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forteafy · 10 months

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Where Do We Go? | CL16 & CS55

Summary: Charles will do anything to fix his marriage with you, Carlos will do anything to prove you're worth more. The question is where do you go between the two men fighting for your affection?

Word Count: 9.7k

Warnings: angst, a lotta angst, cheating, light smut, character death.

Note: You all really wanted a Part 2 to this one, and of course, I wanted to deliver! This is a little bit more angsty, we’re trying to save a relationship, after all. Or…are we? Also, a massive thank you to @formulaforza for proof-reading this for me and pulling me up on my addiction to italics; my brain is literally jelly right now. Enjoy, everybody!

PART 1: A House, A Home | PART 2: Where Do We Go? | PART 3: 'You Think, You Know'

Carlos Sainz is a best friend.

Best friends, however, do not text a love confession to one another in the hours of a rising sun, especially not when their declaration is to a woman who is wrapped up in the arms of her husband.

The confession had run cold through your veins; if it hadn’t been for the sheer exhaustion taking over your body from the events of the past 48 hours, you were certain you would have been up the entire night, contemplating the words he had sent to you. He wasn’t drunk; far from it, the man had driven you down the dusky streets to your home mere hours before. Was he lonely? Did he feel sorry for you? More importantly, did he mean those precious words that had lit up your screen?

Eventually, the desire for sleep, for the warmth of your estranged husband’s chest pillowing your back overtakes your body. You hadn’t slept in a bed with him since the last day of your supposed honeymoon; even then, you had slept with an infinite gap between the two of you, cuddling instead into a pillow, rageful tears in your eyes at the realization that this was now your life.

This was entirely different. Charles pressed into you as if holding you together; his warm breath danced across the nape of your neck, a hand pressed into your stomach, cradling you between the warm blankets and soft cushions you had picked out when decorating your room. You didn’t rouse during the night, the two before had been filled with tears, constantly awakening to call for your mother as if you were a child again, the harsh realization that she wasn’t around anymore.

When you did wake, the bed was empty.

You had subconsciously turned in the blankets when you arose, expecting to see the figure of your husband next to you. The pillow was still rumpled, his glasses disappeared from the nightstand, every single trace of him had seemed to evaporate. Clearly, one night next to you had been a big enough mistake in his eyes.

Instead, your attention turns towards your phone. Silently, you remove the device from its charger, the homescreen being flooded with sympathetic messages and photographs of you arriving at your father’s home. Luckily, no photographs of Carlos picking you up himself had been released; that would have caused a frenzy which wasn’t desired on either side.

However, his last text to you that evening before still stayed burned into your screen. In curiosity, you’d once again opened the text thread, seeing th

e words stand strong, his confession to his feelings presents for your eyes. He had laid it out so clearly, Carlos Sainz was in love with you.

But, were you in love with him? You loved your family; you loved the smell of fresh candles. You adored the sounds of the fastest cars in the world racing around a track whilst you watched with ease. Did you categorize your best friend into the love you so carefully crafted? Was the desire you felt for contact solely directed towards him?

You never had time to answer yourself that morning. Your subconscious state recognised the sound of footsteps; it was most likely Charles, on his way to his own room for some private time. Maybe he’d have his mistress with him, having snuck out of bed early that morning to possibly go and pick her up himself.

The footsteps get louder, the door to your room opens, much to your confusion. In the doorway, stands your husband. You’ve never seen him like this; a soft smile, hair pushed back by a bandana, glasses resting on the bridge of his small nose. He’s dressed in a soft, grey jumper and matching tracksuit bottoms, fluffy socks warming his feet. In one arm, he cradles a washing bag. Upon closer inspection, you see that it’s your washing from the case you had lugged in the night before, ironed and folded. In his other hand, he holds a steaming mug of tea.

He looks beautiful like this, almost ethereal. He looks domestic.

“Good morning.” He speaks gently, as if any sudden sound would hurt you. You looked…so precious, covered in blankets, your pajamas covering your modesty. “I’m sorry I had to leave early. I went to get your washing done and…pick up some tea.” He offers, holding up the bag of washing in confirmation. Charles offers you a smile as walks into the room, placing the pile of clothing on your vanity. Cradling the mug of hot tea in his hand, he walks back over to where you’re now sat up, surrounded by soft furnishings, offering you the drink which you gladly accept.

It's a mediocre cup of tea at best; the teabag hasn’t diluted properly, there’s too little milk and too much sugar. Yet, the fact he had made the drink himself caused your heart to soften, despite the past twelve months of actions. You offer him a soft ‘thank you,’ as the drink touches your lips. You’re half-expecting him to stand up and leave immediately. Instead, Charles sits himself down on the edge of the bed, making certain he doesn’t sit on your outstretched legs.

There’s a moment of bliss; you’re somewhat enjoying the drink cradled in your hands, your husband’s eyes trained on your movements. At one moment, he reaches out his hand towards your face. You flinch, not too sure on what was happening, before his palm simply tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You can’t bring your own eye gaze to meet him, simply focusing on the hot drink in your hand. You can’t help but notice the way his shoulders fall, clearly not satisfied with the lack of eye-contact.

You can’t help it; it’s as if Charles believes with one night wrapped in his arms would solve the past twelve months. You couldn’t forget, not everything that had happened. Your husband had shattered this relationship, well and truly. He could only hope he’d realised in enough time to somehow win you back. Silently, he stands up from the edge of the comforter, walking towards the vanity, beginning to remove the clothing from its basket. It’s… humorous, to see him try and figure out where each category goes. It’s also a stark reminder of how this is ‘your’ room, not ‘our’ room.

Whilst picking out a rather revealing pair of panties, folding them up and placing them into your draw, he begins to speak again. “What are you doing this afternoon?” His voice is soft, but in the silent room it carries well.

You shrug, before realizing Charles has his back to you. “I’m…nothing much.” You cut yourself off, placing the cup of tea on your bedside table, letting your hands pull up the comforter a little higher. “My father is going to the funeral parlor today.” Are you…having a conversation with your husband? “How about you?”

“I have lunch with the Ferrari team this afternoon. Nothing serious, just a talk on the next part of the season.” He explains. Charles isn’t stupid; he knows despite your father’s input that you constantly worry about his job. Not because you care about his fame, wealth or power; you care about him.

“I was,” he takes a breath. “I was wondering if you would like to come along.”

You feel goosebumps prickle across your exposed skin. Charles Leclerc never invited you to his lunches. He’d always have a reason as to why his darling Mrs. Leclerc could never attend their lunch meetings alongside him. The only time you’d ever appear by his side, fingers harshly interlinked and a cold barrier between you both was when your father insisted upon it. He wouldn’t be there today, there was no way he’d be present for any form of meeting for a while now.

“You don’t have to, of course.” His explanation runs further. “I know it might be too much for you now. I just thought…maybe we could go for a drive after. Carlos and Xavi will be there, you’ll know some of the others from the Paddock…” His voice trails off in your mind. It had started to the moment he had said the Spaniards name.

