. 

She is. 

Delilah is gone, they assure her. Imogen herself sent a bolt of lightning through the bitch’s strange conjured tree trunk in the twisting nether realm that left the smell of iron and marrow lingering in Laudna’s nose. Her limbs still sting with phantom wounds where she had thrashed against Delilah’s cage. 

Helpless. Weak. 

The others were there, too. At least, for much of the fight and everything that preceded. They had seen Laudna’s memories, as Fresh Cut Grass informed her. Learned the name she had taken care to hide all these years. Buried deep enough, even Imogen, brilliant as she is, would have to dig to uncover it. Delilah, it seemed, only cared for secrets when they were hers to keep. 

When her friends visit her chambers, their vivacity is dulled. They are tense, anxious, and trying and failing to hide the restlessness that they are all feeling. 

Orym regards her with new wariness, searching for lies and cracks, though he is kind as ever. It’s understandable, Laudna reasons. In this place, where the Briarwood reign harmed innumerable lives, she is a liability. A threat to be guarded against.

Fearne is delicate with her hugs, moves cautiously through Laudna’s space. She hasn’t even stolen any of the silver soup spoons or fine teacups, which might be most concerning of all. 

Ashton hovers in the doorway. They return her awkward waves with a nod and flick of their wrist. 

Chetney and Fresh Cut Grass seem the most unbothered. Chetney in a plush bathrobe that appears to have been hastily cropped to suit his stature, and F.C.G. chattering on about the importance of rest to the healing process. 

And Laudna hates them just a little bit because she cares for them all so deeply, but mostly, she just hates herself. Hates Delilah. Hates Otohan Thull. 

They’re losing time and they’ve already lost so much. Imogen has already lost so much. Her mother’s trail is growing colder by the day, and there is nothing Laudna can do but lay in this godsforsaken luxurious bed and wait until her body recovers. 

It’s all she can do not to break into a thousand pieces that she would scatter to the nooks and crannies so she wouldn’t have to see the pitying looks on her friends’ faces when Imogen has to help her up. 

She turns on her side and buries her face in an obnoxiously soft down pillow to muffle the sob that wells within her and wracks her body. 

She does a piss-poor job of that, too. 

“Laudna?” Imogen calls sleepily, roused from a sun-dappled doze. Then, alert, “Hey, hey–” 

She’s standing, Laudna can hear, and now she’s gone and disturbed Imogen. Bare feet pad across the cool stone floor, and the far side of the bed dips, ever considerate. She will not come closer, Laudna knows, unless given explicit consent because Imogen is wonderful and caring and lovely.

“What’s wrong, darlin’?” 

Laudna shudders. “I feel terrible.” 

“Oh,” Imogen says, and Laudna can feel the flash of guilt and concern that radiates off of her. “Can I bring you anything? Is it your head?” She shifts her weight. “Do you need water? I can go get a pitcher. Or food, maybe?”

“Stop. Please, stop,” Laudna croaks. Imogen flinches, and gods, Laudna could be sick.

Imogen retreats. “Sorry, I’ll just– sorry,” she murmurs, sounding so small. 

Laudna lifts her head and darts a trembling hand to catch her wrist. “No!” she says. Her body betrays her, the word coming out as more of a roar than she ever could have meant. “No,” she repeats, softer, “stay. Please,” because if she frightens Imogen off, she fears what will crawl into the hole left behind. 

Imogen hesitates, glances down at the ink-tipped fingers clasped around her arm, and sits again. She doesn’t speak, leaving the path clear for Laudna to lead the way, and oh, Laudna could melt. 

Laudna sighs shakily, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…it’s not you.” 

Not Imogen. Never Imogen. 

The silence hangs heavy between them until Laudna can bring herself to speak again. 

“This is my fault, I’m afraid,” she states flatly, refusing to meet Imogen’s gaze. Refusing to see whatever reaction she may find there. Anguish. Frustration. Irritation.

“What?” 

Confusion.  

Laudna looks up, gestures vaguely to their surroundings. “This. All of us being… trapped here.” 

“Laud, what’re you talkin’ about?” 

Imogen’s hand comes to stroke the back of Laudna’s knuckles where they wrap around her other wrist. Her fingers are calloused and work-worn, the rough patches of them catching on the imperfect parts of Laudna. 

“You should be off tracking down your mother or finding out what you can about the moon, and instead,” Laudna’s voice catches in her throat, “you’re here.”

Imogen shakes her head, exhales. “Where I should be is for me to decide.” She says it gently. It is not meant to be a reprimand. It still feels like one. “And where I should be,” she continues, “is wherever you are.” 

Laudna’s eyes flit anywhere but Imogen’s face. 

“If you want me there, of course.”

Laudna’s response is instant. “Always.” 

She finally meets Imogen’s eyes and is met with a somewhat furrowed brow. She wants to ask something, Laudna can tell. Imogen’s head is tilted curiously, her lips slightly parted. Her jaw works subtly, muscles tensing. 

“It’s not your fault,” she settles on at last. “None of it, okay?”

Laudna opens her mouth to respond.

Imogen is steely calm. “You were gone, Laudna. And I couldn’t reach you, and…and you’re here now. You’re back, and that’s all that matters.” 

Laudna shrinks into the pillows, takes her hand back beneath the sheet, fist clenching and unclenching. “I feel like such a nuisance,” she confesses quietly. “I should have tried harder to break her hold on me. I should have–”

“No. Gods,” Imogen snaps, lacking any real bite. She inhales. “Laudna, you…you were dead. And I hate sayin’ it; I hate thinkin’ about it. You couldn’t’ve done anythin’ more than what you did.” She softens, throat tightening with emotion. “You did so much. And I’m so proud of you. And… I’m so grateful you chose to come back.” 

“It wasn’t much of a choice,” Laudna whispers, “I couldn’t very well leave you, darling.” 

“You could’ve.” Imogen bites her lip, ducks her head, fiddles with the hem of her vest. “We, um, I know F.C.G. told you, but we… saw some of your memories. And, and I didn’t really wanna bring it up? So I’m real sorry, but we only saw a couple moments, and we don’t have to talk about it, but,” she looks back to Laudna, “you’re so brave. I don’t think you get told that enough. You’re so strong, Laud, and so good, and I missed you. So much.” She takes a sharp breath.

It bursts out as though holding it in any longer might suffocate her, and Laudna’s hands cease their twitching. She hesitates. Imogen’s affection has split her open, and it’s odd, she thinks, to feel so vulnerable and so safe. That those two sensations can coexist as a tingling in her chest that extends into her tendons and ligaments to warm her all over. She can sense the discolored blush rising in her cheeks. 

She does not feel brave. Strength has always been foreign and abstract. That Imogen can see her that way is… incongruous. Absurd, even. 

“You’re very kind.”

Imogen looks as if she might protest but seems to think better of it. She sighs, a slight, sad smile crossing her lips. She moves to stand again, to cross the room back to her seat, and suddenly, the thought of Imogen being so far away is unbearable. 

“Stay, please?” Laudna shuffles, lifting a corner of the quilt. “This bed is plenty big enough for two, and I dread to think of the state of your neck curled up in the window.”

“You’re sure?” Imogen asks, faint hope coloring her words. 

“Come here.” 

The bed dips again as Imogen clambers in, pressing herself against Laudna, who lets out an oomph as Imogen wraps around her and intertwines their fingers. 

“Sorry!” Imogen says with a relieved exhale, “Sorry, I just–I know I said it before, but… I really missed you.” 

“I missed you, too,” Laudna assures gently, taking in the oaty smell of Imogen. The smell of home. “Rest well, darling.” 

Imogen squeezes their hands in response and burrows closer. 

Laudna relaxes into the embrace.

[my-favourite-zhent]

New Tricks - Chapter 19

Status: Work In Progress

Version: 1.01

Pairing: Rugan x AFAB!OC

Rating: NC-17 (This chapter PG-13)

Genre: Adventure/Romance

Summary: Misadventures of Rugan and the original Zhentarim Gate's crew before and during the year of three sailing ships.

Notes: When one chapter becomes three. The main scenes for the next two upcoming chapters were written way back when I was struggling with chapter six. It was meant to be chapter eight but the plot got away from me a bit. This chapter started out as a little extra tidbit at the start but ended up growing into its own thing and for once I didn't delete an Izzy POV chapter.

Thank you to @fistfuloftarenths, @captainsigge, @dustdeepsea for always being my wonderful betas and providing me with encouragement. If it weren't for you all I think I would've deleted this chapter.

Dust also had the great suggestion of including the clip from Izzy's notebook and showed me how to do all the lovely formatting you will see in this chapter <3. (Check the AO3 link for that and additional footnotes as it's not in the tumblr post)

Also a shout out to @coreene for having such a treasure trove of lore on her tumblr! Always super helpful for fleshing out the background world lore.

Table of Contents

Read Here on AO3 or below the cut.

By now rotten luck had coloured most of Isolde’s life. 

It seemed to her that it had all begun after her parents' untimely deaths when she was sixteen.

What had begun as one bad year became two, with her exile to some gods forsaken farmlands and her first heartbreak at seventeen. 

The following year had appeared to break the trend—she had been offered the position of sizar at the university where her parents once taught. Only in reality it had simply been a year spent building the framework for a truly devastating nineteenth year and an end to her academic aspirations. Her first lover came and went. First friends came and went. Corra was the only good thing to come out of her short-lived scholastic career.

The jobs had been like that too. Someone would turn traitor or stupid. Load bearing beams would give way. Priceless urns would be full of fucking venomous spiders. Only now she had been prepared for rotten luck. Moulded by it.

Now she always slipped a spare trinket under her blouse or in her boot just in case the job didn't pay. Now she kept her valuables in a safe deposit box on the off chance her room got ransacked again. Now she slept in her road breeches with a knife under her pillow, and while she'd never been trained to kill, jabbing someone who wasn't expecting it gave you a good head start on an escape. 

Seventeen years of bad luck had taught her to be prepared and to be persistent. She had survived and even sometimes thrived because of it.

So now, as she watched the sailors drag her chest up onto the deck of the ship, she felt especially stupid.

“My tools are in there! I've paid you good coin to transport those!” She screamed, but her voice could barely be heard by the man next to her over the crashing of the waves. 

The ship rocked under another violent tumult of wind. The tempest had come upon them without any warning, clear blue skies had become turbulent greys streaked in black and white in mere moments. There wasn't even supposed to be storms like this on the Sword Coast for another month. It was just her luck. 

Distantly she heard cries to cut the main sail.

The sailor looked as contrite as one could in the midst of a squall. “Sorry lass, bitch queen needs her offering!” 

And despite the pelting hail and whipping winds it was the word lass that made her flinch. 

‘Should have never gotten aboard a ship out of Neverwinter,’ she thought bitterly as she watched them tip her chest into the sea.

The contract she had taken in Baldur's Gate was an easy forgery job. She could've sat nice and safe in a room at the Elfsong scribbling away before meeting Rugan. She would've made a mint for doing hardly anything at all. But now her seals were gone and with it the contract.

Standing on the docks, Isolde weighed her options. It was alright. This was manageable. She still had the clay impressions of her fake seals in her pack. The sheep’s bladder she kept them in had protected them from any water damage from the storm. A half-way competent smith could recreate the seals from the pressings easily. But just how much would halfway decent cost her? More than she had left, it turned out. Most of her coin was now at the blacksmith's, and that was only the first half of the payment.

Her hand strayed time and again to where her insurance necklace would be, but she had pawned it. Pawned it for the same reason she had come to the city. The same reason she was flat broke. At least she could make that bastard buy her a drink. Blame him heartily for her misfortune. And if he smiled at her even once her fool heart would find the whole venture worthwhile.

“Sorry, miss, believe his caravan is on the road right now. Haven't seen him in a tenday.” The man behind the bar at the Elfsong shrugged.

It was just her rotten luck.

In weaker moments of her life she had considered leaving offerings to Beshaba at those little roadside shrines made of antlers and twigs. But no, fuck that deer-headed bitch. And fuck Umberlee too, while she was at it.

The barkeep looked apologetic, just as the sailor had, but that wasn't going to help her out in any way, shape or form.

She would need to find another job to take on. Isolde considered the other local contract she had ignored on account of the risk. There was nothing for it now. She leaned back in her stool and sighed. So long and low and frustrated that the man gave her another sympathetic look.

“Drink might help with that, miss.”

She opened her coin purse and eyed the few bits she had left.

“Give me the strongest thing you've got for two silvers.” She said sliding the coins across the table.

The man nodded and exchanged them for a pitcher of wine and a tall glass.

“If it's not a pressing issue,” he added as he poured the first glass full for her. “Could leave a letter with me if you like. He's in here every night when the caravan’s not on the road.”

Isolde perked up at that. “If you wouldn't mind.”

“Half the point of an inn is to have a place to send letters. I even mail some out if you've got a coin for the ship’s captain.”

Isolde almost took out her pen and ink right there, but then thought better of it. No sense trying to hastily scribble a note at the bar where some other patron would knock their elbows against hers and make the barman regret his offer.

Scooping up her glass and pitcher, pack slung over her shoulder, Isolde tipped her head in thanks and made for one of the alcoves at the far end of the taproom.

The Elfsong was much nicer than she had expected. The floors were worn but well-maintained, the drapes were not frayed and had minimal patching. She had been told more than once this place was a tourist trap, but when Rugan had called it his local she had presumed it to be something more akin to a dive bar. Had that been unkind of her? The Blackstaron and the Prow in Waterdeep had both been nicely kept inns, even if they had managed to get themselves kicked out of the first one.

She was broken from her train of thought when another patron collided into her, the wine from her glass sloshing over her hand.

“Sorry, love.” The man offered though he didn't even bother to meet her eyes as he and his date brushed past and grabbed the seat she had been eyeing. The date gave her a look that was half amusement, half pity, and Isolde muttered a curse under her breath as she stalked down to the next alcove.

Carefully she placed her wine down on the table, mindful of how it still undulated in its confines. With her clean hand she withdrew a rag from her pack and wet it with her waterskin, wiping clean the other before finally seating herself. 

As she unpacked her writing tools she wondered idly if this was the same seat Rugan liked to frequent. Would he have a regular seat? She should've asked the barman. No, on second thought that was a terrible idea. Isolde had seen and chosen to ignore the pitying look the man had given her when Rugan's name had slipped her lips. Didn't need to let him know how badly besotted she was, admitting it to herself was embarrassing enough.

She drained her first glass before setting pen to paper. This one was easy enough to write, and feeling a bit bold she applied a thin layer of vermillion to her lips as the ink dried. She marked the page with her lips and hoped it would make Rugan suitably unhappy about standing her up.

There was another letter she should write, though she wasn't too pleased about it. 

‘It might not be necessary.’ She tried to tell herself. 

She pulled out her leather bound notebook. It was a tiny thing, worn at the edges, about as wide and long as her hand but maybe two finger-span thick.

The contact information for the job had been hastily scribbled on one of the thick pages, just in case.

It had been Isolde's father who had taught her how to bind books, but it had been her mother who had taught her how to spot traps.

There were many things to take into account, but it came down to a few large considerations:

Was this culture known for booby-trapping tombs? Was this a place or person of importance?

An Imaskari noble would have a much more dangerous mausoleum than a Tharrian peasant.

Was there irregular wear on the ground that might suggest its builders walked a specific, safe path?

Pressure plates were a simple trap and thus effective trap. They stood the test of time better than more complex machinery.

Were there intricate patterns on the structure that could conceal glyphs?

Metal lasted long but magic lasted damn near indefinitely and could do far more damage.

One should be wary on any job, but if the answer to any of these questions was yes then doubly so.

Isolde had a similar list of tell-tale signs when it came to selecting jobs.

Was this client known to her network?

One tended to see the same familiar faces handling these operations. Sure muscle and labour would be locals, but the showrunner was usually one of two dozen folks who had the training to identify a site or the connections to fence the goods. Some characters were more trustworthy than others.

And no, the folks named here were not known to her or anyone she had asked.

Was the site near a city centre?

They oft times were—cities tended to grow on the bones of their forebears, like Luskan and Illusk. This meant more secrecy was necessary, but also less violence. Harder to hide a body and its eventual rot. Out in the wilds you didn’t even need to bury a corpse for it to never be found.

This job was definitely not near a city.

Was the pay reasonable?

Too high meant this was a con, you were lucky if you only came out empty-handed. Too low meant whoever was in charge didn’t even know what their goods were worth, if anything, and they didn’t know the running cost of a black market archaeologist.

Too low, far too low.

She had already known all this, but somehow had hoped the details might have changed since she last looked at the notebook. Isolde groaned and threw her head back against the wall of the booth. She was going to have to write the second letter.

Isolde poured and downed two more glasses of wine before she was sufficiently over her shame of having to ask Corra for money. If the forgery job was still around when she returned she’d pay Corra back two-fold.

Maybe she could just wait till Corra’s letter of credit came through, there were cheaper inns in the city, certainly. Gods, maybe a flophouse? But no, after hunting around the lower city and Norchapel it turned out Baldur’s Gate was almost as overpriced as Waterdeep.

‘Should’ve sent the letter and waited before paying for the tools.’ She thought dejectedly.

There ended up being roughly enough coin for a night or two in a flop house, some food for the road and a ride on a caravan heading west. So that was what she resolved to do.

Hopefully, stupidly, she looked for his face amongst the various caravans on the morning she made her way out of Baldur's Gate.

The wagons outside Basilisk Gate were packed end to end—or end to horse as it were. Some people pushed handcarts, perhaps to visit the nearby farms. She also saw oxen hitched to sturdy wagons loaded down with heavier goods. Merchants with lighter goods like the one she accompanied had horses to carry them along faster.

It was a decently nice carriage. Nothing fancy like the wooden conveyances that nobles used, but it had a sturdy canvas roof which was more than most.

The air by now was rank with the dung of a hundred beasts of burden, idling while their masters impatiently waited behind the traffic of a several dozen handcarts.

‘Just like Crimmor.’ She thought with an amused sort of wistfulness.

Isolde noticed then a group dressed in that familiar black and yellow, and her heart struggled to break free from the confines of her ribs. She leaned out the back of the wagon to get a better look. Though she squinted hard there was no one she was acquainted with. Just some red-head with clownish hair, though he had a familiar sort of chin.

“Don't want to be looking too long, dearie. Not a friendly bunch.” Warned the old woman across from her, not unkindly. The merchant’s mother as she understood it.

“Of course, my thanks.” Isolde bowed her head and sat back down on the wagon floor. 

They began moving at last, just as the dawn's early light was obscured by heavy soot coloured clouds. A wry smile twisted Isolde's lips.

“Something funny, dear?”

Isolde turned to meet the woman's gaze. “Just my luck, that’s all.”

[thoraeth]

Words: 2500

A/N: This chapter turned out long af so it's splitted in two parts. I'll see you next Sunday with the juicy fluff 🖤✨

Summary: Cornered by the lack of money, Captain Romi gets into business with the Cross Guild. As the jester worries about his new exlpoding item, things are about to blow up in his face for a whole different reason.

Chapter 4 (PT1) - Ignition

<CH3 CH4(pt2) | Read on Ao3

One hour. Two hours. Four hours have passed.

Kneeling before the cockpit’s closed doors, Meg and Torres are shooing away an irritated Allen from a small box. When Ava appears behind their back, her voice startles them:

“There you are! What’s going on?”

“Shhh!” Torres hisses, alarmed.

“Give the stethoscope back!”

Allen is throwing himself at the box; a quick quarrel and Meg snatches the instrument away from him, pushing it back against the doors’ metal.

“Shut your holes, everyone, they picked up.” the woman whispers.

They all gather around a tiny screen on the doctor’s stethoscope: it’s showing a dark control room. There, a slim guy with black hair and headphones is connecting a Den Den Mushi to a computer; a woman with glasses and a blue-haired man nervously pacing around him.

As the snail's eyes light up, a croaky voice comes out of it.

“You fucking son of a bitch, where are you?!”

Inside the cockpit, Sir Crocodile’s voice explodes with all his wrath.

Buggy runs to the radio “Hey, handsome! Long time, uh? Did you get the papers?”

“Come back to Karai Bari! Now!”

“I will…Eventually.” the jester sweats nervously, his voice lowering and rising again. “Meanwhile, could you read those papers? Pretty please!”

“You’re in no position…you…and…where… Not now, Hawk, I'm on the phone!”