Were you… ready to see Carlos? The day after a text message you had never thought you’d see. Would he acknowledge the message, was it a drunken mistake? Most importantly, did you want him to love you?

When you come back out of your trail of thoughts, Charles is still talking, carefully hanging one of your summer dresses onto a velvet coat hanger. He takes a moment to brush the fabric under his fingertips, feeling the soft cotton under his touch. He’s so gentle. The touch is almost identical to the way he had held you mere hours ago.

“I’ll come.” You cut him off, watching as his head snaps in your direction, eyes bright underneath his glasses. “Yeah. It will be…nice.” You finish your sentence, trying not to ramble or to float off topic. Charles’ eyes are still bright, elated you had decided to come alongside him. All he had to do now was fix every other mistake spanning over twelve months.

Carlos Sainz is a red-wine gentleman.

You’d immediately spotted him the moment you had entered the waterside restaurant; his back was to the entrance, but you’d recognise the powdered blue shirt and dark wisps of hair in any circumstance. You could have just walked over, stood next to him and ordered a drink, but your fingers stayed tightly interlocked with your husbands, a force of habit in public at the current rate.

However, his grasp, like the entirety of his actions over the past twenty-four hours, was different. Charles’ thumb gently stroked over your knuckle, his fingers gently resting against yours instead of the firm grip he usually held for the sake of actions. He’d taken a moment to look at you before entering the building, something he’d never done in the past, simply having dragged you into whatever location instead. It was as if his eyes told you a million things; that he had your back and the moment you wanted to leave, he was right behind you.

The moment you’re in the presence of company, the façade still comes alive, the act you had been creating for all this time is still a force of habit. Charles’ hand comes around your waist, greeting the many members of the Scuderia Ferrari team, thanking them for his time and attention to the matter. As always, you tactfully excuse yourself from the side of your husband, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek and removing yourself from the crowd. Usually, he wouldn’t so much as flinch from the chaste action, but you don’t miss his eyes longing for you to stay this time.

Instead, your heel-clad feet press through the tiles of the place, making advancements towards the white marbled-bar. You receive a nod from the friendly-looking gentleman mixing cocktails, a silent signal to let him know when you’re ready. Maybe you stand too close to Carlos, so much so that you can smell his cologne, you can feel his body warmth radiating through that shirt. It doesn’t take long for him to notice your presence, his eyes widening upon the realization that it was, in fact, you–the woman he had confessed his feelings to less than twelve hours ago.

“I didn’t realize you’d be here, Mariposa,” he taunts, pulling you into his side. You’re grinning immediately, happy to be reunited with your close friend after how he had left you last night, promising he’d be there if you needed anything. “Come to make sure your husband behaves?”

“No. I came to see how his teammate is behaving.” You let him ponder for a moment, but he realizes, the blush growing from his neck to his cheeks. “I’m a married woman, Carlos.” You remind him but make no attempt to move further away. The idea is completely eradicated when his hand comes out to rest on the small of your back. His eyes are still fixed on you. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this. It’s not fair to you. He couldn’t care less about his teammate’s position, the way he’s treated you all this time leaves a sour taste on his tongue.

“Your marital status doesn’t change the way I feel for you.” He thinks back to that moment in the ocean. What on Earth would be happening if he had kissed you at that moment? He could never be certain, but something tells him you’d be his date to this luncheon right now. Sighing, Carlos turns to face you directly, the bottle of wine he had originally come to pick up having been left on the counter.

“I’m going to ask you something, and you don’t have to respond.” He tries to keep his breathing calm, your presence practically overpowering him. “But...I would love to take you out for a date sometime. A proper date. With flowers and dinner and being able to make you smile.” Your heart is softening by the moment with the Spaniard’s pleads of everything your husband had never given you. “Would you like that?”

“I would.” You don’t even have to think of your response. “I would like that, Carlos.” At that moment, your estranged husband is the last thought of your mind; instead it’s overpowered by the fantasies of a date with the man standing in front of you. This time, Carlos can’t help the grin on his lips, reaching for the bottle of red wine on the bar. His careful hands carefully unlatch the stopper, the liquid hitting two crystal glasses, one of which he passes to you.

“Well, shall we toast the idea, no?” he holds up the glass delicately, to which you raise your own, grinning at the satisfying sound of clinking crockery. When you take a sip of the rich red, you’re blissfully unaware of your husband’s eyes; the ones which are never attached to you, but in that moment, don’t want to focus on anything else. Nobody misses the way he purposely sits between yourself and his teammate, fingers interlocked into yours tightly, the occasional kiss on the temple of your head.

You were his wife, after all.

Carlos Sainz is a brilliant cook.

The intimacy between yourself and your husband had oddly grown within the past week. To start, his messages became more frequent, checking in when he couldn’t be at the house. Your pantry had stocked overnight, begging for your home cooking whenever he could be there to sample it. Most importantly, the interaction. You’d been hesitant to even let your husband touch you in the beginning. You had kept it simple, a hug before you’d headed off to bed in your room, (sleeping in the same bed as him had been that one-off.) His arms would find their way onto your waist if you were cooking, his fingers would tuck a lock of hair behind your ear when you found yourself engrossed in studies.

Your husband had been elated when you had spoken to him two days before he was due to leave for Qatar, announcing you would like to attend alongside him; it was also your father’s wishes to attend that race, wanting to signal to his fellow associates that he was okay, that you could pass on a message from your family. Charles’ eyes had glossed over with happiness, taking your hand in his own, pressing a kiss to the back of your knuckles.

You were ready for your entrance to the Paddock 72 hours later; after arriving in Qatar, you’d barely seen anything from the transport from his jet to the hotel. Your eyes had grown heavy the moment your feet were removed from their shoes, two large beds welcoming you with their soft blankets and heavy pillows. (He’d made sure to give you the sleeping space that you needed.) Charles’ heart had softened when he’d seen you curl into one bed. When he returned from the bathroom, you were out like a light.

It didn’t stop him from gently rubbing a makeup wipe over your features, knowing you’d regret your lack of attention to appearance in the morning. Hesitantly, he leans forward, pressing a kiss to your hairline, one hand stroking over the back of your head before he returns to unpacking both yours and his suitcase.

You had been hesitant of attending the Paddock alongside Charles that morning, not because you were worried of the bombarding questions. No, this was the first time you had attended the paddock with a husband who seemed comforted by your presence. His heart felt gentle when he saw you look out of the front windscreen, eyes transfixed on the countless photographers standing by the barriers. Immediately, his hand finds yours, resting atop your thigh, the hot weather pleading for a cooler outfit.

“You don’t have to do this.” He removes his sunglasses, those ocean eyes finding your own. “You can wait here, or I can have somebody drive you back to the hotel now.” He promises, the worry flickering over his face. Your hand removes itself from his firm grasp, instead reaching forward and resting your hand on his bristled cheek.

“I’m okay.” You promise him, thumb dancing over his soft cheekbone. He offers you a soft smile, eyelashes fluttering as your face gets closer to his; you have no panic leaning over the console of the hire-car, gently pressing a warm kiss to the cheek your hand wasn’t resting upon. You can’t help but hesitate when you pull back from his face, lingering within mere millimeters of his lips for a long moment; you could just lean forward, press your lips to his and give into all those nights you had dreamed of. But this wasn’t a dream; this was your husband whom you needed to fix a relationship with first.

Charles isn’t going to lean forward and kiss you himself, not until the signals you are giving him are crystal clear. Instead, he presses his forehead close to yours, tips of your noses gently brushing against one another before he steps out of the car, and you’re quick to follow.

This time, he doesn’t walk in silence, ignoring your presence. Instead, as the two of you flash your paddock passes towards the security guards, he’s openly commenting on different happenings around Media Day, both of you falling into giggles upon seeing Toto Wolff’s broken arm; he was truly beginning to become an icon at the local emergency room. You’re happy. Subdued in a bubble alongside your husband, hands interlocked as you work your way through the paddock.

You’ve never experienced such a harsh blow to reality when you see an all-too-familiar figure lurking outside of the Williams Racing building. Her hair is shorter, her skirt is skimpier and a ghastly color. However, she still looks beautiful. She is undoubtedly the woman you’ve fought and lost your husband’s affection from, his mistress.

Charles seems to clock less than a moment after you do, both bodies freezing upon notifying her presence. You seem to have a quicker reaction time, despite being in the presence of a world-class Formula Driver. Immediately, you rip your grasp from Charles’ hand, showing him no emotion as you step away and into the Ferrari Building. You’re fortunate enough to avoid most of your fathers’ colleges, only once having to stop to give a sympathizing message of your mothers’ passing, the words being used are minute compared to the ache in your heart for her presence.

When you reach the top of the dark stairs, almost certain you can hear Charles’ voice below you. He’s searching for you now, but instead is overwhelmed by the amount of people in his presence. You’re able to sneak through the makeshift corridor, finding a large number ’55,’ pressed onto the door. You don’t even think, opening the door to a very tanned, very shirtless Carlos Sainz.

He's so… toned. The natural light from the window is reflecting beautifully onto his chest, broader than you’d last seen during your adventures at sea. His shorts hang low on his waist, making no attempt to shift his body despite your appearance. Instead, his dressing is overtaken by his concern for your face, immediately dropping the shirt fisted in his right hand, taking your gentle face in between both of his palms. You didn’t even realize the tears resting on your cheeks, the fear glossed over in your eyes that you’d ever trusted Charles.

Carlos doesn’t need to ask; he saw her on his own entry to the Paddock. Admittedly, he had to double-take; surely Charles wouldn’t have the audacity to bring his mistress to the other side of the world. He didn’t bother to glance in her direction too long, instead greeting the Ferrari team, excusing himself to go and get changed for their upcoming press appearances. In this moment, he’s held you against his bare chest, hushing you gently as one hand threads through your hair. Your mind is overwhelmed, from seeing your husband’s mistress, but from being pressed against his oh-so warm chest.

You don’t even realize, but your palms are resting on his chest, his skin so soft beneath your touch. Carlos gently hushes you, tilting your head up to face him, still cradled in his grasp. He could so easily reach forward, claim you there and then, but he realizes in that moment, under your soft touch and those doe eyes, you are the one who has claimed him. After a moment, he pulls back, motioning for you to follow him towards the couch, littered in Spanish-themed cushions and the enormous chili plushie you had bought him several months ago.

You can’t help the slight disappointment when Carlos eventually slips on his Ferrari Polo; however, you are interested when he reaches for his small fridge, pulling out a neat lunchbox, motioning for you to grasp it whilst he reaches for another. Curiosity takes the better of you, gently unclasping the lid of the Tupperware box. A beautiful aroma overtakes your senses, a carefully crafted meal nestled into the lunchbox. The Spaniard can’t help but grin at your reaction; sometimes something as simple as a homemade meal could lift your spirits.

And that’s how you spent the next forty-five minutes, sat on the sofa of Carlos Sainz’s driver room, the man sat on the floor as the two of you exchanged bites of food. There’s one particular moment where you offer him a spoonful of your lunchbox, watching as he arches his torso towards you.

It’s almost…sensual, the way his lips wrap around the top of the spoon, maintaining sole eye contact as he retracts his mouth from the utensil, letting his tongue trace around his lips for a chase of the taste. He knows what he’s doing; in his mind, all he wants is to show how adored you could be, to show he could be everything your husband never was.

It isn’t until Charles is finally free from the bombarding questions of his sponsors that he finally locates you in Carlos’ room. The man isn’t oblivious; he can see that the two of you have grown undeniably close. He can’t bring himself to say anything on the matter. He knows, in his heart of hearts, he has no right to make any assumptions; he was the one who had spent hours with a mistress, after all. Silently, he opens the door to the driver’s room, your figure perched upon the sofa, a grin plastering your soft features. You looked happy.

You looked like the most beautiful girl he had seen in his life.

You acknowledge his presence after a few moments, standing up from your place on the sofa, insisting the man tries Carlos’ cooking. It takes less than a few blinks of your eyes for him to submit, taking the spoonful off your utensil, making a comment towards his teammate that he would have to give him some lessons at some point. The man says nothing, simply nodding in a passive agreement.

There’s a sharp call for Charles after he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He shoots both you and his teammate an apologetic look before he makes his way down the corridor, gently closing the door behind him as to give you a sense of privacy; the last thing he wanted was to have you plastered all over social media pages when he knew it would purely be used for publicity purposes.

You’re still smiling when the door closes, your back to Carlos’ front. “He seems to like you-“

You were destined to never finish that sentence. Within a split moment, there are warm hands, rough hands resting on either side of your waist, twisting your body within his grasp. He takes two steps backwards, enough pacing to have your back pressed against the closed door: the coldness of the wood contrasting violently with the heat radiating off your best friend.

He couldn’t hold any emotion. Carlos Sainz wears his heart on his sleeve. That much is adamant, from the way his text messages were drafted, to the way he tilts his head, meshing his lips to your own.

They’re surprisingly soft; there’s nothing soft in the way his hands grasp at your waist, the way his body is pressing so deeply into yours. Yet, as his lips continue to entrance yours, they feel like clouds; a gentle stroke of a paintbrush. His artistry continues when his kisses get deeper, one of his hands enclosing yours, bringing it to rest around his shoulders, pushing the two of you closer together. Your other hand is interlocked by his, being stretched above your head, pinned to the door you’re resting upon.

He's waited so long for this, before lunch, before your moment in the sea. He’s wanted this since the moment you walked into the Ferrari Paddock alongside your father, you must have been etched into his heart.

Carlos isn’t thinking; his kisses are becoming rougher, one hand blindly reaching for your leg, almost bare from the shorts you had opted from your wardrobe earlier. He guides it to rest upon his hip, grunting when he can feel his hardened crotch press between your legs. His reality comes crashing down when he feels the cool band on your fingers entangling in his hair. Your wedding ring.

Ragged breaths, panting, he pulls away from your lips, pressing his forehead to your own in a sheer plea of comfort. Both your breaths are synchronized, both grasping for some form of air in the room.