The snail turns to the side, mimicking the scarred man's anger as he seems to be talking to someone far away.

“He sent what?! Buggy, loan’s the last word your filthy mouth should utter!”

“Oh, Crocky. I know our previous ventures weren't all sunshines and rainbows, but you gotta trust me, my Egghead pals did the math this time!” A malevolent grin darkens his face.

“You heard me right. E-g-g-head.”

The radio snail falls silent, paper rustling coming from the other side.

“A device flying across the Grand Line? Clown, they’re scamming you.”

“No scam, sir.” Romi joins in, her voice stone cold. “I’ve been working on The Drifter for years. I'm Romi Hodges, mechanical engineer and…former Labophase trainee.”

“I see.” The Den Den sneers. “Well, Miss Hodges, would you be so kind as to follow the Yonko on his island? I'd like a word.”

“Nice try!” Buggy pushes Romi away “I'm the one who does the talking here, all you have to do is sign the contract.”

Then, slapping the slug shell vigorously, the pirate hangs up.

When the radio rings again, the computers all around it wake up, papers falling on the ground, spitted out of a beeping printer.

“I can’t fucking believe I’m doing this.” Crocodile growls “Miss Engineer, you sure of your numbers? They seem over-optimistic, to say the least.”

“Enough with the boring stuff, we’re gonna own the Grand Line!” Buggy shouts enthusiastically. “Not even celestial assholes can touch us, it’s all legal!"

“Needless to say, clown, that your interest will be sky high, this time. You're not fooling me twice.”

“Oh, c'mon Crocky, help a friend out.”

“And I expect my share, first day of each month.”

“Ugh, deal. But I'm staying here on the Egghead ship.”

“That’s the funniest joke I've heard from you.”

“I mean it. Tell Galdino to make a wax dummy or something, no one will even notice.”

“You out of your fucking mind? Bug-”

The pirate hangs up again, a nervous smile on his face. “Hey, navigator. Back to the Belts, quick.”

At Romi's light touch, the man adjusts his headphones and rapidly types his commands on a keyboard.

“Thanks, JoyJoey. And apologies for the loudness.”

The Captain gently pats the man's shoulder as she reaches for a lever switch.

When the cockpit’s doors slide open, the upset faces of the rest of the crew startles her.

“What have you done!” Meg cries out. “Dealing with the Cross Guild?!”

“Crew, lunchroom meeting in five.” The Captain states.

“They will eat us and spit us out!”

“Enough with the shouting in here. Go, it's an order.”

The whole crew reaches their meeting point, no words uttered but dirty looks speaking volumes.

Sinking back into a chair, Meg breaks the silence first:

“Let me get this straight, Romi: a pirate comes along suggesting we join his pirate alliance and you accept without flinching. So much for years of laying low!”

The woman inhales deeply, rubbing her glasses against her shirt.

“It was a tough call, actually: two weeks ago, we used our last savings. I've been racking my brain these days, trying to find a way to spare you the bad news.”

“Romi, we're in this together.” Allen says softly

“And then food supplies were running out too!” the Captain continues. “Having extra people on board, never touching land…it blew up my forecasts.”

She puts her glasses on again.

“Abandoning the Drifter is not an option, nor is it to let my mates starve. If I'll have to deal with pirates to keep us going, so be it. I take full responsibility.”

Buggy's hand floats around the room, handing Meg a bunch of paper sheets.

“There. Read it yourself.” the pirate says “And have a little trust in your captain's big brains.”

The Challengers take a seat around the table and immerse themselves in the reading. They all discuss the fine lines under Romi's attentive glaze, asking questions and passing the papers around.

Ava is trying her best to conceal a huge smile that’s been stretching her cheeks since leaving the cockpit. She gets up first, lost in thoughts.

“At the end of the day, I’d be mixed up with Cross Guild anyway.”

The woman moves next to Buggy, nudging him playfully with her shoulder.

“Still here? Your men must be soaking their facepaint in tears.”

“Someone insisted I go back to crafting but…no labs in Karai Bari.” the jester winks.

Eventually, papers and numbers are replaced by food and drink on the dinner table, printed sheets crowded in a corner far from the plates.

“By the way.”

Buggy is pointing his fork to the crew, his mouth full: “You think nobody would notice a fucking rocket flying over their heads? Everyone in the Grand Line will want a piece of that cake.”

Romi nods vigorously “Damn right. The Navy will knock on our door no doubt, and y’all know they don't ask nicely.”

“Say no more. To Captain Hodges.”

Meg makes a toast with a bittersweet smile and everyone raises their glasses.

“To Captain Hodges!”

As the tension of that morning gradually melts away, everyone’s thinking about the upcoming projects and how to spend their future money.

Romi's sitting between Buggy and Ava, a glass of ale dangling from her fingers.

“We better make the Drifter fly asap.” She clincks her glass against theirs.

“Ava, how about you move into my room now? You’d have my data archives at hand while Mr. President here gets his private quarters.”

The blonde stares at Romi for a hot minute before stuttering an answer.

“It seems…uhm…convenient.”

Buggy clicks his tongue.

“Bad idea. This one will annoy you in the middle of the night with the most random questions.”

“Come again?” Ava smirks, leaning forward on the table.

“Terrible roommate.” The pirate continues “A ruthless hair brush thief who only leaves chaos and destruction behind her. I'll spare you this horror, Captain.”

He mimics a toast before chugging his ale.

Romi takes a sip and rolls her eyes.

“Whatever guys, nevermind.” she mumbles, her words echoing inside the glass.

That morning, the crew rallies inside lab 01.

Romi paces back and forth in front of her mates, rehearsing aloud every detail of what is about to happen. Her eyes shine in anticipation and excitement, her heart pounding in her chest: it’s test day.

“Everyone in position. Get the data collectors going. Jester, the floor is yours.”

On a large platform, the Drifter lies dormant. Buggy approaches the vehicle, placing a metal box on the ground; he snaps it open and digs his hands into some soft material.

A transparent sphere comes out with a bold ‘x’ painted on its surface; a glowing, dense liquid sloshing inside as the ball moves.

“Let's put this baby to use.” the pirate grins. “This time it's gonna work.”

“Six time’s the charm.” Ava chuckles, while keeping the Drifter’s tank open for him.

As soon as the glowing sphere rolls into the vehicle, Romi saddles up and starts the ignition sequence.

A low grumble comes from the thrusters and the dashboard animates under her fingers.

Goosebumps all over, she observes the front hollow wheel drawing a shiny ring of light. One high-pitched hiss and the Drifter gets off the ground.

"Woohoo!"

Romi cheers loudly while the crew’s excitement grows by the minute.

She fumbles with the commands and steers the vehicle towards the exit, its engines revving full force.

Everything is going exactly as planned when a sudden, scorching heat wave reaches the woman's back, followed by the unmistakable sound of an explosion. Panic spreads as black smoke fills the room.

"Goddamnit!" Allen shouts “Is everyone ok?”

The doctor grabs his medical kit and runs to the rest of the crew, his ears ringing painfully.

He reaches the Captain first: bent over on the floor, she's punching her tights, tears down her furious face. She’s screaming, out of control.

"Breathing is ok. Motility looks fine.” Allen rattles off the essential checks as fast as he can.

“Doc, help!”

He jumps on the platform, following the jester's shrieks.

The pirate has not one scratch on him but Ava, on the other hand, is resisting the Drifter’s weight, her face covered in blood.

Buggy and Torres are trying to lift the wrecked vehicle away from her, but she’s holding on to it, shouting into the smoke:

“Romi it's ok! We'll fix it!”

“Let go, idiot!”

Buggy is shoving Ava away when the Drifter's bulk in his arms suddenly feels heavier.

“Torres, what the fuck you're doing?”

“No, no, no, no…” The man mumbles, his amber eyes fixed on Ava's face.

“Don't you dare drop it!” the woman shouts

“Y-your face!”

“It's nothing, I'm fine!”

“I need to throw up…”

“You were in the Navy, for god's sake!”

“And why do you think they made him a sniper?” Meg snarls, helping them lay down the Drifter slowly.

As the dense fog begins to dissipate, the doctor lets Torres run away, focusing on the others.

“Romi was lucky. Just bruises and a nasty headache.” His tone is reassuring. “This young lady, on the other hand…”

“Ouch!”

The second he touches Ava’s face she cries out on top of her lungs. Her nose is getting swollen and black, cheeks and chin covered in blood.

Allen opens his kit and cleans her face while Buggy moves frantically around him.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” He whines, peeking out from the doctor’s shoulders.

His floating hands hold Ava still as a metal strip gets applied on her bended nose.

“This will do for now.” the doctor smiles. “Wait a little for the painkillers to kick in then go get some rest. I'll check on you in a couple of hours.”

Allen gathers his tools and reaches Meg, who's carrying a miserable Romi on her back.

With the doctor's assistance, the three of them leave what's left of lab 01.

Watching the sad spectacle, Buggy reaches for two desk chairs then turns them upright.

“Come sitting.” He orders in a flat voice.

“I'm good.”

“Doc said you need to rest. Sit.”

Ava throws herself into a chair, puffing. “How about we use the purple paste instead? Like, a tiny crumble.”

“That’s a great idea… if you want to send your nose on the fucking moon.”

Buggy sits in front of her and falls silent for a bit. “I really thought it would have worked this time, you know.”.

“We’re almost there: it’s just a matter of fine-tuning, at this point.”

“It blew up in our faces, Ava! I’m out of my league, I'm afraid.”

“Well, so is Romi with her Drifter and, frankly, so am I when I get my hand on any cable in here. We’re all learning as we go.”

“How romantic. Sadly, Croc’s breathing down my neck kinda ruins the vibe.”

“Oh, forget about that buttface: one day we'll build a gigantic robot and seize his gold! ” Ava giggles “It will destroy him! While spitting fire.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Buggy leans forward, laughing.

“We'll name it RingMaster, Mark One!” the woman continues, chasing the jester's chuckles as the bad mood seems to leave him.

In the middle of that rambling, though, her smile fades away.

Those clear eyes, his childish grin…Ava finds herself weak, once again.

“It must be the adrenaline. The painkillers, probably.” She thinks, as tingles start running under her skin.

Squinting, Buggy takes some time to inspect the dark metal strip on the blond’s nose.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

She feels her cheek burning as her gaze tumbles down to his chin.

“I feel nothing. Just a bit light headed.”

“Friggin’ Egghead stuff.”

A slight tilt of her head and a kiss lands on Buggy's lips. A long shy kiss, followed by another peck, and then another.

The jester is stunned: Ava's skin smells too good, her lips, her hands on his jaw, too soft, too inviting. Suddenly overwhelmed, he does not move a muscle.

“Lord, no.” His heart is pounding out of control, dark thoughts crowding in his mind.

“Please, make her stop.” Buggy falls into pure panic. “It had to be fake! She swore to part ways!”

The vivid image of Croc and Hawk laughing flashes before his eyes, he could almost hear them: “you should thank us, clown.” And Ava, clinging to his arm with her shiny wedding band. He'll be stuck with her, forever.

As Buggy snaps out of his visions, he pushes the woman away. She stands up, distraught, her big green eyes darting left and right. “I…I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me.” She whispers in a shaky voice. Lowering her head, Ava dashes out of the room.

Buggy’s head pops off, falling into his hands. “Shit!” He shrieks “Shit! What was that?!”

Hoping to calm his inner chaos, he runs hiding in the chemistry lab for the rest of the day.

It’s been dark for a while when he eventually takes courage and heads back to his room.

“You go straight in there as if today never happened.” The man rehearses. “No kaboom, no smooches, nothing. Just good ol’ chatting.”

As he opens the bedroom’s doors, Buggy sighs in relief. Ava seems to be…not there.

He takes off his clothes and paint, hurrying under the shower, planning to be asleep before his roommate comes back.

The jester dives on his pillow and shuts his eyes: ears pricking up, he expects the sound of her steps at any moment.

Buggy waits for hours on end, wakeful, but no one comes in that night. Staring into the dark, he feels his heart sink.

[angelicyouth]

Youth ; Chapter 6

⇢ pairing: kenny mccormick x marsh!reader x craig tucker

⇢ synopsis: ❝Growing up with the boys as the sole girl of the group, it was only natural for them to grow protective over their pseudo-little sister as the years went by.❞

⇢ [AO3 link] ; [series masterlist] ; [previous] ; [next]

The cold night is tense and still as the boys stare each other down, both with clenched jaws and challenging looks in their eyes. What was once red cheeks adorning my face slowly fades away in the oppressing silence, the air thick and heavy. The hand I have on the teen in front of me tightly clenches on the material covering his arm, my other hand shooting up to hastily wipe the still fresh tear tracks on my face.

“Fuck off, McCormick.” The deep voice permeates the vacant park, defiant as his hands drop from their gentle caress on my cheeks.

The blonde scoffs, finally making his way over to the two of us. His fast footsteps hit asphalt in anger as he seethes. “Fuck you, Tucker. Why the fuck is Y/N crying? What’d you do?”

Once close enough, Kenny shoves the stoic teen away from me and directs his attention solely on me. In contrast to his current frustration, his large hands come up to softly wipe my tears away.

“Talk to me, babe. What’s wrong?” He gently asks me, eyes scanning my appearance for any injury. Once satisfied at no sight of any visible wounds, his azure eyes go back to focusing on my own.  

“She’s fine.” Craig speaks through clenched teeth, arms crossed.

Kenny’s face whips to his direction and furiously grabs his shirt. “I wasn’t talking to you. But since you want to butt in so fucking bad, what the fuck did you do? Huh? Why the fuck is she crying?!”

“I didn’t do shit!” The taller teen’s hand shoots up to grab onto the one at the collar of his shirt. When I spot the blonde’s unoccupied hand clenching further, ready to strike, I urgently hope off my perch on the swingset to stop the ensuing fight before it turns physical.

Grabbing onto Kenny’s arm, I gently tug him away. “Stop! Ken, stop! Please! He didn’t do anything!”

The blonde keeps his gaze on the other for a moment longer before furrowing his brows and looking at me. Frustration is apparent on his face as he softly pleads. “Tell me then, Princess. Why’re you crying?”

I hesitate, not wanting to get the other more infuriated. I know how overprotective the boys are over me and I doubt being close friends would be an exception to the rule.

“I confessed. I told her that I love her.” Craig speaks up for me when nothing comes out of my mouth, an indignant look on his face.

I’m finally able to pull the fuming blonde away when his grip momentarily slackens in shock. The boy in my possession looks lost on what to do, on who to look at.

“Woah, what’s going on?” I jolt, turning my head to look for the owner of the new voice joining. It’s my brother and Kyle, the latter rapidly looking between the two boys in front of me. His face is thoughtful, getting a sense of the mood and calculating.

“You guys were taking too long even after we sent Kenny to check up on you…” My brother picks up where the curly haired teen left off, eyebrows furrowing at the tense atmosphere. When he sees the dried tears marring my face, he takes his hands out of his jacket’s pockets and stalks over to us.

“What the hell happened?!” He barks out, breaking the hold I have on Kenny and using his sleeves to get rid of the remaining salty residue on my face.

No one responds and when Kyle realizes that none of us will speak up, he lets out a tired sigh. “Let’s just head back home. It’s dangerous being out at night this late and Cartman’s been bitching about his snacks.”

Everyone save for Kyle and I are glaring at one another and my brother huffs. He’s the first one to break eye contact and move, protectively wrapping an arm around my shoulder and leading the rest of us back home.

・ ─ ・ ⋯ ・ ─ ⊹ ♡₊˚๑

Whenever any of the guys fight, all of us are quick to get involved in the problem. Whether it be trying to help mend the situation or picking a side to instigate a fight, we’re always there. To my surprise, however, no one seems to want to intervene in the apparent strain between Kenny and Craig. And when I ask any of the guys about it, they dismiss my concerns. Even though I was part of the problem that night, it seems like I’m out of the loop and none of the guys will clue me in.

“Tweeeek!” I drag out for as long as I can, my hands joined together underneath my chin with an exaggerated pout on my face.

“Ngh! I don’t know, N/N! You're going to have to ask someone else.” The coffee lover gives me an apologetic smile, softly patting the top of my head in condolence.

My pout turns into an angry one as I childishly cross my arms and turn my head away from the blonde. “Hmph!”

I look for my next unwilling victim and when I spot Butters on the couch, I stomp my way over to him and dramatically drape my whole body over his lap. “Butteeers!”

The blonde merrily chuckles at my theatrical display as he gently tucks stray strands of hair behind my ear. “Aw, gee, little buddy. I’d tell you if I could but I’m just as clueless as you are!”

My body deflates until I look like a melted puddle because I honestly believe that he’s as unaware as I am, unfortunately for him.

“God, quit your fucking whining! I can’t hear the TV over your crybaby bitch tears!” Cartman exclaims next to Butters, roughly pushing the legs I have on his lap off. The force has me rolling off the blonde and brunette until I find myself on the floor in front of them. I dramatically lay on my back with my arms spread out and close my eyes in defeat.

A few minutes later, I sense someone laying down next to me and I turn onto my side to face them. Opening my eyes, I spot my brother scrolling through his phone and I start to grin. I scooch myself closer to him to plant my head on his shoulder and fiddle with the black earrings on his earlobes. He lazily casts a glance at me and when he sees my hopeful look, he answers with a dismissive and final, “No.”

Well fuck me, then. Sheesh.

・ ─ ・ ⋯ ・ ─ ⊹ ♡₊˚๑

Chatter and the squeaking of shoes fills the classroom after the teacher dismisses the students within it for the next period. I take my time placing my notebook and pencil bag into the bag on my lap until I hear a cheerful voice calling out to me.

“Princess!”

I look up to the front of the class and see Kenny peeking his handsome face past the door frame, cutely waving at me. I beam at the blonde picking me up for our next class together as I sling my arms through the straps of my backpack, hefting it comfortably onto my back. I wave goodbye to Heidi who’s still at her desk and she smiles back at me as Kenny takes hold of one of my hands.

We stop by my locker, the blonde with his arms wrapped around my waist and a chin on my shoulder as he watches me switch out my textbooks. I hand it to him without looking as I continue to organize my stuff, and he puts it into my backpack without me asking. When I close the metal door, he grabs my hand again to intertwine our fingers together as we resume our walk.

When we near our next class, however, the teen walks past it and I shoot him a questioning look. Perhaps he needs to use the bathroom or he forgot something at his locker, I think to myself. I’m proven wrong as the blonde shoots me a playful smirk, leading me outside of the school.

“Ken?” I question but the teen doesn’t reply. When we make it past one of the exits, we pick up the pace until we’re at a safe distance from the school that’d ensure we won’t be caught skipping.

“Come on, beautiful. We deserve a break, hm? Let’s be a couple of baddies and skip the rest of the day.” He winks at me and I giggle, playfully slapping his arm with my unoccupied hand.

He chuckles with me, stopping momentarily to pick a flower. I patiently watch him with a grin on my face, “Okay! Where to?”

“It’s a surprise.” He mischievously says, tucking the freshly picked flower into my hair, behind my ear.

We end up at Willy’s Chilly Ice Cream Parlor and the blonde insists on treating me out, despite us being unable to get a discount as Butters is still at school. Due to this, I’m hesitant. But, one look at the blonde reminds me that I’d do anything this boy asks me to do if it meant a smile would be on his face, so I reluctantly agree.

Instead of an ice cream sundae, I end up deciding on a milkshake and I wait at a booth next to the window while Kenny orders. When he settles in front of me, I’m surprised when my drink comes out by itself until the blonde places two straws into the glass like the gentleman he is.

I grin, leaning over the table to take the first sip. As I’m doing this, the teen in front of me places both of his elbows on the table, cupping his cheeks and drinking at the same time as me. I giggle when he playfully flutters his eyelashes rapidly, to which the blonde responds with a large grin.

We talk about whatever comes to mind, ranging from topics of all kinds. My smile never leaves my face as I always treasure the quality time I get to spend with any of the boys. Kenny reaches his arm across the table with his palm facing up, wiggling his fingers until I place my hand onto his. When there’s a lull in our conversation, Kenny softly squeezes our conjoined hands and speaks.

“About the other night…” He begins, piquing my interest as he trails off into silence.

I patiently wait for him to continue, smoothing a thumb over the back of his hand in reassurance. “Did you accept Craig’s confession?”