“You’re everything, Mariposa.” He whispers, closing his dark eyes, enjoying his moment, taking every opportunity to imprint the feeling of your body, of your lips into his mind. He prays this won’t be the last time he holds you this way.

Carlos Sainz is a fast texter.

In the moments after you had shared the intimacy, hidden away in his driver’s room, he’s gone into a sheer panic. He’d overstepped, he’d made an advancement on you at your most vulnerable. When he had left for the press alongside your husband, he didn’t have a single chance to pull you aside, not when you had left the moment after the duo had been pulled into their press conferences. Simply, you were not waiting around to catch glimpses of the mistress, still proudly flocking around the Paddock as if it was her home.

It had taken a matter of moments to request a car home, having slipped out of the Ferrari building, talking to one of your father’s colleagues about your departure. Silently, you paced out of the building, a direct beeline towards the car park, head down from the ever-present photographers.

You hadn’t expected a text from either your husband or his teammate, considering that they were both in press conferences until further notice. However, when you had felt and grasped the device in your shorts, you had immediately noticed the soft vibrations, pulling your device out of your pocket, your eyes being illuminated by the screen of your phone. Two text messages. One from your father, one from Carlos. Your attention is drawn to the latter, curious on what your best friend has to say.

11:32: Carlos Sainz:

I’m really, truly sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable. I haven’t seen Charles yet to let him know you left. You don’t have to see me again if you do not wish.

11:36: You

It wasn’t you at all, I promise! I was aware that Charles’ mistress was about, I couldn’t stick about for that.

Carlos messages you back, almost immediately. You’re confused, considering he is due to be in press alongside Charles. He could be having a break; he could have completely skipped out on several media appearances.

11:38: Carlos Sainz

I wish you could have stayed longer. I meant what I said, every single word. Please let me know if you need anything.

11:41: You

I know, C. I appreciate it, even if I express it terribly. I’ll always be here for you, too. Always.

You never get to see the next message that Carlos sends to you. Instead, your phone starts ringing, an incoming call from your father. You’re certain that the chauffeur won’t mind you taking the call whatsoever, holding the device to your ear as your father’s tone fills the void, his words becoming numbing as he runs through the details of your mother’s funeral, the tears in his voice beginning to swell heavily.

Charles had left the Paddock as soon as he got notice of your departure. He hadn’t bothered to message, his sole focus being on returning to the hotel, to find out what on Earth had happened to you. He was fortunate enough to escape the wandering eyes of his ex-mistress, how on Earth she had gotten into the Paddock for that race was beyond him, especially since he had ceased contact from that day.

The car arrives swiftly outside of the hotel; immediately, Charles is rushing through the back entrance, beelining for the staircase; waiting for an elevator at this moment would be too much. Within moments, he’s fumbling for his key card, pushing the door open, his heart shattering at the vision in front of him.

You, his wife, sat on the edge of one of the king-size beds; your head is buried into your hands, heavy sobs racking through your body. He can see the goosebumps littering your skin, the solemn shakes running through you, the trauma of losing somebody you cared about so deeply, combined with a cocktail of emotions from your entrance to the Paddock had become too much.

He doesn’t care about boundaries, not at this point. Immediately, Charles has crouched in front of you, his gentle hands reaching to grasp around your wrists. There’s a flinch at the sudden contact; your skin had overheated from the sheer energy of crying; your husband’s cool touch was a stark contrast which made you shiver. Delicate touches pull your hands away from your eyes. They’re so red, so swollen. Had he ever made you react like that from his own actions. The Monegasque doesn’t want to question that right now, he can’t even bring himself to look into your broken eyes. Instead, he feels as your arms wrap around his neck, hiding your face in his neck, craving for somebody to just…hold you.

Your husband has no issue in that desire; he lets you remain like that, Charles on his knees whilst you cling to him, the tears dampening through his shirt. One hand slides across your back, kneading gentle circles into your skin. At some point, you move onto the bed, the man lying back on the soft furnishings whilst you rest your head on his chest, arms encircling you as if he could hold you together, until the storm in your mind passes.

When the tears subside, you finally find the energy to look up to your husband. He hadn’t reached for his phone, tried to find some form of entertainment whilst he held you to his chest for hours. Instead, his gaze had been fixed upon you, brushing a gentle stroke over your cheek, his fingers dancing against your skin, brushing away the tension from heavy lines and sobs. When your eyes do open, you’re greeted with a soft smile, Charles leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head.

“Do you need some water?” His concern is to bring you back up to health; now the tears have stopped, he can do this. “I can order some food; would you like that?” His voice is so quiet, as if a simple loud sound could shatter through your veins. You can’t muster up more than a nod, your body becoming colder when Charles’ gently shifts away, sitting up so he can reach for the telephone. His voice is so mesmerizing, speaking down the line as he requests different foods; he doesn’t mind how much he orders, if he can coax you into even eating a little, the man will be satisfied.

The call finishes, but the man doesn’t sink back down into his previous position. Instead, whilst he remains sat up, Charles guides you to join him, your body still aching from your emotional breakdown. He murmurs under his breath as he pulls you into his lap, your body is tense until his strong arms wrap around your waist, the warmth instantly allowing you to relax, lean back into his firm chest.

“I’ve wanted to speak to you for a few days.” His voice is soft, but the phrase causes you to feel a sharp panic dance down your chest. Surely, this can’t be good. The relationship had evolved from barely speaking to intimate conversations within a span of two weeks. You try, try so hard to keep a clear mind as your husband continues to address you.

“How I’ve acted…how I treated you, all that time-“ He must stop himself, trying not to let his own emotion overpower his words. “I’m never going to be able to take it all back, and I will never be able to stop apologizing for it.” His whispers, his eyes growing misty with regret. “I will never forgive myself for how I treated you, nor do I ever expect you to forgive me. But…I want to try. I want to try and spend the rest of my days as you husband. I know…it won’t be overnight, but I’ll do anything, anything for you.”

The tears are rolling down your own cheeks now; never, in your wildest dreams, did you expect for Charles to speak those words of affirmation to you. His hand moves cautiously, to your face, wiping the tears which were pooling across your features.

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers, letting one of his hands remain on your cheek. The man leans forward, pressing gentle butterfly kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your nose…he pauses, mere inches from your lips. He wants to kiss you; he’d promised himself he wasn’t going to push you; his mind and his heart are complete opposites.

His mind goes into overdrive when you lean forward and press your lips to his own. They’re salty, slightly chapped, but undeniably something he has been craving for oh-so-long. Charles is immediately kissing you back, his grip around you tightening, keeping your body close to his own. Carefully, he shuffles the two of you back into a lying position, never once breaking the kiss, tumbling back onto the mattress.

Of course, you don’t miss his grumble of annoyance when the food eventually arrives.

Carlos Sainz is a gentle kisser.

An autumn breeze was strong on the dreaded day; the funeral had rolled around way too soon for your liking. Rows of family connections, close and distant friends lined the outside of the cemetery, eyes all transfixed on the black hearse rolling into view. Murmurs were pressed into silence, a bitter air all-too present as the ivory coffin was removed from the vehicle. Your elder brother and two cousins were to assist in carrying the piece into the church. Plans were soon suspended when the eldest of your siblings collapsed into tears, head in his hands upon the sheer realization that this was it.

Your father is desperately looking around, practically praying outside a place of worship that the eldest could pull himself together; it’s impossible. Whilst one of your arms is occupied, holding the hand of your young sister, the other gently wraps around his torso, comforting him in the ways he had done for you when you were nothing more than a young girl in messy braids and mismatched socks.

His wife stood on his right-hand side, adamant on consoling the man as you were, a caring hand running across his back. Your husband stood next to your sister, her childish eyes blinking in confusion; just like you, she had never seen her brother this inconsolable.

Charles feels a pain wash through him, he wants nothing more than to help his dear family through this moment. Maybe the act he was playing for so long was just a way of shielding himself from caring. Now he had bared his soul towards you, pleading for a second chance, the man wanted to be there for you, in every sense of the word.

He murmurs something incoherently, stepping away from your side, leaning towards your father’s ear. Whatever he mumbles is met with a sharp nod, a firm pat on the shoulder in confirmation. Your husband keeps a firm gaze on the coffin, not catching your own eyes as he walks towards the piece to join your cousins. There’s a quick whisper between the men, before the ivory is shuffled from the car, resting on their suit-clad shoulders. Silence falls over the attendants as your mother is carried into the church, immediate family following closely behind. Hesitantly, your eyes look to the crowding people, and as if by fate, you see his dark eyes, the fluffy curls brushed back to conform. He shouldn’t look that good in a dark suit.

Most noticeably, his gaze isn’t fixed on the church, on the six men carrying your mother. It’s transfixed on you.

The service is beautiful, if you can describe it like that. Flowers are placed atop of your mother’s coffin, the service of words correlating to her soul, the hymns sung were always her favorite when you had frequented church as a young girl. However, there’s a turning point. When the priest begins to speak of her dear children, tears pool in your lower lash-line. You want to take the time for yourself, to mourn, but louder sobs are emitting from next to you; the youngest child is beginning to realize her mother is truly gone.

You’re torn; pulling her towards you would only make you cry harder; you had already seen your father and brother fall apart, silently knowing you would have to be the one to wait by the door, thanking the copious guests for attending. Her tears are suddenly quietened when you see her gently shuffled into Charles’ lap; despite the estranged relationship for the past twelve months, he’d always had a soft spot for your sister, she reminded him of when Arthur was young. Whilst her tears turn softer, he runs a hand over her back, letting the young girl rest her heavy head in his sternum.

The open gap in the seating allowed for you to shuffle closer towards your husband, his free arm wrapping around your torso. You had to remain sitting up straight; his presence right now would have to be enough for your comfort. To any unassuming eye, you would probably look like a family, the crowds of attendants would have no idea of the true story behind your marriage. Even on the darkest days, the narrative was played well.

When the service draws to a close, final prayers are spoken. The first to rise are your father and brother, both clinging to one-another as they must leave the building. Silently, you pull yourself away from your husband’s grasp, smoothing the skirt of your dress. Charles remains seated, your sister practically passing out atop of him. Today had been a heavy day for a child, after all.

There are rows of people pausing to console you on your loss whilst you stand at the door of the church; friends you had known for oh-so-long, members of the Scuderia Ferrari team; you had never seen Fred Vasseur cry, but the redness of his eyes told you something completely different as he took one of your hands in his, squeezing it in apology.

The pews filter out silently, a large group of the guests making their way back to your father’s home, the wake soon to begin, a blessing and want of your late mother. Sharp footsteps are emitted through the church, the penultimate duo being your husband and sister. He was still carrying her, head resting on his shoulder, almost completely asleep. Charles smiles at finally seeing you, using his free hand to run across the back of your head.

“I’m going to take her back.” Charles explains to you. He understands you don't need the pressure of looking after her atop of everything else bound to come your way. “Let me know when you’re done here, please?” Silently, you nod, no hesitation needed as he leans forward, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, bidding you farewell as he paces out of the church, holding your sister tightly in comfort.

You believe that’s everybody, ready to collect your belongings and thank the priest for a heart-warming farewell. Before you can even think to turn around, there’s a light cough, emitting you to spin on your heel.

He’s there. Still clad in his designer suit, hair pushed back behind his ears. Undeniably, Carlos Sainz looks good in any situation. He holds your bag in one hand, the other reaching out to clasp around your wrist. You gasp at the warm skin pressing to your own, heat radiating through your body. The man leans down, letting his lips brush against your own, a sweet feathering brush pressing onto you. Carlos wanted to be there for you, more than ever on what would be the hardest day.

Seeing Charles take that position had made his blood boil.

His grip on you remains tight as he leads you out of the church and towards his own car, parked in the most secluded section of the lot. When his grip falters to hold your hand instead, he doesn’t aim to correct it, instead only holding tighter. He only removes his grasp to unlock his car, sliding himself into the driving seat, pushing the recliner back as far as it would go. When the space is present, he guides you to rest atop of his lap, arms tightening around your waist as he lets the door close, bodies pressed together tightly.

“Is this okay?” He murmurs, keeping your faces so close together. The built-up emotion, the desire since your last kiss had built a fire in your stomach, not so much as speaking before pressing your lips to his own. Whilst your own movements had become desperate, craving for some form of emotional release, his remained feather-light, one hand tangled into your hair, the other resting firmly on your waist.

His lips are soon ghosting over your cheek, fluttering across your jawline and landing on your neck, small whines emitting from your lips as he seeks to trace his tongue over your sweetest spot. The sensation across your body, the hot touch of his skin and an undeniable bulge now settling between your legs.

There’s a sudden realization that you needed to go home. Being with Carlos was the affection you desired, your heart knows however that right now, your family needs you. Hesitantly, you pull away from the man’s lips, feeling utterly guilty for the pleading look in his eyes as you rest your forehead against his own. He could never hate you for it, though. In his eyes, you could never draw that feeling from him. You don’t need to say anything, he knows.

“I’ll drive you back.” He murmurs, pressing one final kiss to your lips before allowing you to slide into the leather passenger seat.

The drive to your father’s home is almost silent; there’s an occasional rev of the engine, various horns from different cars along the highway. A part of you always prays that each drive with the Spaniard could last forever, you could drive into the distance and live happily ever after. The fairy-tale is soon dissolved when you pull to the driveway, hearing the engine of the car cease. Your eyes find Carlos’ side profile, still transfixed on the road ahead.

“Are you coming in?” You ask gently. He sighs, the grip on his steering wheel becoming tighter.

“I can’t see you that close to him, Mariposa.” He murmurs, finally finding the courage to look you in the eyes. “Not when I want to be that close to you.” One hand finds its way off the wheel, entwining your fingers together, peppering light kisses against your knuckles. “Please call me when you go back. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.” You whisper, leaning to press a kiss to his stubbled cheek. In that moment, Carlos Sainz is your savior. He’s your truth.

Carlos Sainz is a liar.