I blush at the new topic yet I feel uncomfortable, opting to look out the window to my right. The sick feeling I’ve felt between interactions with the two makes its way back home, something I’ve grown accustomed to as the weeks have gone by—guilt.

“... No, I didn’t. You came, remember?” I take my time in replying, my voice low.

The blonde takes a minute to study my expression before pursing his lips and furrowing his brows. “Would you have? If I didn’t interrupt.”

I look back at the teen and I think to myself before asking, “Why?”

“I want to know if you like him back, N/N.” His tone of voice matches mine, hushed.

I don’t answer, because what am I supposed to say? That I didn’t because there’s another person I love? That’d lead to telling Kenny my feelings and the rejection will make things awkward between us, something that frightens me so much.

When time silently stretches between us, the blonde lets out a breath. “Okay, well. Since you haven’t replied to his confession… I have something to say before you do, N/N.”

Our eyes make contact again, a determined yet nervous look on his usually laidback face. He grabs my other hand so that both of ours are intertwined over the tabletop. He smooths his thumbs over the backs of my hands before saying so softly that I might have not heard if there were other patrons in the ice cream parlor.

“I love you, Y/N.”

My eyes widen and my breathing picks up. A red hue slowly makes its appearance over my cheeks and I feel like I’m in a dream with Kenny again. Butterflies begin to awaken in my stomach and my heart threatens to rip itself out of my chest.

He nervously chuckles, “This is kind of hard to say because there are really no words, no eloquent way of saying that I love you so much. I love you with all my heart that I always feel so much peace and joy and comfort just from being in your presence. You don’t have any idea how much you make me happy.”

I softly smile at him and it encourages the blonde as he gently continues. “I am hopelessly and inexpressibly in love with you, Y/N Marsh. I could never thank all of your cute self enough, but I promise that I will do my absolute best to try if you accept me. In every and any way I can, I will try to make up for all that you’ve done for me and make you feel if even just a fraction as to what you’ve made me feel.”

“Because I cannot believe I have been so lucky as to find myself part of a life with you in it. I often don’t feel like I deserve to have such goodness around me when life has always treated me so poorly. Poverty is all I’ve ever known and you’re the shining beacon in my shitty life.” My eyes begin to water at his touching words, as sweet as the boy in front of me. At my reaction, the blonde’s smile grows wider, teeth making its appearance and a blush peeking through his own cheeks.

He laughs happily at being able to finally let out the feelings he has kept close to his heart for years. “We met at a very young age but to this day, I still get moved by you. I can’t tell you the amount of love I have felt for all that you do or say, trivial or in passing. Nor can I tell you the gratitude I have felt for the affectionate and caring words and touches you have so generously given me.”

“My heart has often found itself to be too full when I see not only your patience, but your deep compassion for not only me, but to others as well. Whether it be for Karen or a complete stranger off of the streets, your caring virtue is a sight to behold. Just your general, mere existence in my life makes me so happy beyond words can ever express. I can’t help longing for these precious feelings whenever we’re apart. I always feel in my innermost heart your admirable qualities and can only hope that I’m doing my hardest to reciprocate.” A hand relinquishes its hold with mine to reach up, gently caressing one of my cheeks.

“Even if you don’t choose me, I’d still like to thank you. Thank you for loving me, thank you for letting me adore you. Thank you for being part of my life and for letting me be a part of yours. I adore you with all my heart and I’m always reminded of how blessed I am to have someone like you there for me. And thank you, above all, for bringing happiness into my life. I hope I give joy to you as well.” My vision begins to get blurry and I squeeze the hand still in mine.

“You melt my heart no matter how hard times are that fighting the effects of your kindness always leaves me at a disadvantage. And your sweetness is not limited to your compliments or the things you say—rather you exude it from within, drawing me towards you like a moth to a flame. And baby, I want to burn in the depths of your soul.” He smirks at me while he deeply chuckles, and I wetly giggle through my tears.

“Everything about you screams passion and not the lust-filled, careless kind but almost like an appreciation of me for who I am, just the way I am. I guess what I’m trying to say is that my love for you encompasses the whole entire universe and my fondness for you is as deep as the ocean. My affection for you is counted by all the raindrops on a stormy night and my devotion for you is the galaxy in which we inhabit and beyond. I love you, Y/N.” I can’t hold it in anymore and a sob rips out of my throat in happiness.

At my reaction, the blonde gets up from his spot and sits on the same bench as me. I turn to him as his arm wraps around me, rubbing soothing circles onto my back. A gentle kiss gets placed on the crown of my head, and the blonde mumbles into my hair.

“Shh, it’s okay. You don’t have to give me an answer right away. Just think about it, okay?”

I feel conflicted at the elation I experience when I also miserably think to myself, what am I going to do?

・ ─ ・ ⋯ ・ ─ ⊹ ♡₊˚๑

I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling as I think about Kenny and Craig’s confessions. I’m in such shock that not just one of them reciprocates my feelings—they both ended up liking me back. No, they both love me. Me. And apparently, for years since what I thought was just playful flirting turned out to be genuine on their part.

I feel like I’m about to burst at the seams if I don’t tell someone so I get out of bed and open my brother’s door. Loud music blasts, seeping out into the hallway from the now open door as a pair of eyes look at me for my intrusion.

“Fucking knock, you asshole!” My brother yells from his position in front of his computer, his eyes never leaving the screen.

I roll my eyes and cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Fuck off, dickwad. You wouldn't have been able to hear it over your trash music anyways. Kyle, can I talk to you for a bit?”

The curly haired teen looks up at me from his position studying on the floor, textbooks and papers strewn all around him. His tall form gets up and stretches.

“Sure, N/N. What’s up?”

I don’t speak until we get to my bedroom, closing the door and locking it behind me for extra precaution. The ginger raises an eyebrow when he sees me turn the lock and I sit at the head of my bed in front of him, hugging a pillow to my chest.

“Okay, seriously. What happened?” He asks, referencing the door that I locked.

I just blush in embarrassment, too shy to speak up. The teen waits for me patiently, his short temper never really revealing itself to me in the years I’ve known him.

Feeling overwhelmed, I shove my face into my pillow before I confess, “Kenny and Craig told me they love me. As in, they both love love me.”  

When nothing but silence fills the air, I peek at the teen over my pillow. He stares at me until he realizes that I’m expecting a reply and then sighs. “Okay, and?”

“What do you mean ‘and ’? Ky, the two people that I like just confessed to me! Two of your friends!” I say in disbelief at the usually overprotective boy.

“Y/N. I know.”

“... Huh?” He rolls his eyes at my rather extensive vocabulary.

“Well, I didn’t know that they confessed. But all of us know that they both like you.” I continue to stare at him, my mouth agape.

“You do?!” I shove my pillow to the side and scoot myself closer to the teen in front of me.

“Yeah, dude. They've been in love with you for years, N/N. I love you, but you can be pretty clueless at times. Everyone knew.” He scoffs at how oblivious I can be.

I close my mouth and stare at him, an eyebrow raised. “Okay, fine. Everyone but Butters knew. You’re even worse than he is though, N/N.”

I groan and flop my back onto the bed, my head landing on his lap with my eyes closed. He snickers at me as he reaches over to tuck stray strands of hair behind my ear.

“What do I do, Ky?” I softly say.

“You tell them that you like them back, get married, and I’ll watch my nieces or nephews every other weekend.” He jokes, snickering as I playfully swat at his chest.

“Ky!” I whine but the teen above me just fondly smiles down at me.

“What? I thought you liked both of them?” He asks, a smirk still on his face at how ridiculous I’m being over this. I just annoyingly whine back and he rolls his eyes at me again.

“Okay, okay. Sheesh. Communicate. Just be honest with them. You like them both? So then you tell them both. I can’t say what happens next because this is different from most situations. But, they can either be with you at the same time or… they make you pick only one of them.” The once playful mood gets serious and I solemnly stare up at the ceiling.

“I don’t want to pick just one of them though, Ky. They’re both my friends so I’d have to see the one I hurt often. And, I don’t think I can even pick… I love them both so much, Ky.” I softly say that it’s almost a whisper, melancholy painting my voice. I reach a hand up to clench at the material on my chest at the pain that the thought gives me.

A hand makes its way to my head, gently smoothing down my hair in comfort. “... I know. Just talk to them, N/N. You won’t know if you don’t tell them. And if not, do it for me, okay? They’re my friends, too.” He softly murmurs to me, a sad smile on his face. I turn my face into his stomach and wrap one of my arms around his waist.

・ ─ ・ ⋯ ・ ─ ⊹ ♡₊˚๑

I take a deep breath to gather my nerves and hit send, texting both Kenny and Craig separately, asking if they want to come through for a smoke session. When they agree, I let my brother know that I’m going to be out for a bit. He raises an expectant eyebrow at me until I reassure him that he doesn’t need to worry, that I was meeting one of the guys.

I take my time trekking through the snow filled sidewalks, anxiety making my hands clammy despite the cold. I smile when I pass by a couple of kids playing outside, missing the time when the guys and I were like that. I think back on how much simpler life was back then, reminiscing on the different games we would play and the silly situations we’d end up in.

When I make it to Stark’s Pond, I sigh in relief when I see that none of the boys have made it yet. I seat myself onto the empty bench and look out into the body of water, wondering if I’ll be lucky enough to see any fish. Before I can, mitten covered hands cover my eyes and I gently smile.

“Guess who?” The stranger says by my ear, mischief painting their voice as they purposefully make it deeper than it normally is in disguise.

I put a finger to my chin in fake contemplation and jokingly answer, “Cartman?”

I can see again as the person behind me lets go to walk around the bench to sit next to me, laughing. “You’re funny, Princess. Do I sound like I have food blocking my airways?”

I giggle at the smiling blonde and he smiles down at me. He doesn’t get to respond before another voice cuts through the air. “Y/N? And… Kenny? Why the fuck is McCormick here?”

He takes a seat on my other side, sharing a look with the blonde as I duck my head. “Craig! I uh. I needed to talk to you guys about something, sorry.”

“The both of us?” The ravenette asks, a brow raised as he throws both of his arms over the top of the bench we’re sitting on.

“Wait, does this mean we’re not smoking?” The blonde pipes up before the chullo wearing teen shoots him a glare.

“Obviously not, fucktard.”

Kenny raises his hands in front of his chest, pouting. “Chill, Tucker. I was just asking, goddamn.”

The taller teen rolls his eyes and I clear my throat, making both of the boys close their mouths. They look at me as they wait for me to speak up, patient when a few moments go by in silence. I anxiously fiddle with my fingers on my lap before a larger hand places themselves on top of mine, stopping me. I look up at the owner and Craig flashes me a reassuring smile in encouragement.

I take a deep breath and look out at the pond in front of us. It’s getting dark now so the falling snow looks more visible, a sharp contrast to the black sky. “You both confessed to me.” I quietly tell them, Craig’s eyebrows lifting up in surprise.

I can feel the bodies on either side of me tense up before the blonde speaks up, as casually as he can. “Oh… Isn’t it fucked up to pick someone in front of the other..?”

Craig reaches over me to roughly push the teen in the arm, a scowl marring his handsome features. “She’s not that cruel, you asshole.”

I cut Kenny off before he can retort, “Not exactly. The thing is, I love both of you.”

They both open their mouths but I speak up again before either of them. “Romantically,” I emphasize in clarification, shooting a look at the both of them.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. And, I’ve thought about it, I promise I did. I know it’s selfish… But, I don’t think I can pick either of you. I love the both of you too much to do that, I’m sorry.”

It’s quiet, they don’t know what to say so I speak up again. “Remember when you guys found me drunk in the bathroom, crying?”

They both nod at me and at their confirmation, I continue. “I had a breakdown because I didn’t know what to do. I’ve never heard of someone being in love with another person the way I am in South Park. I felt guilty for weeks whenever I’d talk to either one of you.”

I look up at the stars above us and confess, “It was killing me on the inside because for some reason, it felt like I was cheating. I know that sounds stupid but I just care about the both of you too much. So, I don’t think I can choose one of you if it means hurting the other.”

It’s quiet and I don’t know if it’s for minutes or hours. The boys must be processing the information and I’m kind of expecting for them to just get up and walk away. I feel ridiculous and I start to unconsciously curl in on myself.

“I know this isn’t what either of you were expecting. I’m sorry if I disappointed you.” My voice cracks as I apologize again. I feel terrible, emotions of selfishness and guilt make me feel ill and I think I might throw up in front of them.

A hand rests itself on my shoulder and I look at Craig. He tries his hardest to give me a reassuring smile despite how conflicted he must feel right now and quietly says, “You’re not selfish, N/N. Just let us think about this, okay?”

Kenny grabs the back of my head and pushes me against his chest as I nod in answer. The blonde mumbles into my hair, “And stop apologizing, I’m happy you talked things out with us. And I’m happy you’re not just flat out rejecting me. I love you, okay? It’ll all be alright.”

I close my eyes and wrap my arms around his waist. I was honest and I communicated. I did the best I could and now it’s up to the boys in what they do with this information. I have to trust them and respect whatever decision they make.

That night, the boys walk me home in silence.

[pinksunsetsandstarrynights]

Acting All Holy, When You Know I'm Full Of Holes

@adamsappleweek

Day 1 Prompt: Forbidden Fruit/Wings

Thank you adroitluska for looking this over and for encouraging me to write again.

Summary: In which Lucifer is depressed, newly single, and shares my terrible taste in men.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56735317

Extermination Day had always been a source of misery for Lucifer ever since he signed the agreement with Heaven. Lilith had never forgiven him for sanctioning the yearly divine slaughter. Every year - like clockwork -  once the screams began, she would verbally torment him. Making the suppressed feelings of self-loathing and guilt bubble up within him until he felt like he could just burst. He would stay and listen to the vitriol that festered in her mind since the previous Extermination. He let her take her metaphorical pound of flesh every time. He allowed Sinners' blood to drench Pride in bright red, caused their tender-hearted daughter's muffled sobs, and made his Queen powerless to stop the madness. Lucifer brought this misery upon them all. He deserved this.

But one day, it seemed that Lilith was done trying to punish him, she was just gone.  Without a word to anyone, not even Charlie. Only a gold ring was left on his nightstand. 

She was gone and he was left adrift.

Charlie was grown, determined to find her own way far from him. Friends and colleagues had come calling, when the wound was fresh, but were sent away often enough that they stopped bothering at all. The staff was dismissed. Why put in the effort to make the palace presentable there was no one to entertain?

Lucifer locked himself inside his workshop, crafting rubber ducks to pass the hours by. Hundreds, thousands, millions of little yellow friends eventually filled the room. A poor distraction from the ache inside him.

Time moved quickly without his notice and too soon it was Extermination Day once again. The screams of the damned rose, echoing throughout the palace. Without Lilith and Charlie's presence, they seemed louder than they had ever been before. Memories of Lilith's past tirades surfaced. The sweet little ducks were not enough to drown them out. Despite her absence, Lilith's wrath still demanded to be felt. What made Lucifer believe he would be spared this year?

There was no peace that night and he knew this new day would continue to be a nightmare.

Lucifer forced himself to leave his sanctuary and step outside for the first time since Lilith's disappearance. A summons from Heaven could not be ignored. No matter how wretched he felt.

To spare himself a gruesome walk through Pentagram City, Lucifer created a portal leading to the lobby of Heaven's Embassy and stepped through. He wandered across the eerily silent room toward the front desk. He signed in and within seconds, one of the meeting room entrances opened. 

Lucifer took a deep breath and plastered a smile on his face. It would not do for the King of Hell to appear distraught in front of an angelic emissary. Especially when this would be the first post Extermination meeting without the Queen by his side.

As in previous years, when Lucifer entered the meeting chamber, he was met with the sight of the commander of the Exorcist Angels, the first man Adam casually eating snacks. His loyal lieutenant stood guard attentively as he did so. A scowl was etched upon the mask on the woman’s face, not that Lucifer had ever seen her with any other expression since she started accompanying Adam to these meetings. His eyes only lingered on her for a few seconds before refocusing on her Commander. The First Man leaned back into his chair, and with a mouth full of popcorn commented, “So, no Queen Bitch today?”

Lucifer’s grip on his cane tightened. Of course Adam would notice Lilith’s absence; the man wasn’t the brightest, but he wasn’t a complete idiot either. “No,” he replied as evenly as he could. “No, she couldn’t make it.”

“So… she’s in the middle of shark week,” Adam inferred before taking an obnoxiously loud sip of his drink. “Can’t say I’ll miss the cunt.” His lieutenant nodded solemnly in agreement. As expected from the mindless little follower. 

Lucifer frowned at the disrespect, but said nothing. He knew taking the bait would just spur Adam to throw more insults on Lilith’s name and he wasn’t in the right headspace to deal with that. No matter how conflicted the thought of Lilith made him.

Adam shrugged at the lack of response and gestured at the seat on the opposite end. “Well, hurry up and move your ass! We don’t have all fucking day, you know!”

Lucifer allowed himself to roll his eyes at that. The angels had nothing but time the first twenty-four hours after Extermination and they all knew it. Still, he took his proper seat and mentally prepared himself for a long meeting. He already missed Lilith’s subtle attempts to distract him from Adam’s tales of his weekend escapades, how she would hold his hand under the table, or how she would tease him by caressing his upper thigh, oh so close to his groin. Her way of making it up to him.

POP!

Lucifer flinched at the sound that forcibly ripped him away from pleasant memories and glared at the origin. If only looks could kill… Well, they could, if Adam wasn’t a holographic projection.

The angel wore a smug grin at Lucifer’s displeasure and blew another neon pink bubble with his gum. It grew larger and larger until- 

POP!

Lucifer couldn’t stop himself from flinching again, despite knowing what was coming. His claws dug into his palms as Adam laughed. Fortunately, the laughter quickly ended and the bastard started bragging about how well his last concert went. He quietly sighed and rested his cheek on his hand. He watched Adam closely, to give some semblance that he wasn’t just ignoring everything he was saying, though he absolutely was. 

He will say this about Adam, the man was certainly animated when telling a story. The angel would use broad hand gestures and imitate the cadences and speech patterns of the people mentioned. It reminded him a bit of the old days in Eden, back when he used to happily indulge Adam when he told stories about the newest animal he found and named that day. Though a key difference - not counting the unkind undertone in his storytelling - would be the addition of Adam’s golden wings. 

Those wings were usually tucked in against Adam’s sides like a bird instead of against his back like other winged bipeds. Honestly, they gave Lucifer the impression that they belonged to a round and cute fancy pigeon rather than Adam of all angels. Right now those wings were fluttering, matching Adam’s enthusiasm as he spoke about… seeing a woman named Janis perform? It didn’t matter. Those feathers glinted like treasure as they moved, fluffing up before settling down again.

Lucifer wondered if they were as soft as they looked. 

THUD!

Lucifer flinched, but this time he did not glare at Adam. Instead, his irritation was directed at the lieutenant with an iron grip on her spear, who glared right back at him.

"...So that should about cover everything. Any questions? No? Awesome. See you next year, asshole!"

It was over already?

"Come on, Dangertits!"

Wait-!

There was a flash of light and both angels were gone.

Lucifer, once more, was left adrift.

The following year passed painstakingly slow. Dust gathered all over the unused rooms of the palace. His concentration was left undisturbed from the outside world. Piles of rubber ducks gradually filled up his workshop. The monotony was only broken up when he came up with errands to use as an excuse to call Charlie. He could tell she was slowly becoming impatient with his nonsense. So he tried to limit his calls further.

Then finally, Extermination Day came again. Lucifer didn't bother to craft any ducks. He quietly endured the screams and the memories of Lilith's disappointment with him. Soon, it'll be over.

And it was.

Hell was silent as a corpse until he spotted Charlie's signal in the sky. Then slowly, the Pride Ring came back to life once more.

But not for Lucifer, at least not quite yet. As soon as he received the summons, he portalled himself inside the embassy. Right next to the front desk. Usually, he appeared near the entrance of the building in a futile attempt to delay the inevitable. He didn't feel that desire this year.

He refused to think of the reason why that would be.

After checking in, he briskly entered the meeting room. Same as last year, Adam was eating and his lieutenant stood near him, only this time her hand was tightly gripping the hilt of a sheathed sword. Cute. She was trying to be intimidating this year.

Lucifer took his seat without prompting and, unfortunately, Adam felt the need to comment, "I see Queenie is a no-show again." He scoffed, "Just like her to bail when things refuse to go her way."

Lucifer took a breath and counted to ten. "Adam, can we please get started on this meeting?"

Adam frowned, "Lute, give him the girls' stats." Lute - so that was her name - stepped forward and began her report. It was dryer than usual without her commander's commentary. Instead, Adam was hunched over his meal and taking angry bites out of his burger.  So, he was ignoring them to pout?

Good.

 Let Adam fume over the fact that he couldn't use Lilith to needle him. Lucifer allowed himself to grin at those ruffled gold feathers. He glanced over to Lute and found her glaring at him.

"Oh, why did you stop? That couldn't have been the end of your report," he questioned with faux innocence. The Exorcist growled back, just barely holding back her acerbic tongue.

"Lute, just finish the fucking report!" Adam snapped. "We have better shit to do than hang around this loser!"

Fuck you too, Adam.

Lute straightened up. "Yes, sir." And like the obedient soldier she was, Lute quickly summarized the resr of the report. Too quickly, for Lucifer's tastes.

"Fucking finally! Let's go!"

Lucifer didn't get a chance to get a word in edgewise before the angels vanished. The meeting room was suddenly colder with their absence. He sighed and teleported himself back to his workshop.

The next three post-Extermination meetings would go similarly. It was routine by now, but Lucifer was comfortable with it. Adam would try his best to provoke Lucifer by taking increasingly harsher jabs at Lilith, which never worked. Though unlike with the second meeting, Adam would move on to the next topic and Lucifer, in turn, would start to tune him out. He wouldn't completely ignore Adam, he would pay close attention to how the angel moved, to the subtle ways those wings gave away his mood. Then the lieutenant, Flute or something another like that, would distract Lucifer on purpose. Overprotective little zealot, wasn't she? Usually by the time those interruptions occurred, the meetings were already coming to an end. Then they would leave with nary a thought for him and Lucifer would be left alone, again. 

This latest meeting was following routine, with Lucifer watching Adam as he praised a bakery he and Lute recently found that was run by a Winner with bug-like features. It was nice seeing the Exorcist Commander be enthusiastic over something other than the slaughter of Sinners. Be it food, music, or even his fleeting nightly visitors; it was good to see Adam be human. Lucifer had missed that, having spent years viewing the first man as nothing more than a genocidal militant. He smiled as he listened to Adam describe the different ways the bakery owner - Milly? - decorated her cakes. They sounded fantastical, especially to have been made by hand as Adam claimed. He could see the bakery clearly in his mind, Adam introducing him to Milly and telling him about the best treats on the menu as he led him around like how he used to in Eden whenever he wanted to share his favorite spots with Lucifer. He wanted that. He missed the warmth of Adam’s hand in his. 

Lucifer froze and his cane slipped from his grasp, clattering loudly onto the marble floor. 

“Lucifer?” Adam stopped his story to ask, “The fuck is up with you?” Even Lute seemed taken aback by the sound. Ha! Served her right. 

“I- uh… I have to go,” Lucifer stammered.

“Hold on, we’re not-!”  He didn’t hear the rest as he was engulfed by his red magic, letting it take him far from the embassy. The King of Hell appeared in his workshop, breathing heavily. He knew he would be hearing from the Angelic Council soon for his abrupt departure, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when he just realized that he was catching feelings, for Adam of all people in the entire universe!

Lucifer tugged at his hair and groaned. What was wrong with him?! Hadn’t he learned from his failed marriage to Lilith and brief moments with Eve? Hell, even from his friendship with Adam back in Eden! Feelings toward the first humans had a tenacity to hurt him in the end. 

He couldn’t deal with this. Not now. 

Lucifer threw himself into crafting more ducks and emptied his mind of the ordeal. He was left undisturbed for a year. Not even Heaven summoned him to be reprimanded. He didn’t think much of it, too busy adding the finishing touches to a little duck with long black horns. 

Extermination Day was upon him again sooner than he’d like. The seventh one since Lilith left, since he started attending these meetings alone, and since he started paying attention to Adam. At least a little bit, at first. But that had been enough, and ever since Lucifer had subconsciously let Adam get under his skin. It was pathetic. He knew Adam didn’t care for him, the man could barely tolerate being in the same room as Lucifer every year. 

He couldn’t meet with Adam and Lute this year. 

Lucifer wasn’t ready. 

He glanced at his phone and picked it up. 

---

Staring at the drastically lower number on the embassy’s clocktower told Lucifer everything he needed to know about how Charlie’s meeting went. He should have never sent her. He should have just sucked it up and gone to the meeting. He could have made up an excuse for his actions last year, dealt with a bit of mocking from Adam, and moved on from there. 

But no, now Hell was on the brink of diplomatic disaster with Heaven. All because Lucifer panicked over a tiny crush. How pitiful. 

A notification from his phone pulled Lucifer from his lament. He gave it a quick look and his eyes widened. It was a summons to the embassy. 

Shit.

Lucifer instantaneously teleported himself to the embassy, he didn’t even bother to grab his hat or coat before leaving. The front desk was empty as usual, but there was no check in list. Instead, the doors leading to the meeting room were wide open. He entered after a moment’s hesitation. 

Seated at the end of the table was Adam, with Lute being noticeably absent. The Exorcist Commander looked furious. “Sit your ass down, Lucifer.”

Perturbed, though he didn’t show it, Lucifer took his usual seat. “Adam-”

“What the actual fuck were you thinking?!” Adam interrupted him. “What made you think sending the Princess was a fucking great idea?” He threw several papers down Lucifer’s way. 

Lucifer reached out and picked them up. They were drawings done in crayon, of angels and demons holding hands in front of a building. The Hazbin Hotel. Oh Charlie… He really did throw his poor girl to the wolves by sending her here.

“Adam, I didn’t know she was going to do this,” Lucifer spoke with an even tone. “She was only supposed to get your report of this year’s Extermination, same as we do every year.”

“Well you picked a pretty fucking shitty year to let Little Miss Sunshine and Rainbows practice her diplomacy,” Adam snapped back. “I needed to speak to you, Lucifer.”

Lucifer straightened up, Adam was rarely serious. “I take it this has to do with the next Extermination coming in six months.” 

Adam nodded. “One of my girls went missing. Lute and I found her body after the meeting. Her head was gone.” 

That… that was not good. Relations had always been tense between Heaven and Hell, but this, this could lead to war. Two Exterminations a year was barely more than a slap on the wrist in comparison. “What do you need me to do?”

The angel stood up and approached him. “This upcoming Extermination is still happening, but I need to know who the fuck killed Reed and how.”

Fair enough. They both understood this couldn’t be allowed to happen again. “I’ll personally look into this, and… and I’ll find Reed's head for you.” Adam didn’t verbally respond, but his shoulders did relax a bit. 

“And one more thing, don’t send your kid to any of our future meetings,” Adam tiredly requested. “I just got used to seeing your dumbass face every year.”

Lucifer took a sharp breath. “Ad-”

A white glowing portal opened behind the Exorcist. With grin and a wink, Adam called out as he left, “I'll see you in six months.”

Then Adam was gone, there was potential war on the horizon, and not to mention Lucifer needed to talk to Charlie...

A glint caught his eye. A golden feather. He kneeled down to pick it up. He smiled, it was softer than he ever imagined. 

Lucifer had a lot of work to do, but for the first time since Lilith left, he believed could handle it on his own. 

[cangrellesteponme]

OCTOBER 30TH - IDENTITY

(read this on AO3 here)

dadbastian week day two let's gooo (on time!!)

this one… idk we get some modern au silliness with an alois guest appearance (and claude, i guess??? he's just mentioned and he does not matter at all lmao) in which ciel is sebastian's… adoptive son????? idk either i'm making shit up as i go!! anyway.

in which ciel, a very annoying eight-year-old boy, realises he kind of wants to be a certain someone's very annoying eight-year-old son.

enjoy!

“Ciel, your… guardian is here?” the new lady says, and Ciel thinks she’s weird for the seventh time that day, but he gets his backpack and politely says goodbye anyway.

School is… not very nice. Mey-Rin often tells him that if he has nothing nice to say he shouldn’t say anything at all — but Ciel can tell she’s only trying to be a good adult, because she always says it in her Good And Serious Adult voice — and Bard says that’s bullshit, and Ciel likes the sounds of that a lot more.

So, school is not very nice and very much bullshit. It’s a big word, so Ciel keeps it in his little head and never lets it leave his mouth. Eight might be big — not that big, but he sure isn’t a baby — but Ciel still is not allowed to swear. Not that he thinks Sebastian would ever let him, even if he approves of mischief way too much to be a Good And Serious Adult. Ciel thinks he is a bit evil, even if he’s nice and responsible or whatever-the-word-is.

Maybe that’s why he’s Ciel’s guardian. Even though no one ever calls him that, because saying your legal guardian instead of your adult like a normal person is like saying good morning to a friend when hello is right there. But the new lady — still undeserving of the title of “teacher” — is weird, obviously, and Ciel tells Sebastian all about it as soon as he is at the gates.

“Names don’t matter, little one,” he simply says. “I could be anything, really.”

He says it in that Very Sebastian Tone that means tiny words are being used for big things, and Ciel doesn’t get it. He’s a little annoyed by Sebastian’s sebastianing, so he looks away from him and turns back to the school.

Today, he has to wait a little at the gate. Ciel would say he is very patient — no one agrees with him but it’s fine because he’s right anyway — and the wait is worth it for one reason: he’s going to have a sleepover with Alois, whose father always shows up a minute ahead of being late. The sleepover mostly consists of them sort of being around each other in the garden for a bit, then having dinner, then late conversations in Ciel’s bedroom long past their usual bedtime — gossip, Sebastian says, intel gathering, Ciel corrects — until they eventually fall asleep.

Ciel feels ecstatic. It’s a big word — one he’s very proud of learning.

Of course, he does not show it one bit, because why would he, and he is also very patient in the car.

As soon as they’re home, Alois all but drags Ciel to the garden while Sebastian stays inside with the other boy’s father. Claude is a weird adult. Putting him and Sebastian in the same room is even weirder, really. They always look like they’re about to fight but all they do is play chess and say words Ciel barely understands in a tone he can’t recognise at all.

(Later, he will understand that they are very pettily exchanging passive-aggressive remarks like the bored and evil old creatures they are, trying to one-up each other with more and more sophisticated ways of saying “you’re an ugly, untalented bitch”. Thankfully, eight-year-old Ciel does not know the word “bitch” yet.)

It’s easier to just go to the garden and let the adults be weird in their little corner. Ciel’s company is much more fun, anyway.

Some of the teachers say Alois is rowdy. Ciel disagrees. The other rowdy kids play football and fight in the mud and throw books around, but Alois — though he does some of those things because Luka is rowdy and Alois cares a lot about being a big brother for some reason — mostly just sits on the floor a lot and never talks at the right time. Not that Ciel knows what the right time is, he just knows what it isn’t, because that’s when Alois talks. He’s a very helpful friend, in that way.

He also asks questions at the weirdest possible time.

Ciel is halfway through making a really cool and totally not wonky construction — it was supposed to be a specific thing, he forgot, it’s a construction now — out of dead leaves when his friend lifts his head from the grass long enough to say a few words.

“...what did she mean when she said ‘guardian’?”

“That’s an easy word,” Ciel immediately retorts, but it’s more out of habit than anything — sometimes petty answers crawl all the way up his throat and not letting them out feels like ignoring an itch, and he’s not very good at ignoring itches — and all of the bite behind it is gone long before the end of the sentence, “you should know it.”

“Yes, yes, now be nice and answer me,” Alois says, not even looking up this time, unbothered by Ciel’s usual… cielisms. Ciel considers not answering anyway, but he does.

“It means an adult who is the one who takes care of you.”

“Why would she call Sebastian that, though? That’s obviously your dad!”

Ciel’s construction almost crumbles.

“It would be more like you’re obviously his son, actually…”

It falls.

Ciel knows, obviously, that Alois is wrong. Still, he is quiet all evening, trying and failing not to think about it. Only when his friend falls asleep — he’s hard to wake up, even if he always moves around, and mumbles, and sometimes has nightmares that wake Ciel up first — does he allow himself to pace in his room and actually think.

Sons don’t call their parents by their names. Sons don’t think of their parents as the sort of responsible adult around. Sons don’t…

Ciel wants to be a son.

He doesn’t understand any of it, but it feels like wanting to sit at the window at dusk, or reading one more story, or having a second slice of chocolate cake, or wearing his softest shirt, or, or… Or something. He doesn’t know. He has never wanted to be something before.

He knows, from experience and because he has been told so many times, that he can have anything he wants as long as he asks nicely, and it’s possible, and it’s reasonable. He’s not sure about the last one. Sebastian always says he should just ask. He even agrees to unreasonable things if they’re funny, sometimes.

Ciel wants him to agree for more reasons than “sounds mischievous, I’m in” or “I’ll always approve of you being an evil little schemer” this time.

He doesn’t have much time to think about it any longer, because there is a knock at the door and a long pause before it slowly opens.

“Still up? You really shouldn’t be,” Sebastian fake-scolds, but Ciel feels real-scolded anyway. “Back in your bed you go.”

As he slips back under the covers, letting Sebastian tuck him in, he thinks he should say something now. He might keep it to himself forever if he doesn’t talk now, and the thought is an itch, and he really wants to scratch it, and Sebastian is leaving the room already.

Bravery and fear sit — or, well, jump up and down would be more accurate — side by side in his stomach, but Ciel dares open his mouth when Sebastian’s hand comes to rest on the lightswitch.

“Goodnight, dad.”

There is a second of silence, and Ciel’s entire stomach flips at least three different times.

“Sleep well, my boy,” Sebastian then says right as he turns off the lights, taking it in stride.

Ciel’s dreams that night are warm and shapeless. He does not remember them in the morning, left with only a profound feeling of happiness that could come from anything, really.

[lacrymatoryao3]

Redemption Was Just The Beginning

Chapter 7: New Year’s Eve, 1899 and Day, 1900

[1][2][3][4][5][6]

To the world, Arthur Morgan is dead. As he tries to face the idea, in a lush valley in Ambarino he comes face to face with a woman from his past, and they must reckon with an era long gone. Especially when she has secrets of her own.

(Rated explicit simply because eventually there’s smut in this.)

Tag: @photo1030

4,410 Words (AO3 Link)

“Gettin’ real good at that.” Arthur said sitting on an old barrel, watching Arthur Francisco blow the bottles apart off the nails hammered into the beaten and pellet scarred section of fence. Now and again he would pull out his pistol, taking a shot from his hip to impress the boy despite his fingers starting to go numb even in gloves after a couple of hours in the cold.

Ana had given Arthur Francisco some instruction. He was better for his age than he imagined most boys were. Like his mother his focus was incredible. His stance was solid, his feet apart to match his shoulders and his left foot slightly ahead of his right with its knee facing the targets. He had a decent grip on the rifle, the stock at his dominant shoulder but far enough so it wouldn’t strike his collarbone. He knew not to hold his finger on the trigger unless he was ready to fire. He aligned the barrel with the eyesight and checked it with the attached scope. Arthur made some minor corrections with him over the past week. He had gotten comfortable enough rather quickly.

Arthur remembered an instance when his father tried to teach him to shoot. It didn’t go well. In fact, none of the memories he had of Lyle Morgan were positive except when he died. It wasn’t long after his mother was buried, Lyle trying to give him some semblance of survival kills. He wasn’t going to live forever, after all. A fact Arthur began to savor at one point. In the end, like any time he tried to be a parent, it ended with his hand striking the back of Arthur’s head and the young boy shedding hidden tears after. The only thing he learned from the miserable son of a bitch was using violence to stay alive.

Then he met Dutch and Hosea. It was the first time men had shown him any sort of care, rather than tolerance. The marksmanship he came to depend upon came from their patience. They didn’t lambaste him when he didn’t hit the target, they didn’t lay a hand on him when he needed more instruction, they just kept at it until he was good to handle it on his own.

He had made a promise to himself when Isaac was born and he saw the baby for the first time. He was going to be the opposite of what his father was to him. He tried to balance his two lives, one with the family that had accepted him and gave him love he didn’t have after his mother was gone, and the one consequence thrust upon him to build until it was torn away from him at the cost of two innocent people’s lives.

Looking back, he wasn’t the father he could have been. He’d show up every three months or so, stay a week, and ride back off leaving Eliza to fend for herself with whatever support he could give to her. Though he was always happy to see him, Isaac barely knew him and Arthur didn’t learn enough about him either. Somehow, for some twisted reason, he was given the chance to try again. He could be the father he pledged to be the first time, without the responsibilities of a gang to distract him.

He didn’t know this one either… At all. He didn’t get the glimpses of him as he grew. Arthur Francisco had no idea about him in return, or the fact Arthur was the father he asked about. It had never come up for anyone. Arthur and Ana hadn’t spoken about if or when or how to tell him, and his namesake never said anything. As it stood, this man that suddenly appeared in his life was just a friend of his mother’s from a long time ago. Arthur wondered if he had some sort of inkling. It wasn’t impossible to put the pieces together. They had the same first name, the same color of eyes… Whatever he thought, he was keeping it to himself.

Ana had only given her son a small ration of ammunition to practice with. It was even smaller on New Year’s Eve. There was a schedule they had to follow. Once it had ran out they started walking back to the nice, warm house where Arthur talked the boy through how to use gun oil. Arthur Francisco got most of it on the rag and as a result on the rifle, but his hands were still coated in the greasy fluid when it it got put away. It took him several tries to wash it off.

“What you thinkin’ about huntin’ anyway?” Arthur asked, holding his hands over the stove to take the chill out of them.

“I’m not sure yet,” Arthur Francisco said, “I’d like to at least get a deer. If I’m lucky maybe an elk or moose someday.”

“Ever hunted them before?”

“I’ve tracked them. Couldn’t shoot them. Only animals I’ve killed have been rabbits and turkeys.”

Arthur Francisco began to explain the movements of several deer in the area. He knew exactly where they grazed depending on the season and snow cover. He learned one herds schedule so well he looked at the clock in the kitchen and told Arthur where they were. He also knew the general territories of the elk and moose in the mountains up north according to the roving hunters and trappers who would come and go from Canada. The boy was on his way to being an expert hunter, something Arthur never felt he’d been. He improved a bit after Charles showed him the methods he used. He never was able to master a bow and arrows until then, though he had to admit he still preferred a gun. Either way he hoped he’d be a little bit useful. He had taken down plenty of deer, a few elk, a couple of moose, and other animals in his time. Pearson never went without meat, at least. Arthur used the opportunity to tell the story of the one thing he was proud of: killing that massive and nasty, scarred and half blind grizzly bear above O’Creagh’s run awhile after he and Hosea practically ran from it.

As the time ticked by Ana had finally appeared from upstairs, carrying a the overnight bag she packed for Arthur Francisco. She had been running around the house all day. She cleaned the house top to bottom, mopped the floors with cinnamon and water, made everyone bathe, she put a candle on a white plate surrounded by grains and spices to burn out and buried the waxy remains. On the stove for dinner she had a stew with salted codfish and olives. In the oven was two pans of Mexican styled cornbread, one for them and the other for the Liang family who Arthur Francisco was going to spend the night with since Mrs. O’Hogan was expected to give birth any day.

They finished dinner with a spoonful of lentils. Something that apparently a token of good luck for the coming year. After cleaning up Arthur and Ana accompanied Arthur Francisco to the inn, along with the corn bread. As soon as they went back to the house, Ana disappeared upstairs again to get ready for the party.

She envied men at times. The ordeal getting dressed for any formal occasion was less time consuming for them. They didn’t have the expectation to be as beautiful as possible. Just her hair was a time consuming process. She split the layers in half, braiding the top much like she normally did but more elaborately and higher onto her head. She left the bottom loose and flowing, allowing it to curl in its natural profusion. To think other women envied her for that thick mop she had to care for. She wasn’t a whore anymore, and hadn’t been for over 16 years. If it wasn’t so socially unacceptable she would have cut at least half of it off years and years ago once she had escaped.