Your knuckles had turned white from the grasp on your phone, you didn’t want to believe anything you were seeing. What was supposed to be an impromptu browse of Twitter whilst waiting for your husband to finish in the en-suite, had turned into a deep dive through a certain hashtag, having seen information spread on a certain Ferrari driver.

It had started as a simple few tweets, some fans and gossip pages reckoning they had seen the driver in an exclusive club, some random blonde sitting on top of him. The photos came second, though the angle was skewed, the quality too weak to see who was there. The final nail was the video; Carlos’ hand placed on her waist, how he had done to you mere hours ago, his mouth pressing against hers, clearly nothing else on his mind.

Granted, you knew you had no right to feel the anger you did; after all, you were married, Carlos was a single man, free to do as he desired. Yet, your rage was fuelled by the romantic, now seemingly empty promises he had made you; how you were his everything, how he would treat you better than Charles ever did. He was no different than Charles Leclerc, and as your fumbled fingers reached to his contact, your rage felt inclined to tell him that.

The phone rings once, twice, three times. You’re set to hang up, leave a particularly nasty text message to the man before the line connects. Immediately, your eardrums are overtaken by the loud pulse of a nightclub, some feminine laughter almost directly on top of him.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Clearly, he’s now intoxicated, his accent is always thicker when he is. You hear another voice, telling him to hang up the phone and to come and dance with her. “Hey- are you there?”

“I’m here.” You snap; why do you feel this enraged? You must have done so when you first saw Charles with his mistress; that had become such a common occurrence that the fire in your stomach must have eventually drained. “And clearly, you’re busy with the woman climbing all over you.”

“Fuck- you left me hanging!” He retorts, drunken mind clearly pressing against any form of sober thought. “You went back to your husband. Left me with nothing. Fuck the funeral.” He snaps, clearly now becoming enraged with the entire situation, with the fact he had been caught out. The words pressed through the speaker of your phone and emitted a wave of sobs from your stomach, immediately pressing the red button on your device.

Carlos Sainz wasn’t in love with you. He just liked the distraction.

Of course, as fate would have it, the moment that your tears began again was the moment Charles had left the bathroom. He’s dressed in just a pair of boxers, chest bare and tone after his warm shower. The sound of the door opening caused you to turn to the source. His eyes widen, scampering towards you, cradling you in his arms, bare chest against your cheek. Silently, you sob into his body for the third time that day, wanting nothing more than for every form of pain to stop.

“Hey, come on.” He whispers, arms circling your body, pulling you tight against him. He thinks that seeing you cry will get easier each time, that the pain in the pit of his stomach won’t continue to eat him away. However, it never gets easier; he hates seeing you cry, every single time. “It’s been a long day, yeah? Let’s get some sleep, baby.”

The nickname sounds foreign on his tongue, though neither of you question it. If anything it causes more emotion to flicker through your body, the fact that your estranged husband was finally beginning to give you. Silently, he guides the two of you into the large bed, cradling you to his chest as he had done whilst in Qatar. Sleep and emotion overtake you, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder as a ‘thank you,’ before drifting into a state of slumber.

The sleep means you miss a vital update from the Twitter threads you had been closely following earlier.

‘Carlos Sainz leaves exclusive club ALONE, despite dating rumors arising with mystery blonde.’

Carlos Sainz is your best friend.

You returned to the following day; the entire time remaining at your father’s house had consisted of nothing but tears. You had been especially concerned for your sister, watching the way she had clinged to Charles when the duo was saying their fond farewells. After a tight hug from each family member, your husband hand interlinked your fingers together, guiding the two of you to his own car, each free hand carrying along the suitcases.

The first hour of the drive home had been quiet, the buzzing streets had morphed into greenery, the sun beginning to set across the coast. Your eyelids couldn’t find it to grow heavy, having done nothing but sob and sleep for the past twenty-four hours. Instead, your focus turned to the radio, a familiar song trickling out of the speaker, one you hadn’t heard in almost eighteen months.

“Is this…” You ask, fingers reaching towards the dial, turning the volume up slightly. Behind his sunglasses, Charles grins. You hadn’t expected him to recognise the song, let alone be aware of where he recognised it from.

“Our first dance.” Your husband laughs, both nodding your head to the music. One hand on the wheel, he reached out his other hand to grasp yours on his own, a gentle squeeze passing through each hand. “We’ll have to dance to it again, properly next time.” He promises to himself, eyes focused on the road as he continues to drive you both home.

It’s almost dark by the time you have arrived back at your driveway. The stones are dipped in the darkness, the only illumination being from the headlights of Charles’ iconic vehicle. Your eyes flicker towards the doorstep, convinced the sleep is playing tricks on your mind; why on earth was there a figure standing on the doorstep to your house? They were slim, feminine, holding a cream envelope in one hand, a designer bag resting atop the other.

The familiar feeling of who she was began to nestle in your stomach. Surely, it couldn’t have been her; even your husband would not have the audacity to invite her to the house, right after you had returned home from what was quite possibly the saddest moment of your life. It couldn’t be her, even if every sign pointed towards the truth, you’d begin to search for the tiniest detail; her hair was too short. Your stomach snaps when you realize it’s the identical haircut from the Paddock mere days ago.

“What on earth-“ You hear your husband begin to speak, turning off the engine to the car. He looks over to your figure, but you show no emotion, no reaction on the exterior. Immediately, he has stepped out of the car, violently slamming the door behind him, causing you to snap out of the trance the woman had placed you upon.

Your eyes fixed upon Charles, his mistress trying to reach out into his touch. She’d pressed the envelope into his hand, continuing to speak. The words were clear through the thin glass of the car’s windscreen, divorce, pictures, evidence.

You couldn’t stick around to watch this activity play out. Immediately, you reach out for your phone, breathing uneven as you scroll through the contact list, searching for his name. Despite the last twenty-four hours, you were not too sure who else to call. It takes less than a moment for him to answer, your words rambling and falling over one another, pleading for him to come and collect you. He speaks firmly, commanding you to stay in the car, he would be there as soon as possible.

Charles is so deep in conversation, pleading for his mistress to reconsider, that he doesn’t see you slip out of the car, stepping down the driveway into the awaiting car of Carlos Sainz. He makes no intention to show you affection when first stepping into the vehicle, his only intention to get you out of the situation as soon as possible. Whilst silence filled the space between you both, you had sent a text to your husband, confirming your disappearance.

23:01: You

I’m so sorry, I can’t be there when she is, not anymore. I’ll be back at the house tomorrow. Thank you for everything.

There’s no response. If you’re completely honest, you were not expecting anything else, not whilst he was engrossed in conversation. The street is quiet as you pull into Carlos’ driveway. Saying nothing, the man simply removes his keys from the ignition, before leaning over your frame to open your door, ever the gentleman. Of course, his eyes catch yours as he leans back, creating a deep gaze for oh-so-long. Carefully slipping out of his gaze, you leave the car, walking up the steps to his apartment, the door opening for your arrival.