One thing it had taught her was how to do her face up without making it too obvious she had product on. She massaged her face, neck, and chest with a soothing cream that was intended to keep her complexion youthful and even… well, as possible. She was getting old and there was only so much she could do about it. When it dried and absorbed she covered it with a fine powder that she had to mix with cocoa and cinnamon to match her skin tone. She covered her eyelids with a subtle dusting of charcoal, then wetted a tiny brush from one of her son’s old paint sets to apply a darker line along her eyelashes. She added some blush to her cheeks and stained her lips with a waxy rouge.

Ana removed her robe and stepped toward the clothing laid out on her neatly made bed. Her stockings and the Combination – an assemblage of the top of a thin strapped chemise sewn to the drawers which made the waist less clumsy – was a heavy knit wool for the cold weather. She slid the low heeled pumps that matched the color of her dress onto her feet, then put on her corset. It was much more rigid and slightly tighter than her normal one, partially for vanity and making the gown’s bodice fit better. She covered it with a ruffled front camisole. The idea was it would keep the dress from being too tight around the breasts, but it really only seemed to give the illusion that they were bigger than they really were. One petticoat was heavy, lined with glazed cotton quilted into black satin. The second petticoat was much finer, a sheer underskirt to cover a back padding that supported the dress’s train… or make her ass bigger, she didn’t really question American fashion anymore.

“You almost done there, Anie?” She heard Arthur’s voice on the other side of her door after a soft knock. Perfect timing.

She opened the door and motioned him inside, “Good! Can you help me with the back of this?”

Arthur had seen women in various states of undress. Whether it was the women in camp, the working girls in whatever town he was in, he’d seen her in a lot less layers than she had on. Yet, he still couldn’t be casual about it. It still felt indecent of him to be there. He obliged, of course, standing behind Ana and focusing of fastening the back buttons of her gown’s bodice and only that. He turned away from her to let her put on the skirt, a shy attempt at maintaining her modesty around him.

Ana shook her head, muffling her laugh with a smirk. She put on her gloves and a set of pearl jewelry she received as a wedding gift before ending the charade, “Well? I think you can look at me now.”

She didn’t look like the same woman. She was regal in her champagne yellow gown with irises draping down the fabric in delicate golden silk threads. The train made her appear smaller, delicate, the most feminine she had ever looked. Her rigid stance still dripped with the same wild pride she had since he met her.

Arthur smiled, one of the few genuine ones he could recall over the last few years, “Almost don’t recognize you. Didn’t think you could seem dainty.”

“Oh, I could still take you down if I needed to.” She replied keenly.

It made him laugh. The girl he knew was still in there. Just waiting for the moment to resurface.

Ana folded her jacket over her arm, a closely matching black opera coat overlaid with yellow lace and lined with black fur. Arthur held the door open for her, “I have no doubts you could.”

The Grange hall was a nondescript structure, built like an oversized double shotgun house. It could have been easily passed by, even with the sign hanging from the porch roof that wasn’t readable until they were right in front of it. The entryway had a strong scent of oak from the wall panels. Arthur underestimated the population of the town. People came flooding into the hall with them in droves to the point it started to make him nervous.

A young man who was a member of the Grange fellowship took their coats. They entered the main meeting hall to join the throng of people. It certainly wasn’t a high class affair like the ball that wretch Bronte held in Saint Denis. It was much looser, less focus on formalities and more on the locals having fun. What people wore ranged from simple evening wear they could afford, to just what they put on when going to church on Sundays. On the stage was a volunteer brass band. It was immediate that they weren’t professionals, but while they didn’t play well it was enough to dance to without being grating.

Lounging at the end of one of the benches that spanned the walls underneath the windows was a man. He was about as tall and built similar to Arthur, though clearly several years older. His face was much more weathered, with a default expression of solemnity and seriousness. His heavy horseshoe shaped mustache and eyebrows where an ashen white, as was most of his hair except his long muttonchops and ends swept behind his ears that reached his shoulders which still retained traces of auburn. He seemed to be studying everyone who crossed the gaze of his oddly piercing dull gray-green eyes. The simpleness of his wool blue-black suit stuck out or the occasion, until Arthur noticed the overly polished brass six pointed star sheriff badge pinned to his chest.

Ana approached nonchalantly him, “Good evening, Sheriff! Even working on a night like this?”

Seeing her, his eyes lit up and he stood to greet her, “Ah! Mrs. Gardener! It’s good to see you! You look lovely as you always do!”

Something about how they talked didn’t sit well with Arthur. He couldn’t entirely place why, but there was a twinge in his chest. Maybe the fact he was the Sheriff that caused it, or how suddenly warm he became to her. He quietly reminded himself, regardless of what once was, she was no longer his. It didn’t stop the simmering instinct to get her away from him, protect her from whatever he was eyeing her for.

Ana motioned to Arthur to join them, delicately leading him by the arm, “Sheriff Strange, this is Mr. Arthur Callahan. He’s been staying and working with me for a few months now. Arthur, this is Sam Strange, Cain Valley’s sheriff. Mr. O’Hogan told you about him if you were interested in maybe helping with some bounties or whatever else.”

“Sir.” Arthur acknowledged gruffly.

The Sheriff looked him over, “You look tough enough. Could use more strong men in these parts. Especially once the thaw starts. With the lower states pushing back against ‘em, we’ve been getting a lot of gentlemen hoping to cause mischief like they used to. If Mrs. Gardener can give you the time, stop by the station.”

A few more pleasantries were exchanged before they moved on to the banquet table in front of the stage. The centerpiece was a large crystal bowl of spiced punched that had cherries and orange slices floating in it. Behind it were bottles of rather cheap wine and champagne and carefully arranged glasses. On plates to the side were dainty snack foods like crackers and cheese, small fruit tartlets, and different kinds of finger sandwiches. Ana poured Arthur and herself some wine. She identified the eligible women in attendance. Many of them she knew and she narrowed them down to an acceptable age.

“Have you seen anyone you think you’d like?” Ana asked innocently.

Arthur had forgotten about Ana’s plans on finding him a woman, “Can’t say I’ve been paying much attention.”

Ana started subtly pointing out she settled upon, “The really tall blond lady over there in the pink dress? That’s Ingrid Svensson. Her sister Astrid is the school teacher, because of that she’s not permitted to attend events like this. Astrid is 25, Ingrid is 27… Over on the other end, the two women chatting in the corner in red and green? One is Nina Weimann. She’s also 27. Her father is the barber. The other one, her friend, is Zofia Grabowski. She’s 28, came here from Poland to marry a miner. He apparently died before she arrived and she wandered up here. She works as a milk maid and a laundress… The woman next to Sheriff Strange is his daughter, Louise. She’s 30 and her surname is still technically Covey. She was married for a while, but moved to Nevada for a year and got a divorce… Just walking in, in that bright purple is Margot Lambert. She’s a bit more closer to your age, 33. Her grandfather was a French trapper to staked a mine claim here. Even after it dried up they remained. They’re good people. Run the bank now. Just… Pick out whoever you like and I’ll introduce you. Or all them, we can make a circuit.”

Arthur followed her gesture. There was nothing about any of the women, not that they weren’t attractive and he was sure they were nice, that piqued his interest.

“What makes you think I’m keen in any of them?” He muttered.

Ana playfully poked his back, “Oh come on, Arthur.”

Arthur jumped away from her and laughed, “Why you so determined to get rid of me?”

“I’m not trying to get rid of you!” She defended, “But you need someone. My god, when was the last time you even bedded anyone?”

His eyes widened in surprise at the question, sputtering out in reply, “When was the last time you did?!”

Ana swallowed down the last of her wine and poured another, “Too goddamn long, that’s when.”

Arthur sat down on one of the long benches as Ana joined the Contra group dance. Just watching it overstimulated him. For one so fast paced he’d have made a complete clown of himself if he had tried. Ana stuck out, a jewel among them in her rich dress. Her skirts billowing about as she glided from one partner to another. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, striking a match with the sole of his shoe. He took a few hard puffs. Jealousy reared itself in his emotions again, especially with the men who became her momentary partner. Being unable to quell it was further frustrating him. What the hell did he want? Even more, what the hell did she want?

Ana had much more to drink by the time she rejoined him. Her face was rosier with the amount of alcohol in her blood, her eyes sparkling, and a wide smile on her face. She dropped beside him heavily and joyfully wrapped her arms around him.

“Don’t sit there with such a sour face!” She teasingly chided, “You used to know how to have fun! Come on, the next dance we have!”

She led him hand in hand to the floor. Her steps weren’t as graceful as they were at the beginning of the party. Arthur himself had a bit to drink, but he didn’t indulge as heavily as Ana did. He had to be on his best behavior, after all.

When the waltz began Ana had brought herself closer to him than the usual. She led at first, a comical sight for a woman whose head only reached his chest. Once he was refamiliar with the movements she let him. She sighed and laid her head on him. In her deep brown eyes was a deep affection that was always in the background of her gaze towards him. Something that came to the surface once her inhibitions were thoroughly suppressed. He hadn’t seen it in so long. It was pure and unconditional, unashamed and not awkward or close to ashamed like he had with Mary the last few times she and Arthur had crossed paths.

He didn’t know how deep it went for her. How safe she felt with his arm around her, his hand resting on her back. It was the same when they were young, like his presence was where she felt the most right and where she belonged. If she could tell him, she would. Instead she simply savored the brief moment, rather than the endless ideas of what could have been.

The champagne began being passed around as it grew closer to midnight. The band stopped when another member of the Grange came onto the stage. With his watch in hand he began announcing the minutes to midnight. Once 10 seconds were left the crowd joined in, counting down from 9 until the new year finally arrived.

It was 1900. A new century. Everyone was cheering. The church bell began to toll in celebration and the band played Auld Lang Syne with some singing loudly along and other throwing small pieces of food or coins at the door to the entry hall, a superstition to prevent hunger or poverty in the coming months. There was another tradition Ana had wanted to fulfill, one that caught Arthur off guard. She turned to him, standing as tall as she could and kissed him on his cheek.

It lingered on him on the way home. He didn’t understand the messages she was sending him. One moment she was trying to find him a bride… The next she was pressed against him and she had her lips on his face. He was considerably less drunk than Ana was, who spend the time gushing about their shared memories, but he was enough for the contradictions to annoy him.

Ana felt his mood shift. His energy was always so strong when his mood changed, comparable to the air when a sudden storm rolled in. Another thing her son had in common with him. It sucked the mirth inside her, replacing it with cold and anxiety. She waited until they were inside where it was warm to confront him about it.

“What’s bothering you now, Arthur?”

“It’s just…” Arthur grunted, pausing and slamming his fist on the capped post at the bottom of the bannister, “What you want from me, Ana?”

She blinked, his image swayed in her foggy vision, “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Bullshit!” He barked, “You get all nice and cozy to me, then you act like you don’t want me!”

Knowing him, how easily he felt rejected, made what he said painfully sear through her. Her instincts to hide weakness made her straighten, to fight the regretful tears starting to string her eyes, “It’s… It’s not that I don’t want you.”

That only further agitated him, “THEN WHAT THE HELL IS IT?!”

“BECAUSE I WILL NEVER BE MARY!” Ana shouted back. She covered her face. The dam had burst and she couldn’t allow him to see it. She softened her voice, “I accepted, ten years ago, that you would never love me the same level as I loved you.”

She started to laugh at how ludicrous she sounded, “That’s it! The truest form of love I can show you is a path where you can actually enjoy life. It doesn’t matter if it involves me. I’ve had a good life, I want the same thing for you.”

No matter what she said the result was still the same. While Arthur’s anger was gone, the self loathing that haunted him filled every fiber of him. He just stared at her, remorse etching the lines in his face deeper. He reached out to her, “Anie…”

“No. I just can’t…” She stumbled passed him up the stairs.

He heard the door slam. He just stood there. He’d rather she had just called him names, confirmed what he already knew about himself. What did happen made him feel worse. Something clicked as his silent chastisement paralyzed him. He didn’t know what it was, but it was enough for him to follow. Ana was probably undressed by now, in her nightwear. He just hoped he didn’t totally miss the chance to make something right. He hesitated at her door. From the other side were her muffled sobs.

He didn’t knock. Ana didn’t react to him entering and softly closing the door behind him. He sat next to her on the bed, only able to muster a weak “Ana…”.

“Will you at least try?” She said weakly, staring at him with red and watery eyes, “For me? For our child?”

Arthur rested his palms of Ana’s cheeks, using his thumbs to wipe away the tears that stained her face, “Yeah. I can try.”

He pulled down the blankets of her bed. She wearily obeyed, allowing him to help her lay down and tuck her in, “But, for now, you need to rest. You had a lot to drink tonight.”

He lowered the flame in the kerosene lamp on the side table to a dim glow. Once he was satisfied that she would be okay, he got up. Before he could get too far away from her, Ana grabbed his wrist.

“Please don’t leave me…”

Her hold on him was strong, desperate. Ana knew it shouldn’t be. She was the one who left him. She was no more worthy of it than any common whore. In her state, she just couldn’t be alone, away from him.

Arthur couldn’t say no, not with her despondent mood and woeful expression of heartbreak. He nodded. He did, however, instruct her to let him undress. She closed her eyes as he quietly stripped himself of his confining clothing, making sure his union suit didn’t show too much. The innocence of it aside, he did have some apprehensions sharing a bed with her. He hadn’t done anything of the sort in years, to the point he couldn’t really remember exactly when. Still, he crawled in on the empty side next to her. He put his arm around her, where she instinctively rested her head and hand on his chest.

“Since the party didn’t seem to go well,” Ana whispered as sleep came, “Do you want help finding Mary? I’m still willing.”

Arthur pulled her closer, covering her more, “You don’t need to worry about her no more.”

[heliosthegriffin]

Shadow Knight: Arc 1 - Epilogue

Ao3 Link

_______

A man of average height and build walked out before a podium. He was a handsome man in a sort of princely-manner, with sharp well-developed features. His hair was dull red-brown and neatly combed back, his eyes were sharp and piercing green. He dressed well, in a nice dark suit with a grey tie, and his general appearance yelled out to the world that he was not only old money, but of aristocratic heritage.

Now, while the nobility was dismantled, following The Great War, across Remnant, which was not helped by the fact said nobles ended dying in mass for a variety of reason, a handful of family survived not only intact, but thrived following the Breakdown (the removal of noble privileges and ruling).

The LaCroix family is one of those few family's, that managed this feat, and integrated themselves into Vale's politics like a tick stuck fiercely to the neck of cattle.

Sebastian LaCroix was the heir to the family, the so-called 'Prince of Vale', and a prominent councilman in recent years.

Trailing behind him, like a lumbering shadow, an enormous albino man easily reaching 8-feet tall. He simply went by the name of the 'Sheriff', no one was brave enough to ask why, as anybody who looked into him tended to go missing.

Tapping the podium, Councilor LaCroix raised a hand letting the public know he was ready for questions. He pointed towards the back to a reporter.

"Councilman LaCroix! What do you intend to do to address the concerns of vigilantism in the streets, as it grows in number?"

"What vigilantism? It's just the same old ruffians as always, they're harmless, and will only be dealt with when they're breaking the law. Vale PD's time is better spent on actual problems, next?"

"Speaking of which, how do you intent to help against the crime wave that hit the city, recently? Millions of Lien of product stolen, and millions more in damages!"

"I am not a liberty to say at the moment, but know it is being dealt with by consummate professional behind the scenes. Vale has it's citizen best interest in mind, so it's putting the cities best minds at work to solve the problem. Next."

"Mr. LaCroix, what do you say to the dissidents that claim Vale's News network is being suppressed by the city?"

"That the City has it's citizen best interest in mind, even if some claim otherwise. If you can't find information, even if you imagine it was there, it was just not there. People misremember events all the time, daydreams, nightmares, collective hallucinations. Vale may be a rich city," He chuckles. "But, it is not so rich to have the luxury, or interest, in controlling what it's lovely people know."

LaCroix looks at a very expensive wrist-watch. "I'm afraid I only have time for one more question... Oh, you there, yes you."

"Why won't the City respond to inquires about lights flying over the sky at night, reports of large animals stalking the street, or recognizing the Shadow Knight?"

LaCroix, for a micro-second, scowled, before putting on a PR-friendly smile. "Security, remove him. He's clearly trying to make trouble." He turned to the crowd with a sigh. "Well, I'm afraid that's all I have time, remember, LaCroix is a man of Vale, for Vale. I represent your interests. Good-day."

----

River Songs stared at his Scroll watching LaCroix walk off, and the man scowled. He just watch the councilman gaslight a entire city.

He knew what he saw! He knew what had happened that night, as much as he wished he could forget. He had met The Knight himself, for fucks sake! He had seen that Monster! He had ... Let one of his best friends die, while he cowered in fear.

And, this son of bitch, in his ten thousand Lien suit comes up and has the fucking balls to say it never happen?! Fuck him, his family, and his fucked looking bodyguard!

Disliking the feed, he put away his scroll, grabbed a duffel-bag and left his apartment. Night was falling and he had places to be, and people to meet up with.

The last couple days had been a hell, a complete and utter hell, one he would live in until he died. River had thought he experienced pain before. He was wrong.

Regret, lost, it hits you in a way that made you replay everything you could have done, all the different paths in life you could have taken to not ended up where you were now, and how easily prevented able it was. That wasn't a pain you got used too, it was one you lived with.

Garth's death was ruled as a accident, and would not be looked into anymore. How the fuck do you look at a corpse that has been clearly been trampled to death, and go 'It looks like he tripped. Case close.' ? It made River want to scream.

His own account was deemed 'Trauma induced hysteria' and promptly thrown away. The police, the protectors of the city, they were worse than useless. The whole event sunk to high-heavens, the cops weren't even surprised by the site, they just looked at with a jaded, cold look. They had seen this shit before, and they did not care one little bit.

River couldn't even look his other long-time friends in the face-anymore, the idea he might abandon them too always looming over his shoulder. He couldn't look at Garth's family without remembering that night, of how he let his old-friend die in such a horrible way. He couldn't even go to sleep without seeing those baleful red eyes, and blood everywhere.

He only took comfort in one thing anymore. In one person anymore.

Walking to the meeting spot, he found a secluded spot and took out a welding mask and put it on. He paused before entering alley, taking a hunting rifle from his duffel-bag, then tossing the bag over his shoulder. Entering the alleyway, four similarly dressed men and women were there waiting, night just about to fall.

He had met others, others who had events like him. People who had also been saved. But still carried the scars of they're encounter with those ... monsters. LaCroix said if you could find something, you must have imagined it. River said bullshit to that, you just had to look harder.

He looked night and day for answers, before finding in the darkest corners of the online world people like him, hundreds of stories like his, survivors of events like him, all carrying pain like him. All looking for a outlet like him.

They didn't have a official name, but they all followed the same man.

The Shadow Knight.

As far as River's was concerned, they didn't need one. He was they're Protector, they're Shepard, and, dare he say, Lord, as they followed his banner that he unknowingly let unfurl over the site of each of his victories. They were his soldiers, and River's knew he wasn't alone in this opinion, they ceased to live they're own lives now, as the Knight had saved them, and they all owed him a life debt.

Whether he wanted it, or not. He was what they had left to believe in. If a the Kingdom and it's servants would not protect them, why serve them, when they could follow someone who would? One that asked nothing for his protection. What better King than one know protects and serves, one that does so without one even needing to ask for it?

Now masked, he no-longer had a name, but he nodded at his fellows, they said nothing only nodding in return. Then they headed out as a group, another night would pass, not all of them might live, but they would fight as they're Knight did, if it would do the world the least bit more good.

-----

"What a fucking mess." Ivan Isaac looked at the state of the docks, he was just a janitor, and not a very well-paid one at that. Especially not paid well enough to clean up the mess that had been left after ... whatever the fuck happened last night.

It looked like two trains had a love-making session, then crawled into the sea in shame. Ivan wasn't even sure why he came in tonight there was fuck all he could do to help this. He was good at his job, but he was not a construction crew.

A nights pay, is a nights pay, and while his job was shit, it paid as long as he was here, even if he didn't do much. Perks of a night-shift, he supposed.

He patted his pocket walking over to look at lapping waves on the pier, it was beautiful night tonight, moon wasn't out though, but plenty starry.

Ivan sighed, realizing that his cigarette were not in his pocket, and he couldn't afford another pack, unless he wanted to go hungry till payday. He watched the waves lap, and focused on what looked like driftwood float on towards him, a big, thick log floating in the waves.

"Need a fix?" A coy voice asked him, and Ivan looked to his side, seeing a young man that he hadn't noticed till now, odd considering he was sure no one was out here beside him. He was wearing a dark-tracksuit, silver hair, grey eyes, a relaxed look on his face.

He wasn't looking at him though, he was also focused on the driftwood, but in his hand, he was offering him a pack of cigarette, the good shit too, the kind he only bought every blue moon.

Ivan didn't hesitate though, he needed a fix, but he'd make sure to stretch it till he could get home. Though, this would ruin him, as he'd have to go back to his cheap-crap when he got home.

Still, he lit up a smoke with glee. "Thanks, boy."

"No prob, pops."

"Not that old, but I'll let it slide."

"Thought so,"

"What brings you around here, not much do out here, looking for a job? Though, considering your tastes," Ivan gestured to the pack. "I doubt a job our here would pay well enough."

The young man looked at him oddly. "Money's not a issue for me, I'm just out here to meet people."

"Looking to meet people?" Ivan was curious, he hadn't met some kind of drug runner, had he? "Not going to get to know many people at this time of night, or at least here."

He laughed. "Well funny you mention that, I know everyone, and I meet everyone, it's just this is the only time they get to meet me."

Ivan looked at the boy. Was he high? Not that he was one to judge. "Thanks for the smokes."

"A man should be able to enjoy some comfort in his last moments."

Ivan turned to look at the unknown boy. "What the hel-" Ivan didn't get to finish those words, nor would he even get too. A pair of jaws that could have wrapped around a water-buffalo caught him at the waist, as what had appeared to be a log drifting to the docks was something much more primal.

Ivan had a moment to let out a gasp of air under the titanic weight of it's jaws, the gasp of air, it held all the terror of a man about to die. The young man watched calmly, expectantly as this happened. The beast ignored him entirely, it's yellow-green eyes focusing only on it's prey.

Then as quickly as it had caught him, they both sank under the waves, no evidence neither had been there. The young man watched, not even bubbles or blood rose up, this was one of the most skilled killers he had witnessed, which was saying something considering his profession.

He shook his head, then walked away. "I'll be there where you slip up, though." He pondered on a certain human, humming. "You too, I wonder when, though?" Then sauntered off, another appointment schedule for tonight.

----

'Ring-a-Ling'

The door opened to the bookstore, and a huge faunus lumbered in.

"Morning, Gustav, how was your night?" The book-seller asked him.

Gustav nodded to him. "It was fine, got the latest edition?"

"Yep. Ha, one day, you'll have to switch over to using your scroll for new, you know that right? I can't stay in business for ever, I'm getting old!"

Gustav chuckled. "I'm in my seventies and still working, take a page out of my book, would you? My children are ready for me to move in, but I'm not ready to give it up, yet."

The seller laughed. "Yeah, I guess I should." He handed over the paper.

"Much obliged." Gustav flipped over to the latest report, another murder at the docks. No leads. The body so mangled, that it was only considered to be the missing janitor, Ivan Isaacs.

He waved to goodbye to his longtime friend, going home. Taking the paper with him. Gustav Niles did well for himself, he had been married, had children, was a doting grandfather, and managed to own his own home.

He liked to think he did alright for a old faunus.

Going down to his basement, he went into secret room. It was full of cut-out newspaper clips, all detailing murders at the dock, going as far back as sixty years, the same time he started there.

He cut out another page, and put it up on the wall. Then took out something, a half-finished cigarette, he put in on the wall too. All the other newspapers also had little trophies like that underneath them.

He smiled. He still hunted pretty well for a old faunus.

[void-ink-studios]

I lived, bitches!

It’s nice to be back drawing in this increasingly interesting drawing challenge where I turn colorful orbs into character designs.  For this batch, we have the remaining Incarnations for this AU, one you can find more info about HERE (AO3) and HERE (Previous Art)!  Well... all except one.  But they’re getting their own post.

Galacta Knight: The third youngest Incarnation, he is the Incarnation of Ambition.  He is Victory or Death, and he was chained and made a weapon for it.  He carved his way a quarter through the galaxy before he turned on his captors, only to be imprisoned permanently in a crystal only the power of a Wishing star can break.  Technically much, much older than Meta-Knight and Kirby, but only be sheer years of existence.  Much of those years he’s spent in a crystal, with nothing to do except think and stare into the cosmos, until some big shot wishes him free to challenge him.  No one was one a duel with him yet.

Morpho Knight: The oldest of the Incarnations, even older than Dark Matter, they are the Incarnation of Judgement.  They are the silent watcher of everything, able to keep tabs on all powerful beings of the Universe, including other Incarnations.  They follow an unknowable schedule, where they emerge to complete judgements only they know the criteria to.  They feel a degree of pity for many of their Voidborn siblings, especially Galacta and Dark Matter.  They/It pronouns.

Elfilin: The happy, kind, compassionate half of Fecto Elfilis, and the new Incarnation of Dreams.  He is childish wonder, and Kirby’s newest good friend.  He is much older than Kirby, despite his appearance, although he only started existing as a separate entity relatively recently.  After remerging with Fecto Forgo and becoming the dominant side, he much more free warps between Dreamland and the Forgotten Land.

Fecto Forgo: The unstable, ambitious, unfeeling half of Fecto Elfilis, also known as Specimen ID-F86.  It is all the true power of the Incarnation of Dreams, including mind manipulation, spacial warping, and telepathy.  It is angry and incomplete without Elfilin, and isn’t above uplifting and manipulating the minds of the animals of the Forgotten World to track him down and remerge.  It was what initially opened the warp to Dreamland, perhaps finding the hole left behind by the previous Great Warp Event to Popstar.

Fecto Elfilis: The complete, original, all-powerful form of the Incarnation of Dreams.  Elfilis is all of the ambition and power of Fecto Forgo, and the childish recklessness and carefree nature of Elfilin.  He actively suppresses Elfilin’s compassion and emotional influence, instead choosing to warp wherever and whenever he pleases, regardless of the damage it may cause.  He is responsible for the disappearance of humans from the Forgotten Land in the Great Warp Event, warping their bodies and minds and sending them to Dreamland, although the power of this ripped him in two.

Nightmare Wizard: One of the older Incarnations, Nightmare is the Incarnation of Fear.  He is charismatic and charming on first meeting, but is ultimately sadistic and manipulative, tricking Meta Knight, King Dedede, and eventually Kirby.  He is able to invade and manipulate the mind and dreams of others and feeds off the fear and terror he causes.  He had a kind of mentorship role to Meta Knight, although that position left Meta afraid of his own body and mind for a very long time.  He is the sadistic ghost that haunts the Dream Fountain, and Meta fears every day he will find a way to escape the Star Rod one day.

Next time I post to this series, it will be Kirby’s cosmic opposite, and the miserable “family” that makes up its components.

Anyone have a good name for this AU?  Was thinking about making some comics and/or additional art, but I want it to have its own tag.  Tag or comment any suggestions!

Please remember to Reblog if you like the art and/or the lore!

[kingofsummer93]

Alpha Sigma Phi

Summary:

Elain has never thought of herself as a bad girl.

But slip some devil horns on her head, and suddenly the possibilities are endless.

Elucien college AU.

Read it on Ao3

Elain was fuming. 

Two weeks. It had taken Graysen all of two weeks after dumping her to not only meet someone else, but to start posting pictures with her all over his Instagram. Graysen despised social media. He had never posted any pictures of the two of them together in the two and a half years they had dated. Not once.

Now here he was, his arm slung around some broad with perfectly sleek hair a trendy shade of ash blonde and teeth so white they were practically see-through. The real kicker, though, was the boobs. The girl’s tits were so large they probably had their own zip code, and were obscenely spilling out of the crop tops she seemed to exclusively wear. 

Elain looked down at her own modest chest and sighed. It had never truly bothered her before, even with her sisters’ teasing. Nesta’s own set of XL tits had started to make their appearance when she had turned eleven, and had grown so large that Elain sometimes wondered how Nesta didn’t just topple forward every time she tried to stand. Nesta had nicknamed Elain “fried eggs” for an entire year, until their mother had overheard and had dumped Nesta’s phone in the toilet as punishment. Elain had mistakenly assumed that Nesta had inherited all the chest-growing DNA, but then Feyre had sprouted magnificent jugs of her own and it was just her with boobs so small that she looked like a prepubescent girl when she was flat on her back.

Still, it hadn’t really bothered her, and with the recent fashion of wearing bralettes for shirts she had even considered it an advantage. But something about seeing that bitch’s giant boobs all over her ex boyfriend made her feel like an insecure teenager again. 

“Stop looking at his Instagram,” Vassa demanded, not even bothering to look up from the makeshift vanity on her desk, where she was currently meticulously applying her signature flick of eyeliner. 

“I’m not,” Elain lied. She went to swipe away the app, but Vassa was faster.

Quick like a bird, she jumped off her desk chair and lunged for Elain, tackling her to the bed and grabbing her phone. She glanced at the screen and then fixed Elain with a look that was somehow an eye-roll and death glare at once. 

“We broke up two weeks ago and he’s got a new girlfriend already? He’s posting pictures with her? He barely even knows how to use a phone!” 

Elain’s voice had turned whiny and she would have been embarrassed to sound so dumb with anyone else, but this was Vassa. They’d gone from strangers straight to soul sisters the day they met, at a party during rush week freshman year. Elain had been standing in line for the bathroom, wondering if she was going to piss herself before the dude getting head in the bathroom finally finished. Vassa, who was in line behind her, had growled in frustration and grabbed her hand. She had led her to a dark corner behind the Kappa Alpha Theta house, where she’d stood watch while Elain relieved herself next to the garbage cans. Elain had returned the favor, and they’d been inseparable ever since. 

Something in Vassa’s fierce gaze softened now, and even though she didn’t say anything Elain knew what her friend was thinking. If Graysen was already posting pictures with a new girl, it meant they had probably met when he was still dating her. 

“This girl is trash,” Vassa said simply, jabbing at the screen. “You’re champagne, she’s ten-dollar moscato. I guarantee you she’s involved in at least one MLM scheme.”

Elain couldn’t help but snort at that. She had, of course, stalked the girl’s profile already and knew for a fact that this was true.

“Aha!” Vassa exclaimed, flopping to the bed beside Elain. “Younique and Skinny Tea. I knew it.”

Vassa propped her head on a fist to look at her. “Look. I know you’re sad, and you have every right to feel that way, but Graysen is not worth it. He’s arrogant and rude and you said yourself the sex was boring. Life is too long for bad sex, Elain!”

Elain shifted uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at her friend. She had no qualms discussing Vassa’s sex life in minute detail but when the roles were reversed it always made her squirm. Partly because Vassa had vastly more experience than she did, which always made her feel like a puritan by comparison. Vassa would have punched her in the face if she admitted this out loud, but it was true. 

Elain’s entire sexual experience pre-Graysen had been a messy handjob in a cinema her senior year. The sex with Graysen had not been bad, and to be fair she didn’t have anything to compare it to, but she couldn’t truthfully claim that it had been good. The only times she got off were when she tried really, really hard, which usually involved shutting her eyes and thinking of someone else. She could admit this was probably not what people in healthy sexual relationships did. 

“What you really need,” Vassa continued, jumping off the bed to rifle through her closet, “is some quality dick, and then you’ll forget all about Graysen. Which is exactly why we’re going to this party.”

“I doubt some frat asshole is what I need,” Elain replied drily.

She watched with increasing dread as Vassa dug up their angel-and-devil costumes from the past Halloween. It seemed like her friend had taken scissors to the already skimpy costumes and had made them even more so. The devil costume in particular was so revealing that you practically needed a magnifying glass to find it. “Who even throws a costume party in the middle of April? Only those twats would be pretentious enough to do something like this and make it seem ironic instead of dumb.”

“Those twats, as you call them, also happen to all be hot as fuck. We are going to this party, you are going to grab the first guy who catches your eye, and you are going to take him upstairs. You are then going to demand he eat your pussy, and then you will let him dick you down until you forget about Gregory.”

Elain snorted with laughter, even as she felt herself blush all the way to her hairline. It was easy for Vassa to declare things like this. She wore her confidence like a cape and was heart-breakingly stunning, in a way that made people stop in their tracks to look at her. Her copper bob was striking against her tanned skin, her freckles charmingly girlish, and the mischief in her blue eyes made her irresistible to men. 

Elain was no stranger to the male gaze, and she was vain enough to admit her own good looks, but still. She didn’t consider herself to be shy, but what Vassa had just described took a different kind of confidence that she didn’t think she had.

“You just want to go because Jurian will be there,” she said, a tad petulantly.

Jurian was Vassa’s latest conquest, and judging by the amount of times Elain heard Vassa yell his name through the wall their rooms shared, she could guess that Vassa was probably not pretending like he was someone else in order to finish.

“Absolutely,” Vassa replied, nodding in agreement. “We’re talking about premium grade dick here, of course that’s why I want to go.”

Elain sighed an all-suffering sigh. “I’m not going.” 

What she wanted more than anything at this moment was to take off her bra, put on her oldest, comfiest, most ill-fitting sweats, order the greasiest take-out available, watch some dumb romantic comedy that would somehow make her cry, and wash it all down with an entire bottle of cheap wine that would give her a headache in the morning. 

Vassa, however, had other plans. Her eyes glittered even as they narrowed on her, so laser-focused that Elain immediately knew there was no getting out of this. It was the same look that had somehow convinced her to get a tattoo, even though she had walked towards that table like it was her execution and had silently cried throughout the whole thing. Still, she could admit that the delicate fawn outline on her hip was pretty cute. Graysen had pursed his lips when she had first shown it to him, and suddenly that made Elain like it even more. 

“You are going. You are getting drunk. And you are getting laid. In that order. Now strip.” Vassa planted her feet like a general observing her troops, a scrap of sequined red fabric in her hand. Elain could not for the life of her figure out if it was meant to be the top or bottom half of the costume.

“You know who else will be there?” Vassa continued, still brandishing the costume. “Lucien.”

Elain’s stomach did a little flip, as it always did whenever Lucien’s name was so much as mentioned. Not because she liked him, obviously. Only because she wasn’t blind. 

Lucien Vanserra was campus royalty. His family donated so much money to their university that there was a library named after them. He was also, conveniently, hotter than the bottomless forges of hell, and fully aware of it. 

In other words, he was about as attainable as George Clooney.

“Yeah, right,” Elain replied dismissively. “Maybe I’ll sleep with Ryan Reynolds too, while I’m at it.”

Vassa smiled in victory. “I knew you had a thing for him! I guessed it when you stopped complaining about me dragging you to the soccer games.”

Elain squirmed again. She had never admitted this crush to Vassa, but maybe she had been less subtle in her gawking than she had thought. It was his fault, really, for walking around with a face that looked like it belonged on an ancient greek god. 

Elain had known him since freshman year, given his king-amongst-mortals status at the school. But she’d met Graysen, and Lucien was out of her orbit, so she never really gave him much thought.

Until last fall, when Vassa had dragged her to a soccer game so she could drool over Jurian, and Elain had reluctantly gone. It was as boring as watching paint dry, but then Lucien had whipped off his shirt and swung it around to celebrate a particularly spectacular goal, and suddenly soccer wasn’t so boring anymore. The sight of his sweaty golden skin rippling with muscles had instantly been burned into her memory. 

She would never admit this to Vassa, and barely acknowledged it to herself, but whenever she managed to get off with Graysen it had usually been Lucien she had been thinking of. There was just something about that long red hair, which would have looked absurd on anyone else. Elain could imagine that hair framing her head like a curtain of fire as Lucien moved above her, his broad chest damp with sweat, hard and slick under her fingertips…

She cleared her throat as a tell-tale blush betrayed her. “I do not have a thing for him,” she declared. “I just have eyes in my head. Besides, he’s never looked twice at me.”

Vassa scoffed. “You were in a relationship, he’s not an ass.”

“He dated a Tik Tok star!” Elain continued. “He dated someone who dated Calvin Harris! He would never be interested in someone like me.”

Vassa’s gaze shifted sideways, and Elain’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Those shifty eyes were Vassa’s tell that she was hiding something.

“What?” she demanded.

Vassa seemed to struggle with something for another moment, until she gave a little fuck it shrug and grinned at her like a Cheshire Cat. 

“What if I told you that I knew for a fact that Lucien has a not-so-little crush on you?”

That combination of words was so absurd that Elain figured she must have misheard. “What?”

Vassa’s grin broadened. “According to Jurian, Lucien talks about you all the time. Apparently he hates Gregory even more than I do.”

“Graysen. His name is Graysen.” Elain tried to sound stern but it was difficult to accomplish given that all her brain cells were currently pinging around her head like she was a living pinball machine. 

Lucien Vanserra, the number one most desired guy on campus, owner of that knee-buckingly stunning face, talked about her? It was absurd. 

“And you’re just telling me about this now?” Elain accused. She didn’t know what to think or feel. Somehow she was both mortified and thrilled at the same time. 

Vassa winced. “Well, you were with Graysen, no? But now that he’s fucked off where he belongs…” She held up the devil costume once more, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Elain wordlessly grabbed the costume, all thoughts of take-out and Netflix suddenly extinguished. 

----

“Dude,” Cassian drawled over the din of the party, “I know I was skeptical at first but this was a genius idea.”

“Told you,” Lucien replied with a lazy smirk. “Something about a costume party always makes girls more slutty.”

As if to prove his point, a trio of girls walked through the front door wearing what appeared to be nothing but mesh. Lucien could not for the life of him think of what their costumes were meant to be. 

Cassian turned to openly stare after them, his jaw hanging clean off its hinges. “That’s not even a costume. What are they even supposed to be?” He sounded almost offended.

The party was in full swing. The ground floor was packed, the floor vibrating from the thumping music, the air thick with the smell of spilled beer and sweat. A makeshift dance floor had been set up in the backyard next to the DJ booth, and it was so jammed with gyrating bodies that the dancing had spilled onto the lawn up onto the deck. There were no less than five kegs, and an actual licensed bartender was mixing drinks in the kitchen. 

It was, in other words, an epic fucking party. The heated pool, which was a thing of great envy from lesser frats, was currently empty, but Lucien knew it was only a matter of time before people started jumping in. Drunk people could not resist a body of water. 

“Where’s your girlfriend?” Lucien asked, nudging Jurian. His friend was staring at the front door, craning his neck to see as people walked in. He tried to make his question seem casual but of course Jurian knew right away why he was asking.

“Don’t you mean where’s her friend Elain?” He taunted. “And Vassa’s not my girlfriend.”

Cassian and Lucien both snorted in unison.

“Please. You’re so pussy-whipped it’s embarrassing,” Cassian quipped. 

Jurian chose to ignore this jab. “Did you know Elain broke up that dickhead boyfriend of hers?” he asked with a smirk.

This was news to Lucien. “Really?” he blurted, too quickly, too loudly. Both his friends snickered.

Lucien cleared his throat. “When?” he asked, taking what he hoped seemed like a casual sip of beer to hide his smile.

Jurian shrugged, his attention back towards the front door. “Couple weeks ago, I think?” 

Lucien was buzzing, and not from the alcohol. Elain Archeron had been single for weeks and he hadn’t been aware of it? 

He slipped his phone out of his pocket and quickly opened her Instagram. He looked at it so often that he could describe her last ten posts in minute detail. Colorful shots of plants and flowers around campus, a brick wall covered in ivy, goofy shots with her sorority sisters. And a selfie, a large ice cream cone in her hand, a wide grin on her face- and that dumbass Nolan next to her, smiling so reluctantly it was almost a grimace. 

Lucien clicked on Graysen’s account and scoffed out loud. “That dickhead dumped Elain for an MLM bimbo?” he asked incredulously. 

That Graysen Nolan had even managed to date Elain Archeron for over two years was still inconceivable to Lucien. He was the most pompous asshole Lucien had ever had the misfortune of meeting in his entire life. He wore cardigans draped around his shoulders, for fucks sake. Who actually dressed like that in real life? 

Graysen had tried his hardest to befriend Lucien since the first day of rush week freshman year. Lucien was a legacy at Alpha Sigma Phi and Graysen was desperate to get in. He was always casually slipping facts about Lucien’s family into the conversation, as if that would impress him. People like Graysen were always trying to get his attention, and Lucien could smell a poser from a mile away. 

He’d met Jurian and Cassian at the same party, coincidentally. Neither of them had so much as blinked in recognition when he’d told them his name, and when they’d undoubtedly figured it out later they still hadn’t said anything. 