It's homely. Clearly lived in. Shoes are thrown across the entrance mat, coats hanging in the rack. Although it is primarily basic, a little bare, there’s touches around the complex which warm your heart; a photograph of the man with his sisters and father, a helmet you immediately recognise as Lando Norris’ resting atop of a bookshelf. There’s fine wine glasses resting atop of his coffee table; clearly ready for their usage before your untimely call.

The details become irrelevant the moment you feel his warm arms circle around your middle; the rising of your hoodie lets his body heat radiate onto yours. Carlos doesn’t need to say anything, his face comes towards the joint between your neck and your shoulder, using his nose to brush your hair away, exposing the skin he craves to mark.

“Mariposa.” He whispers, hiding his expression in your soft skin. “I can explain her, I can explain who she is, I didn’t-“

This time, it’s you who rolls around in Carlos’ touch, your arms entwining around his neck, pulling his lips to touch yours. The Spaniard does not need convincing, his grip on your waist immediately tightening, pushing your bodies closer together, if that was even humanly possible. This time, when his lips begin to trail down your neck, there’s no hesitation left in your mind, letting the man dance across your skin, leaving small bites, trails of his tongue against you.

You realize it’s you, making a small whine as he pulls away from your body, catching his breath whilst his tanned arms reach to the bottom of his shirt, exposing his chest once more. This time, your fingers fumble to find the hem of your hoodie, pulling the clothing atop of your head, exposing the laciest bra Carlos had ever seen. There’s a grunt from the back of his mouth as he darts forward, one rough palm scooping your breast from the lingerie, his mouth immediately finding your nipple, tongue tracing across the sensitive skin whilst his stubble rubs against your exposed flesh.

He doesn’t let up, not even when your legs go weak. His mouth remains firmly attached, using his arms to instead scoop you into his grasp, your whining sheer pornography to his ears whilst he carries you into his bedroom.

He will simply ruin you for every other person, and god forbid if he lost you now.

You realize hours later, somewhere between your post-orgasm haze and the combined warmth of Carlos’ hoodie and his firm arms that best friends did not have intense, body-numbing sex in the middle of the night, specifically when one of them was married, the other one a close friend of her husband. Yet, it somehow feels normal, as if this had been the longest impending explosion. Of course, you had explained to the man the reasoning for calling him out so late, for him to simply hush you, promising you would have never been a burden to him. The further questions of what is to come next are pushed to the back of your mind.

Your sleeping state misses two key moments. The first? The slight camera shutter from a phone as Carlos places his device back on the nightstand, snuggling down into the blankets, his dream to hold you whilst he slept finally arising.

The second? Your phone finally buzzed with a response from your husband, unable to sleep without knowing you were in the large house alongside him.

02:51: Charles Leclerc

I’m in love with you.

This is everyone who asked to be tagged! @Mac-daddy-210 @aundercover @barnestatic @omgsuperstarg @chimchimjiminie16 @caelum-the-part-time-nihilist @magicalcowboyarbiter @gaslasysblog @junetto @beatrizmel-472 @motorsp0rt @crowdthena @screemqueen @lewislvr @styles-sunflower @itspaddockprincess @adeptustemptations @amalialeclerc @meetmyblondemuffins @formulanando @lorarri @christianpulisic10 @gaypoetsblog @thisbitxhs-blog @goldsainz @ru-kru @magical-spit @hrlzy @nooshytushie @gaslysainz @marvel-at-stucky @sugarvibez

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iwaasfairy · 1 year

Text

┌─ “ ! „ MOLASSES

tw. incest, noncon to dubcon, size kink, belly bulge, a lot of praise, breeding, creampie, corruption, lotta emotions and tears, ? yandere, soft service dom! vash wordcount. 5k

a/n. if you don't watch this show please please give it a try it's grEAT ♡♡♡ I don’t know anything other than the first 8 episodes of Trigun, so there will be spoilers or references from those, but nothing else! So if you’re also watching the show for the first time you are safe. I’ve just gone off of the backstory we know so far and personal interpretation, so some things might turn out to be a little out of character in the future. ♡♡♡ hope you liKKEE it i loVEEE love these charas already im gonna cry

vash the stampede x fem!reader

The dust that tickles your neck makes breathing heavy, sluggishly treading through layers upon layers of sand. The blanket of dust also catches the light of the sun, casting everything in a stunning brilliance while drowning out the horizon. It stings, and your feet burn with every step- you wipe a sloppy hand across your forehead, but remain just as sticky, hot and gross. All things that- in the long run- don’t matter. Or won’t matter once you’re done here.

The sand shifts under your feet, and makes the climb even slower.

Only a few more steps. You take a deep breath, and watch the scene unfolded before with a heavy feeling that makes your empty stomach churn. At the bottom of the wave of sand, the big metal cruiser stands shimmering violently under the midday sun— smoking, abandoned if the footprints are anything to go by, and recognizable. You trip your way down the mountain of sand with heavy legs, sinking down every few steps as you look around.

The faint shape of a town remains at the edge of your vision. It’s far, but not impossibly so. You wouldn’t like to do it by foot, though, can’t imagine anyone would. The vehicle, while glowing with heat, is valuable enough not to leave even its wreckage behind. And the person you’ve been trailing is no fool. If you had any energy left, that would set off more alarm bells then it does. But you still unholster your gun, the metal heavy in your hands as you raise it towards the door nearest to you. It would be safe to assume they’ve gone, and their numbers aren’t great enough to leave people lingering.

Your breathing is tight as you wipe your hands on your clothing again, one by one, and make it the last bit down in a jog. The town doesn’t look particularly rich or well-populated, but any town out in the middle of nowhere like this one, has one thing of value.

The door of the vehicle clinks mechanically as it slides open, and the engine of the vehicle blows a long, whistling noise— and your aim is perfect as you freeze up. It reveals a set of stairs into the upper deck, but you simply glare, and after a few seconds, put on a slight frown. “You can come out now.”

Your voice is steadier than you imagined it would be.

There was a time where you longed fondly for the reunion, you suppose, nights by the campfire, in other people’s company. It was impossible not to, foreign as you were to the world. Wondering where and how you belonged, if you were missed, or needed. But it’s been years… too many years, and things have changed.

And yet, his voice sounds exactly how you remember it when it comes from within the metal cage- just out of your view. “That’s awfully distant.”

“Come out or I’ll riddle this hack of shit full of bullets and leave you stranded out here,” you say now, peering through the scope along the heavy barrel, and cocking it once. “Now, Nai!”

There’s a soft chuckle, and then feet that gracefully slide down the stairs into view, each step slow and steady and confident. You expect nothing less. The white cape obstructs most of him from your view, so you don’t dare blink— until at last, he jumps down onto the shifty sand, both hands raised. “That’s Nai niichan to you, isn’t it?” It’s unbearable. The low tones of his voice are just present enough not to allow you to slip into thought, but you find yourself tearing up regardless. He’s still sickeningly perfect, light hair sweeped away from his forehead, brows soft and straight, and a smile to pierce straight through your heart.