Cassian peered over his shoulder, his large cardboard bat wings slapping Lucien in the back.

“Dude, watch your wings,” Lucien complained. It was a ridiculous costume, really, considering how tall and broad Cassian was. Adding wings to the equation made him a safety hazard. 

“Says the dude wearing a tail,” Cassian retorted. 

“Chicks love foxes,” Lucien said with a smirk. “Nobody likes bats. And nobody even knows who you’re supposed to be,” he added, poking Jurian in the back. He was wearing a mixture of vaguely Founding Fathers-esque clothing with a plastic sword strapped at his side.

Jurian did not react. He had gone so still that it seemed like he was not even breathing. 

“You good, bro?” Cassian asked, waving a hand in front of his face. Jurian did not so much as blink. 

Lucien followed the direction of Jurian’s gaze, and suddenly the noise around him seemed to dim. Vassa had just walked through the front door, dragging a slightly reluctant looking Elain by the arm. Vassa was wearing angel wings and a lacy white dress that definitely looked like lingerie, but Elain. Her costume consisted of a red sequined skirt that looked more like a belt, a red corset, and devil horns, and fuck him but it was an exercise in self control to convince his dick to behave. Lucien was convinced that Elain Archeron could make a garbage bag look hot, but in that devil costume she was an absolute smokeshow. 

“They’re coming over, be chill,” Jurian mumbled.

“You guys are both pathetic,” Cassian declared. With that he smacked them with his wings and disappeared into the crowd.

Lucien didn’t bother to correct him, considering that he had momentarily lost the ability to speak and his heart was beating so fast he thought he might vomit. What was wrong with him? He’d dated an Tik Tok star, for fuck’s sake. He knew how to talk to girls. But something about this particular girl was so fascinating to him that one glimpse of her was enough to make his palms sweat. 

She was beautiful, of course, but it was more than that. There was something about her, an inherent happiness, a light, that sang to him. The fact that she never paid him much attention only added to his obsession. 

The crowd parted like the Red Sea to let the girls through, and Lucien shook himself out of his trance.

“Hey angel,” Jurian drawled. “Have I died and gone to heaven?”

Vassa rolled her eyes but immediately threw her arms around his neck and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, not bothering to even look in Lucien’s direction. 

Elain was smiling at him shyly, and Lucien couldn’t help but notice that her cheeks had turned the most delicious shade of pink. Was that because of him? The thought made him stand a little straighter. 

“Does that mean I’ve gone to hell?” he asked. As soon as the words slipped from his mouth he instantly cringed. What the fuck kind of greeting was that?

Elain blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You know. Your costume,” Lucien said lamely. He stuck his fingers on top of his head like horns, and Elain’s lips twitched. 

“That depends. Have you been bad?” Her wide brown eyes were glittering with humor, but her blush intensified. 

Was his dream girl really flirting with him and blushing as she did so? Lucien was struck dumb. He was so captivated by those glittering eyes that it didn’t occur to him to respond. 

Elain bit her lip and suddenly looked embarrassed. “Sorry. That was dumb. I’m Elain, by the way.”

“I know who you are,” Lucien replied, too quickly. Elain’s lips twitched again. “I’m Lucien.”

He stuck out his hand, and immediately regretted it. Did people their age shake hands? He suddenly had no idea. 

“I know who you are,” Elain replied, smiling as she looked at his outstretched hand. 

Lucien had never felt like a bigger dumbass than he did then, standing there with his hand outstretched. But then she took his hand and shook it, and that chaste touch lit his blood on fire. Her skin was so soft that he immediately wondered what the rest of her would feel like. 

His eyes betrayed him then and dipped to her chest. Her corset was so tight that it looked almost painful, but it also made her tits swell in a way that made Lucien’s mouth water. He wanted to lean down and lick that cleavage so badly that he immediately dropped her hand and took a sip of beer to occupy his mouth. 

Elain bit her lip and blushed again as she noticed the direction of his gaze. Lucien cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly. Fuck, what was wrong with him? It was like he had never spoken to a girl before. Was it his turn to speak?

Stop staring at her boobs and say something, asshole. 

“Would you like a drink?” he blurted.

Elain grinned at him, a cheeky little smile, and Lucien nearly whined. “Does a fox shit in the woods?”

Lucien grinned. “I prefer a toilet myself, but I can’t speak for the others.”

Dumb, dumb, you’re such a dumbass, why the fuck did you just say that, you’re not funny…

Elain threw her head back and laughed, and Lucien had never heard a more beautiful sound. He knew with absolute certainty that he was smiling like an idiot but he couldn’t help it. 

He pressed a hand to the small of her back to lead her to the kitchen and the feel of the laces on her corset made his knees go weak. What he wouldn’t give to slowly undo those laces, one by one…

He was so distracted that he didn’t notice that someone had walked up to them. He didn’t notice who it was at all, until he turned towards the kitchen and collided with Graysen Nolan.

----

“Shit, sorry…”

Elain was so distracted by Lucien’s hand on her back that she didn't immediately notice who Lucien had bumped into. She giggled as whoever it was spilled beer all over themselves, and then her eyes traveled up, as if in slow motion. Her giggles died in her throat, replaced by such a powerful mix of emotions that she froze on the spot. 

Graysen’s eyes were narrowed in anger as he looked between her and Lucien, back and forth, back and forth, like they were a tennis match and he didn’t like the outcome. 

“Sorry,” Lucien said again. “Didn’t see you there.” He glanced down at her, clearly uncomfortable. 

“Can you please take your fucking hands off my girlfriend?” Graysen’s voice rang out above the noise of the party, and several people around them turned to look.

Elain recoiled in shock, mortified to her very core. “Excuse me?” she asked. How dare he. How fucking dare he post selfies with some other girl and then turn around and call her his girlfriend. 

But Graysen only kept staring at Lucien, his face contorted with anger. The way he was sneering was so off putting that Elain couldn’t believe she had ever found him handsome. 

Lucien glanced at her again, gauging her reaction. She knew what was about to happen and she was desperate to prevent it. He was about to take his hand off her back and lift it in the air, palm out, and then he would mumble an apology and leave …

But then Lucien’s lips twitched, as if he could read what was going on in her mind. He stepped closer to her, so close she could feel his body heat radiating off him. 

“Is my hand on you bothering you, my lady?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. 

“Absolutely not,” she replied with a sweet smile. She might also have batted her eyelashes for good measure. 

Lucien’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “How interesting.” His arm snaked around to rest on her hip and Elain leaned into him further, as if by instinct. Even with the awkwardness of the moment she couldn’t help but notice how large that hand was, how tall he was, how short she was next to him, even in heels. 

Graysen finally looked at her then, and she could have laughed at the incredulous look on his face. “Can we talk?” 

No, she immediately thought. Only a few hours ago she would have jumped at the opportunity to just see him, but now that he was in front of her she felt strangely empty. How long had it been since she and Graysen just had fun together? She’d been having more fun in that short conversation with Lucien than she’d had with Graysen in ages.

Lucien’s fingers tightened slightly on her hip. She could tell it wasn’t a possessive gesture, but more a silent communication. He wasn’t going anywhere, if she wanted him to stay. 

Elain did not want to talk to Graysen. She wanted to stay tucked next to Lucien and keep flirting with him until he blushed again. But she also knew Graysen well enough to know that he was very capable of starting a scene in the middle of the hallway if she said no.

“Fine,” she said finally. She made sure her voice sounded as reluctant as she felt. 

Something flashed in Graysen’s eyes, not relief but something like victory. Asshole. 

Elain extricated herself from Lucien’s embrace and shot him what she hoped was an apologetic look. Was it just her runaway imagination playing tricks on her, or did he look disappointed? 

“I’ll be around,” he said. It sounded like a question and a promise. 

Elain grinned. “Good. You still owe me a drink.”

Lucien smiled back, and it was a struggle to look away from that smile. Shit this guy was hot. 

Graysen reached for her arm but she sidestepped him and walked towards the open doors that led to the backyard, not even checking to make sure he was following her. She didn’t stop walking until she reached a relatively quiet spot away from the packed dance floor. Graysen was following so close behind her that when she suddenly stopped he almost walked right into her. 

She whirled and glared at him but he didn’t give her a chance to speak. 

“Why are you playing at?” he hissed. 

“Excuse me?” She was starting to sound like a broken record but really, what else was there to say to that? “What am I playing at? What are you playing at?”

“Why are you flirting with guys like Lucien dressed like that?”

He took a step closer to her as he said it, and Elain was so shocked by the venom in his voice that she backed away from him. Graysen tracked the movement and his jaw clenched in irritation. 

“And why would you care what I wear or who I flirt with?” she asked drily. “You broke up with me, Graysen.”

Graysen rolled his eyes in exasperation. “That was a fight, Elain. Couples fight, it doesn’t mean we weren’t going to find our way back to each other.”

Elain was so baffled by what was happening that for a moment she could only stare at him. Graysen misunderstood her silence for emotion, and smiled gently. “Elain, you and I are forever. I gave you a promise ring.” He looked down and frowned when he saw she wasn’t wearing it.

Something about that made Elain suddenly see red. Honestly though, did he expect her to still wear his ugly ring after he dumped her? This whole conversation was absurd, and she wanted it over with. 

“And what was the promise, Gray? To love me and cherish me until a hotter, more interesting piece slid into your DMs?” 

Graysen had the decency to look pained. “That was a mistake. You have to know that, Elain. You have to know I would always come back to you.”

He reached for her hand then, and she swatted him away. “All it took was one glimpse of me flirting with someone else while looking like hot shit for you to come crawling back? You’re pathetic.”

Graysen blinked in surprise at her tone. Even she was surprised by her own reaction, but it felt so good. She had a right to be mad, and she was tired of moping around. Being angry at him felt like she was making a decision. 

She looked over his shoulder and spotted Lucien, hovering near the edge of the deck. He was staring in her direction, but he was too far for her to read the expression on his face. 

“And you know what else?” she continued. “Maybe I don’t want you to come back to me. Did you ever think of that?” 

Graysen carefully arranged his features into a neutral expression that she knew only too well. It was the placating expression he used when he thought people were being unreasonable.

“Elain, I know you’re mad, and I can give you space if that’s what you need…”

“And are you going to be sleeping around during this break?” She said that perhaps more loudly than she had planned, and several people turned to look at them. “But I’m guessing that I wouldn’t be allowed to? Perhaps you’d like me to go home and change into something less slutty, too?”

Graysen winced. “It’s just that you have to know that people could get the wrong impression when you walk around dressed like that…”

“And what impression is that?” Her voice was now deadly calm. “That I feel good about myself and I want to have some fun tonight?”

She looked over his shoulder again. Jurian and Vassa had joined Lucien on the deck. Vassa caught her gaze, pointed to Graysen, and slid a finger across her throat. A laugh bubbled out of Elain’s throat before she could stop it.

Graysen turned around to see where she was looking and when he looked back at her his expression was murderous. “You know that guy’s fucked half the girls in this school? That’s what you want?”

“Maybe it is!” she exclaimed. All her pent up frustrations were rising to the surface in a burst of anger. “Maybe I’ll even let his friends fuck me too, how about that, Graysen?”

Graysen recoiled and leaned away from her, as if she’d spat in his face. But Elain wasn’t done.

“Maybe if he’s fucked half the school then I won’t have to think about something else in order to get off!”

She had definitely said that too loudly but she was beyond caring at this point.

“Be careful with what you say, Elain. If I walk away now I’m not going to come back.”

“Fine. That’s fucking fine by me! Because you know who’s going to walk away? Me.”

And with that she stepped around him and walked away, making sure to bump into him as she did so.

“Elain!” 

Graysen’s pleading voice rang out behind her but she dutifully ignored it as she walked around the pool towards the deck. She could see Lucien walking in her direction, and she had almost reached him when a hand clamped on her forearm.

----

It happened so quickly that Lucien didn’t realize what was happening at first. One moment he was walking towards Elain, and the next that prick Graysen had grabbed her by the upper arm and was screaming in her face. Lucien dropped his cup of beer and ran towards her. 

“What is going on here? Are you alright?” 

Elain yanked hard against Graysen’s grip and staggered backwards. Lucien put out a hand to steady her, and to his surprise she stepped closer to him.

“We’re fine,” Graysen hissed through gritted teeth. “This doesn’t concern you, Vanserra.”

“Actually, it does concern you, because Graysen was just leaving and I was going to ask you for that drink.” Elain’s eyes were flashing with residual anger and Lucien knew it was wrong butshit she had never looked prettier. 

He turned to Graysen. “Get the fuck out of my house,” he growled. 

Graysen sneered. “Your house, huh? You entitled asshole…”

“Shut the fuck up, Graysen!” Elain yelled.

Lucien laughed. “Yes, Nolan. My house. You know what else is mine? This entire fucking school. So you better fuck right off and stay out of my face, because if you don’t, I might just develop an urge to call the Dean. Did you know he’s my godfather?”

His heart was pounding with adrenaline. He usually detested pulling rank like this, but sometimes it just had to be done. Graysen’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step towards Lucien. Was the fool about to try to fight him? 

“Lucien!” The sound of name being yelled from across the yard distracted both him and Graysen. 

Lucien turned to the direction the voice had come from just as a football came hurtling through the air, straight towards his face.

It was too late to catch it, and pain exploded across his face as the ball smacked him right in the nose, full speed. He heard people screaming, including Elain, but his ears rang as blood gushed down his face in a thick stream.

Lucien staggered backwards from the impact, not realizing that he was right next to the pool until he was teetering on the edge. He reached out instinctively for someone to hold on to, and it was only when he was falling backwards with a lurch that he realized he had grabbed Elain.

They fell into the pool in an ungraceful tumble of limbs. It might have been funny if his nose wasn’t bleeding and he hadn’t inhaled a lung full of chlorine water. 

He swam to the surface with a gasp, immediately reaching for Elain. She was sputtering water and absolutely drenched, but otherwise seemed unharmed.

“Shit, I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed. 

“Oh my god are you ok!?” she asked at the same time.

They stared at each other for a beat and then Elain burst out in giggles, clapping a hand to her mouth. Lucien huffed out a laugh, wincing as pain shot through his nose. 

“We’re done,” said a dark voice from above them. 

Elain rolled her eyes and turned to Graysen. “That’s literally what I’ve been saying for thirty minutes!”

Graysen shot him another murderous look, and then he had turned and disappeared through the crowd.

“Holy shit dude, I’m so sorry!” Cassian had appeared at the edge of the pool, cringing as he took in Lucien’s bloody nose.

“It’s fi-“ Before Lucien could say anything else, Vassa had stomped to the pool and pushed Cassian square on the back.

His friend yelped as he belly-flopped into the water, creating such a splash that both Lucien and Elain were immediately drenched again.

Apparently people took this as some kind of signal, because the next moment people were jumping into the pool with cheers and whoops.

Elain laughed again, and when she caught him staring she blushed.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Lucien quickly shook his head and winced as the motion shot pain through his nose again. “No, I’m sorry. I dragged you in.”

Elain giggled as more people jumped in the pool. “Well, it looks like you started a revolution.”

Lucien reached up to touch his nose gingerly. “I’d love to stay and float but I should probably take care of this situation.”

Elain nodded, though her smile dimmed slightly. “Sure, of course…”

“I could probably use some help,” he quickly added.

Elain giggled again and god what a glorious sound it was. “Aren’t you pre-med?” 

“Yes, but we haven’t talked about noses yet. I might die if you don’t help me.” He also might die if she didn’t keep flirting with him all night. 

“Ahh, of course, makes sense. Sounds like I do need to help you then.” She nodded seriously, her big brown eyes twinkling.

Lucien winked and elbowed his way out of the pool and back towards the house. The kitchen was still packed, so he jerked his head in the direction of the hallway before leading the way through the main floor and up the stairs. 

He was holding his wet shirt to his nose, and the blood was seeping through the soaked fabric like a watercolor. Truly not the scene he had imagined for his first real interaction with his crush, but if anything at least it would be memorable. 

The upstairs hallway was also packed, and several people raised their glasses or reached for a high five as he passed. Lucien cringed internally and hoped that Elain either didn’t notice or care. Once they reached his room at the end of hall he held the door open for her and followed her in.

“Sorry,” he said, hovering by the door as she looked around curiously. “It’s just that the bathrooms downstairs are probably gross by now. I swear I’m not being a creep.”

But aren’t you just a little bit, though?

Elain smirked. “So you weren’t trying to get me alone?”

Good god she would kill him. 

“I mean, maybe a little …” he quipped back.

Lucien had almost forgotten what they were doing there until Elain peered in the direction of his bathroom. “Towels?” she asked.

“Right, yes…”

Lucien hurried into the bathroom and Elain followed, still looking around his room with interest. “Do all the rooms have en-suite bathrooms?”

Lucien loosed a nervous laugh. What was wrong with him? You’d think this was the first girl to ever step foot in his room. “No,” he said. “Just a few of them. They’re usually reserved for seniors.” Or Vanserras, he didn't need to add.

He handed her a large towel and used another one to dry his sopping hair. Elain wrapped the towel around her waist like a skirt and ran a washcloth under the tap.

“Sit,” she instructed.

Lucien did as she asked and perched on the closed toilet seat, amused at how she was suddenly taking charge. It was giving him ideas, as if being alone with her in his room was not distracting enough. 

“You know,” she said, her lips quirking into a small smile, “if we were in a movie this would be called a meet-cute.”

Lucien laughed, but then she was moving towards him until she was standing between his legs, and suddenly it seemed like there was a lot less oxygen in the room. He could smell her sweet perfume underneath the sharp scent of chlorine, and it was an effort to not breathe in deeply like it was his first breath of air. It would be so easy to put his hands on her hips and pull her down so she was sitting on his lap…

“Sir,” Elain scolded, one of her eyebrows raised.

“What did I do?” Lucien asked innocently. 

Had he been oggling her tits again? In his defense it was rather difficult not to when they were right in front of his face like that…

“You were thinking loudly,” Elain retorted. 

She braced herself on his shoulder and dabbed at his face with the washcloth. Lucien could tell his nose wasn’t broken, but it hurt like hell and by morning he would be magnificently bruised. He’d have to think of an appropriate prank to play on Cassian as revenge.

“There,” Elain said after a while. “It’s not bleeding anymore, but it’s already bruising.”

“Thank you. You’re a very good nurse. Not sure what I would have done without you.”

“You might have died,” she replied, nodding solemnly. 

Those brown eyes were twinkling at him again and he couldn’t help himself. He reached up and rested his hands on her hips- no pulling, not pushing, just resting. Feeling the warmth of her skin seep through the towel, noticing how she went very still. Was he being a jerk? She’d just dumped her boyfriend not half an hour ago…

But then she dropped the washcloth to the floor with a wet flop, and then both her hands were braced on his shoulders. Lucien’s heart was beating so erratically that he would have bet Elain could hear it beating.

“Look,” he said nervously, “I know you just broke up with Graysen like a minute ago, but…would you maybe want to get brunch with me tomorrow?”

Elain blinked in surprise, and Lucien could have kicked himself. What the hell was he doing? She’d just gotten out of a serious relationship, obviously she wouldn’t be ready to go on dates, much less brunch dates. She was clearly flirting with him, but maybe she just wanted some rebound sex…

“You want to go for brunch…tomorrow?” she asked. She hadn’t moved, but her hands clenched his shoulders a little tighter. 

“I mean…”Back pedal, back pedal, back pedal… “You know. It could just be as friends, if you want. I totally understand if you’re not ready to go on dates right now, but I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a long time and I just…”

His rambling died in his throat as Elain plopped herself on his knee, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him full on the mouth.

----

Lucien broke the kiss with a chuckle, smiling in amusement. “Should I take that as a yes for brunch?” 

Elain didn’t bother to answer before kissing him again. 

She knew realistically that it would be smarter to take things slow, to go on the date and see what happened. But he smelled so good, and he was so hot, and knowing he had been wanting to ask her out made her brain melt out of her ears. 

Lucien chuckled again, but instead of pulling away he looped his arms under her knees and pulled her fully onto his lap. They were both soaked, and the wet towel wrapped around her waist was uncomfortable and awkward, but it didn’t matter.

The only thing that mattered was the taste of his mouth, the feel of his body under her palms, the spicy, musky scent of him in her nose. It didn’t even matter that she wasn’t used to being the one to instigate sex. Lucien certainly wasn’t complaining, and that was the only motivation she needed.

Besides, she was dressed like the devil. Might as well act like it. 

When she felt him lick her bottom lip she parted for him, and then his tongue was sliding against hers, slow and languid. Elain could have sat there kissing him forever. He was kissing her so slowly and thoroughly, almost lazily, like there was nothing else he’d rather be doing. With other guys kissing felt like a prelude to something else that they wanted more, but the way Lucien was kissing her felt like she was a treat he wanted to enjoy. His hands hadn’t even wandered from her hips, though his fingers had started rubbing idle circles on the exposed skin just above the waistband of her skirt.

Elain tangled her hands in his long hair, wrapping the long locks around her wrists so she could tug on it a little. Lucien’s answering groan sent a shot of lightning straight through her. 

“I love that,” he whispered. His mouth was so close to hers that his breath tickled her lips when he spoke. His full lips were red from kissing her, his pupils were dilated, and truly she had never seen anyone more beautiful.

“Shit, you’re so hot.” Her voice came out almost whiny, and Elain was momentarily mortified until Lucien tangled his fingers in her hair and pressed his lips to her again.

He kissed her for so long that she became breathless and dizzy with lust. When he finally broke the kiss and dipped his mouth to press soft, wet kisses along her neck she decided then and there that she wanted to fuck this man tonight.

“Lucien…”

“Yes?” he whispered, his mouth pressed to her ear. 

His hands slid up her sides, wrapping around her back to fiddle with the laces of her corset. Why had she worn such a complicated garment? That thing would take forever to take off. 

Lucien licked the inside rim of her ear and Elain shivered violently. She was so wound up that every new touch sent a thrill of anticipation through her. 

She deserved this, she told herself. Even if it didn’t go anywhere. Even if he wasn’t serious about brunch. She deserved to have a little fun. Wasn’t that what college was for?

Lucien lifted his head from her neck to look into her eyes, and the look in his gaze was so smoldering that her breath hitched. No wonder this guy had a reputation. How was a mere mortal meant to resist that look? She had to resist the urge to grind against him wantonly. 

Elain held his gaze as she reached forward to start unbuttoning his shirt. Her heart was pounding but she sent up a quick prayer to any god who was listening to keep her fingers from trembling. Lucien’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, and then he grinned at her in a way that could only be described as feline. 

“Well,” he whispered. “Youare a little devil.”

Elain shifted higher up his lap and looked up at him through her eyelashes. “You’re wet,” she said simply. “You’re already injured, I wouldn’t want you to get sick, too.” She could feel him getting hard, and she shifted closer still, until they were practically chest-to-chest. 

She undid the last button of his shirt and a little noise came out of her throat at the sight of his rippled abs and muscular chest. He was obscene, really. It was unfair to other guys. 

His skin was warm under her palms as she ran her hands up his stomach, letting her nails drag just a little bit. 

Lucien’s hand tightened in her hair, and he pulled just enough to make her tilt her head back. “Aren’t you a good nurse.”

Elain hummed noncommittally. She’d never been this brazen with Graysen, but then again, she’d be willing to bet that she had never been this wet, either. 

She pushed against Lucien’s shirt until he let go of her hair and peeled off the wet fabric with some difficulty. Elain stared at him for a second before leaning forward to lick up the golden column of his neck. He tasted like chlorine and sweat, and suddenly she wanted to taste all of him. Her mouth watered at the thought. 

She kissed and licked her way up his throat, reveling in the little noises he made. She wanted to know what other noises she could pull from him. 

“You’re killing me,” he groaned. His head was tilted back against the wall and she could feel his heart racing under her palms pressed to his chest. 

“You’re confused,” she whispered. “I’m just licking you.”

Lucien groaned again, and it made Elain feel bold. She was seconds away from slipping off his lap to get on her knees when Lucien’s fingers returned to her back to gently undo the bow in the lacing of her corset. One by one he slowly pulled the lacing apart, each little touch of his fingers scorching her skin. Finally, with one long, slow pull, he pulled the laces from the last eyelets and ran both his hands up her back.

Elain reached back and tossed the corset to the floor. The rush of cold air immediately made her nipples pebble, as did Lucien’s gaze as it dipped to her chest. She stood up and chucked her towel to the side before sitting back on his lap, straddling him this time. 

“I wouldn’t want you to get sick either,” he teased. 

“What a thoughtful patient you are.” Her voice hitched as Lucien cradled her breasts, teasing her nipples with his thumbs. 

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his lips pressed to her ear. 

Elain shivered again, and Lucien laughed, a low, dark laugh that sent heat straight between her legs. She remembered what Vassa had said earlier, and she tilted her face to look into his eyes.

“I want you to lick my pussy,” she said. “And then I want you to fuck me until I forget about all other guys.” 

Lucien’s eyebrows lifted so comically high that she almost laughed. He stared at her for such a long moment that she started to feel embarrassed at her boldness. Was she being too slutty? Would henot want to date her after this?

“Holy fuck you’re so sexy.” 

Lucien sounded as breathless as she felt, and all her insecurities immediately went out the window as he stood and hauled her up with him. Elain wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her into his bedroom and gently dropped her to his bed.

The scent of him was thick in his sheets, and she had to resist the urge to roll over and press her nose into his pillow. Instead she watched as he tossed his fox ears to the side, undid his belt and pulled off his wet pants and socks. Elain’s gaze dipped to the large bulge straining the front of his boxers, and when she looked up at him again he was grinning with pure male arrogance. 

He crawled back up the bed on top of her, bracing his arms next to her head and letting his hair fall around them like a curtain. He stared at her for so long that Elain squirmed. 

“What are you doing?” 

Lucien smiled softly. “Committing you to my memory. In case you refuse my brunch offer.”

Elain giggled, even as her stomach fluttered at the sincerity in his voice. Surely that couldn’t be pretend?

Her giggles turned into a moan as he lowered his head to lick one of her nipples. He kissed and nibbled and sucked, teasing her other nipple with the pad of his thumb. Elain arched her back instinctively, pressing into his face, and Lucien hissed, fingers flying to his purpling nose. 

“Shit! Sorry!” she squeaked. 

“Be gentle with me, Satan,” he teased. 

Another laugh was about to bubble out of her throat, but then Lucien’s mouth had moved to her other nipple, and his hand was running up the inside of her thigh. When he finally slid his fingers in between her legs he groaned at the same time she did. She was so wet that her thong was soaked through.

“God, baby, you’re so wet.” He said it almost reverently.

“Only for you,” she replied. 

A strangled moan escaped Lucien’s throat, and he leaned up to kiss her again. Not slowly and sensually like earlier, but almost desperately, like he was a starving man. His fingers slipped into her underwear and Elain moaned into his mouth as he stroked through her slick folds and circled her clit. 

Her hands were everywhere, stroking up his chest, his back, tangling through his hair. She wanted to feel more of him- she wanted to touch and lick every part of him. She wanted him in her hand, in her mouth, inside of her. 

She had been right to fantasize about his hands- not just their size but what he could do with them, too. He was building her up with his fingers so quickly that it was almost embarrassing.

Elain reached down between them so she could palm him through his shorts, and Lucien’s moans mingled with her own. 

Her hand stilled as Lucien caught her wrist and pinned it above her head.

“Stop distracting me,” he growled. “I have some pussy to eat.”

Those words would normally have made her blush, but she was already burning from head to foot, so what did it matter? 

Lucien moved down her body, pressing kisses along her stomach as he went. When he removed his hand from her underwear she whined weakly, but the next moment he had yanked off her skirt and thong in one smooth movement. He spread her thighs gently and actually licked his lips as he looked at her, bare and open for him. The bruises on his face were worsening, and suddenly Elain felt bad. 

“You don’t have to,” she blurted. “If you don't want to.” 

Lucien only looked at her incredulously. “Elain. There is nothing I want to do more right now. I will eat you out all fucking night if you let me.”

His fingers slipped back in between her legs, and she bent her legs to give him better access. “But your nose…”

Lucien scoffed. “Did your ex go down on you with his nose? Because if that’s the case I can see why you dumped his ass.”

With that he dipped his head and licked straight up her center in one slow drag, all the way up to her clit. Elain’s protests all fell away as her eyes fluttered shut and a desperate moan escaped her lips.

Graysen rarely went down on her, and when he did it usually just felt wet, but it was clear that Lucien was highly skilled at this. He swirled his tongue against her, alternating between slow circles and teasing licks. 

Elain opened her eyes to watch and the sight of that red hair in between her legs nearly made her come right then and there. Her thighs were shaking as her pleasure built, higher and higher, coiling tightly in her belly. It was taking him no time at all to bring her right to the edge, and Elain willed herself to slow down and enjoy it. 

Lucien looked up at her then, and when he caught her looking he laughed. The vibration shot through her clit, and her orgasm ripped through her with a violent shudder as she cried out. 

Lucien rode her through it, holding her legs tight and prolonging her pleasure with hot swipes of his tongue. When her body relaxed again she was strangely disappointed that’d she’d come so quickly. There was no way she’d be able to have another orgasm tonight, and he was so good with his tongue that she wished she’d lasted longer.

But Lucien was apparently not done. Instead of wiping his face on her thigh like Graysen would have done, he kept licking and teasing as he slipped a finger inside her. 

“Shit…” 

The noises that were coming out of her were truly embarrassing, but Elain was in no presence of mind to care. Especially not when Lucien slipped in a second finger, stretching her so deliciously that she wriggled against him, desperate for more.

Lucien laughed again and pressed her hips down with his free hand. “Easy, there. If I get another nose bleed I might die.”

“I don’t think you’ve been paying attention in cla…oh fuck.”

Lucien had started fucking her with his fingers roughly, as if giving her a taste of what she had asked for.

“That’s enough out of you, Satan,” he murmured before attacking her with his mouth again. 

There was nothing slow or gentle about his movements now. He was licking and nibbling and sucking like a starving man presented with a feast, driving his fingers in and out of her relentlessly. 

Elain was so wet that his fingers were making absurd sounds as they moved inside of her. Lucien just lapped it all up, moaning as if he couldn’t get enough of her. 

She couldn’t get enough. It was too much but not enough all at once. Her skin felt too tight, her limbs felt heavy and yet weightless. Lucien was practically dragging her towards release again and there was nothing she could do but dig her fingers into his hair and hold him against her. 

He curled his fingers deep inside her, hitting a spot that sent another orgasm slamming through her almost unexpectedly. She might have screamed his name this time, but she was so lost in a fog of pleasure that she couldn’t be sure. 

Lucien only stopped his ministrations once she finally slumped to the bed, breathless and shaky. He kissed the inside of her thigh, and then the other, so sweetly she suddenly wanted to cry. 

When he moved back up her body to kiss her she could taste herself on his tongue, and something about that made her feel possessive. 

Mine. This man is mine.

Elain sank her teeth into his thick bottom lip and Lucien groaned, low and rumbling. When she reached down to palm him again he didn’t stop her. He was so hard that he was practically throbbing against her palm. She pushed against his chest until he moved off her and she could straddle him. His chest was heaving, his neck and cheeks flushed pink. She wanted him undone and wild, at her mercy, as he had just done to her.

With one quick tug his boxers were on the floor and Lucien was gloriously naked under her. He propped an arm behind his head to watch as she crawled in between his legs, running her hands up his strong thighs.

“This wasn’t on your wish list, you know,” he teased. 

It was Elain’s turn to smirk at how breathless he sounded. “Stop distracting me, I have some cock to suck.”

“Well shit.”

Elain wrapped her hand around the base of his cock and stroked him, reveling in the breathy moan that fell from his lips. He was watching her, his lips still quirked in that maddening smirk. She held that gaze as she leaned down and licked the bead of precum glistening at the tip of his cock. He tasted salty and musky, his skin velvety soft under her tongue.

Elain wouldn’t have previously said that sheenjoyed giving blow jobs, and she had certainly never let anyone finish in her mouth, but she wanted to do this for Lucien. She wanted to make him feel as good as he’d made her feel. 

She licked a hot stripe up the underside of his cock, teasing the pulsing vein there, before swirling her tongue around the tip. Lucien moaned again, louder, and that sound sent straight heat right in between her legs. Every little sound Lucien made was so erotic that she was desperate to hear more. 

His free hand had slipped to the back of her head, tangling in her hair. “You’re such an evil tease.”

Elain chuckled darkly. “That’s what you get for inviting the devil into your bed.” 

With that she wrapped her lips around his cock and sucked him into her mouth. He was so large that she could barely fit half of him in her mouth, so she made up the difference with her hand, gripping him firmly and stroking him in time with her mouth. A string of filthy praise was tumbling from Lucien’s mouth, increasing her confidence. 

“You’re going to have to stop that if you want me to fuck you,” he groaned, pushing her off him.

Elain laughed again. “You can fuck me tomorrow, after brunch.”

The noise that came out of Lucien could only have been described as a whine, and Elain was still chuckling as she took him into her mouth again. She relaxed her jaw and took him deeper, fighting the urge to gag when his cock hit the back of her throat. 

Lucien’s breathing was becoming erratic, his hips bucking up into her mouth unconsciously. She could feel his body stiffening under her, knew he was close, so she gripped him tighter and increased her pace.

“Elain, stop…” His fingers tightened in her hair as he tried to pull her off him again, but Elain only swatted him away. 

“Jesus, fuck, Elain…”

He came with a loud groan, holding her head still as he spilled himself down her throat. Elain could feel his body seizing with the force of his orgasm and she felt a thrill of victory.She had done that.She had made him come that hard. 

“Shit, where have you been all my life,” he mumbled.

Elain giggled as she looked up at him, head slumped to the side, his chest still rising and falling heavily. “In hell,” she teased. She was still wearing her devil horns, and Lucien yanked them off her head as she fell to the bed beside him.

“I’m starting to think maybe you’re not the devil after all,” he murmured, pressing his face into her hair. 

“Is that so?”

“Mmhmm…”

Elain snuggled into him, fighting the butterflies swarming in her stomach. She loved this part, the intimacy, the closeness. She relaxed into him, telling herself she was allowed to enjoy it, even if it never happened again. 

“So, can I take that as a yes for brunch?” he asked, almost shyly. 

Elain pressed her face into his warm chest to hide her smile. 

“Yes. Yes, you can.”

[danwhobrowses]

One Piece Chapter 1084 - Initial Thoughts

And we're back

Answers are being told that they'll come, but we're still waiting on them. We've back in Reverie hours for the death of a king

but let's see how this unfolds

Spoilers for the Chapter, Support the Official Release

No, I will not engage in the Yamato discourse from the colour spread. Yamato was also in the men's onsen so whatever satisfies your narrative, keep it to yourself

Otherwise I love the colour spread; Baeju, Carrot, Tashigi, Boa, Bonney, Vivi, Ulti, Tama, Koala, Rebecca, Perona, Shirahoshi, Mansherry all with the crew ladies, plus Sugar for some reason

Plus the shirts; Nami's 'Weather Queen' should be her new title, Perona has a Kumancy shirt, I think Bonney's shirt resembles another character outfit, probably Robin's coat in Punk Hazard, Vivi gets Oda's love of tigers for her shirt, Ulti with 'Devil Sister'.

I can't tell if Carrot's shirt is just a rainbow or is meant to be Chopper's hat, but she's got the Zeus floatie, also can't decipher Tashigi's shirt, but she, Sugar, Rebecca and Mansherry are on a Merry floatie

Also Bonney do not eat the fish! It ain't cooked

Five points later...Sabo being pretty ruthless on the guardsmen

Bonney and Sabo were quick to join up, thanks to their common cause in wanting to free Kuma

Sabo surmises that Bonney's Kuma's daughter too, while Bonney kept tabs on the Army to explain how she knew to trust Sabo

Plus they're stealing the slaves' collar keys, which is given to Karasu's soot bird

As we know, Bonney states her plans to go to Egghead, which I guess means that Sabo and the Army will know she's there with Luffy when Morgans breaks the Big (albeit fake) News

Bonney getting the princess carry too, I'm sure Ao3 has already got some fanfics

Guards have 'disappeared' because they saw the 'Phantom Room', which I guess is the Giant Straw Hat room too. Sabo impaling a bunch of guards between cooking them isn't helping either

Out of the castle, Sabo and Bonney part ways, meaning that unfortunately Bonney isn't entirely clued in on the main incident

Back with Cobra meeting the Gorosei as we get the recap of the World Government formation

So the successors to the nations were handpicked, and stay in power to this day. Which means that the Doldo family were at one point chummy with the Donquixote family enough to succeed them right?

'Previous Dynasty'? The Ancient Kingdom was indeed in charge, and it was a Dynasty? One family to rule them all...

Alabasta's ruler of the 20 was Queen Nefertari Lili, whose appearance is very similar to Vivi's

Lili was the one who chose to stay in Alabasta BUT there's no mention of her name in the records, she never made it back!

Cobra wants to know if they have info on Lili

Saturn seems to shrug it off '800 years is a long time'

Imu is listening via the Den Den Mushi too

Am I getting a vibe or could Imu be Queen Lili? 19 Swords set down to declare the Empty Throne, the only sword of the 20 that didn't is Alabasta's, she who sits on the throne? Alive through the Op-Op Fruit's immortality power? Think about it

Cobra's shaking the hornet's nest even more asking what is the D.

Lili may not have her name in history, but a letter she wrote mentions the D., and it may be the oldest mention outside of the Void Century

Shirahoshi has been grabbed again! This time by Kuma

Spineless, the nobles pretend not to see Shirahoshi in danger and run away

Fukaboshi my boy fuck shit up!

Kuma launches a blast but it misses, as Charloss disregards all status anyway

Rebecca and the Tontattas are here

Sai and Mjosgard too, the latter giving approval to attack

What? No Let Fukaboshi smack that bitch Mjosgard! Screw royalty status

Double screw status I mean Charloss is ordering Kuma to kill a fellow dragon after all

But Mjosgard is thinking more about escape, which is easier for the pirates Sai and Leo

SATISFUCKINGFACTION

They Accordion'd him XD

I'd love it if they did kill him, but since the chapter title says 'attempted murder' I think somehow he survives...hopefully to get folded even more

Also we have to talk about how this is probably the 'big incident' the Grand Fleet did, they attacked a Celestial Dragon just like their captain but this time on their home turf

And then out comes Morley to grab Kuma, saving the Grand Fleet members in the process

AHAHAHAHA Oda really did the 'Look how they massacred my boy!' meme XD Fucking hilarious

HO SHIT IMU IS HERE IN PERSON TO SEE COBRA!

They Speak too, as they sit on the Empty Throne

Of course there's a break -_-

Oda is cooking something big for 1085

Last chapter I talked about while it was entertaining, we didn't get much development that we didn't know, but this one paid much of the setup off.

Bonney and Sabo's buddy adventure probably could've used some more time, they did just kinda run into each other and escape the palace, but there is the irony that she meets the polite but slightly unhinged brother before meeting the no filter completely unhinged brother - and that's also before meeting the stoic very unhinged first mate. I wonder what of note she intended to mention to Luffy but it also opens the door to the Revolutionaries showing up in Egghead.

I mean I still miss my boy, my merry band of merry crew, but my missing Bonney hours were satisfied a little, still waiting on the Let Tashigi do something hours, also Carrot4Nakama because the colour spread has reawakened it (yes I know it's likely not gonna happen but she deserved better than what she got at the end). Major satisfaction of seeing Charloss get accordion'd, we need the meme of the round table of characters folding Celestial Dragons. But yeah I get the feeling that this is the major incident the Grand Fleet caused that shook the world, no doubt Morgans will use creative license too. Fukaboshi should've gotten a hit in though he deserves a treat and the Fish-Man royal family deserve something other than more trauma.

We're still waiting on some info, but we got answers on Bonney, Shirahoshi and Kuma, while also offering us more.

I don't think Sabo intended to reach the Empty Throne to see what he's about to see, if anything I think he was after this 'Phantom Room'. But still, Oda's gotten bold with Imu directly approaching Cobra and sitting on the throne.

I've convinced myself that Imu is Lili, perhaps there is more to the story too like maybe Lili had a godlike Mythical Zoan Devil Fruit like Nika that took over her mind, but I am eager to hear how this develops, more word on the Dynasty, the Void Century, the 20 Families, I am ready to consume it all.

Oda, let us feast!