Whatever type of restraint you convinced yourself you could have if you saw him again, seems to evaporate with the sun flares that burn above. Instantly. And though you had time to prepare yourself, the last few hours of catching up to him aren’t enough for the onslaught of emotions that crash over you as you aim that barrel straight at his face. “Cut the shit. You don’t get to talk your way out of this, not this time.” Your voice cracks, and you bite your lip. “I wasn’t expecting to pick up on your tracker this far out…” Or at all. But maybe it shouldn’t surprise you that the eldest expected you to give up on him. Given he gave up on you, too. “Where’s the rest of them?”

“Not here.” At your glare, his mouth corners twitch, and he lulls his head to the side. “I’m alone, baby sister, I promise. I sent them into town to handle business. You understand.”

The quip gets under your skin, and you’re sure he knows, but you narrow your eyes, and tighten the finger on the trigger as Nai waits. For what, you’re not entirely sure. There’s so much to say, too much for a single person’s lifetime, but you know your eldest brother. He’s strong, and shifty just as much as the sand he plays around in; and he’s most likely just entertaining you. You know that. “I should just kill you right here and now,” you end up mumbling. Sand scratches the metal of the cruiser, and the ticks of the dust hitting the surface grow louder.

“I don’t even get a chance to explain myself?” The joyful melody of his voice is everything but normal, and you want to scream, and kick and cry until it stops being so damn grating, but you can’t. You hate him. You hate him, don’t you? “How cruel.”

You snap. Voice full volume and angry, you don’t even feel the way it stings between breaths as you bark out what needs saying. “This isn’t a game, Nai! It’s been five years, and that’s all you have to say for yourself?! Explain what?!” Your vicious anger makes your entire face feel hot, burning with an entirely different purpose. “Explain how you took him away from me?! Why? What did niichan ever do, except give you chance after chance to make things right?!” All those years of your grief that built up into a ball of resentment can’t be stopped with a simple confrontation. You knew that going in. But it suddenly all comes out like a dam that’s been shattered, and floods everything else.

“And I’m to blame?”

“You killed him!” you burst, glaring so hard your eyes might make him drop dead on the spot. “He was all I had left! But you just can’t let things go! And you took him- y-you took him from me, and I’m here to make you pay.” The dry chuckle isn’t unexpected, but it still hurts. And you find yourself fighting back the very real urge to make him hurt just the same- simply taking a deep breath instead.

“Careful. Your favoritism is showing.” The white jacket rustles unnervingly in the wind, as the howling picks up in volume. It seems to thump in the same rapid rhythm your heartbeat is, and Nai raises a brow. “You’re no idiot, so I’ll assume you came with a plan. But little sister or not, even you have to realize that if I want you dead, it won’t be much of a challenge to make that happen. You’d do better trying to get along with me and show some forgiveness.”

The cold, calculated way he throws it out between you two is almost laughable. Like it’s even a choice. Like you were ever given any other choice than revenge, when he left you out here to die. Stranded, alone, with the only family you have left… “I’ll never forgive you,” your lips move, kissing the words— and wonder if you mean them. You don’t think you do, not really. But you want to either way, be it out of spite, or some sense of justice. No one could say he didn’t have it coming. “Never.” You bite back a sniffle, to caress the trigger tighter even—

a name.

your name.

called out like a gentle caress, or a brush along your cheek.

Your teary eyes focus on the movement at the top of the stairs quicker than you can process that the voice isn’t Nai. He wasn’t alone, and he lied- he always does, the child in you chants- but the voice… is familiar. Too much so. It sets every hair on your body up on end despite the heat, as a few steps sound on the metal stairs. Boots, a red coat, and you stumble back. The gun lowering automatically, dropping to the floor as heat floods your face. Heat in the form of tears, rolling thick down your cheeks. Nai barely moves, but you’re shaking as your other brother kicks up some sand and smiles, kind and wide and wholly him.

“Hey, little sister.”

Absolute disbelief floods you as you watch Vash, your Vash, stand side by side to his twin— and for a moment, you wonder if the heat got to you after all. But he moves, and though Nai moves to keep him from approaching, before you know it you can feel warm hands on your face; stroking your teary eyes and keeping you from totally collapsing. “Vash? Vash- niichan-” Your voice fails you as his blue eyes close and his matching nose bumps yours pressing his forehead to yours; and everything fails to make sense. “But I- I thought- you were dead, you were dead- I kn-” You pull back to look at Nai, then Vash, then Nai again.

The two people you had spent the last five years mourning— your kin, your blood; without grievances, alongside each other. “I looked for you.” Your own voice takes you aback with the thought. Because it’s true. You looked. Everywhere. Every sign, every possible option, you had dug for years on end to find nothing- “I checked … everything, if you reached out to me anywhere, I would have heard- I-”

You shouldn’t feel ice cold to the touch, eyes stinging as the wind picks up- but you dare glance up at your brother again- and he’s still quiet. Regretful. Sorry. The familiarity you find in those baby blues suddenly feels miles and miles away, and you take a staggered step back. It’s funny, really. “You knew.” You were always the temperamental one of the three, and you always felt more strongly than Nai did, you knew that for sure. But you used to kid yourself in saying Vash understood; as kids tend to do.

Realization hits you square in the face. “You knew I was tracking you, and you made me think-” The words die in your throat. “You left me out here. You left me to die out here. Y- to join him?!” Your head hurts, and spins, and you suddenly feel like you’re sinking into the floor with the full weight of that. Though either of them haven’t spoken yet, the silence is proof enough. It makes you sick, it burns on the way down, and you almost feel your stomach climb up into your throat.

“I had no choice, every second I didn’t- you were in danger,” Vash starts, reaching for you again, and you smack his hand away as hard as you possibly can.

“I thought you were dead! And not only did I not know, you didn’t even try. Both of you just left me-” By now, you’re barely breathing; the short, gasped hiccups aren’t enough to bring oxygen back into your system— you reach for your disposed gun to whip it back up at your brother’s face— as your frown digs so deep into your tear-ridden expression it aches. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill both of you.”

Nai only stares as your barrel goes to press against his twin’s forehead, but Vash— you suppose you were always three sides of the trifecta. If you had the temperament, and Nai nii the logic, Vash would be the emphatic one out of you all. Because even with your heavy duty gun right between his brows, his sad smile as he reaches for your cheek doesn’t fail; and he leans into you. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” Your shaky breath isn’t enough, and you pull up your runny nose as you look back at Nai.

His beautiful face, and the quiet, tender look that passes— before the icy cold returns. “We don’t have time for this, Vash.” A mechanical click is so loud and heavy and piercing, a split second before you feel something hit the back of your head hard, and the world goes dark.

The room is quiet, apart from the slight ruffle of the sheets with his breathing, and yours against him. Ship Three rumbles at night, like a large beast settling down- it always keeps you up longer than you want it to. Keeps you from dreaming, too. But even in the darkness, there’s other soft noises you recognize like they’ve been coded into your brain, like the way he yawns and drapes an arm around you. These were the good days. Childishly unworried and awfully clingy. His voice is soft when he hums, and digs his chin a little deeper into the top of your head. “Not gonna sleep?”

“‘m trying,” you nod back, and nuzzle your face into his collarbones a little more. Your lashes brush the rough fabric of his shirt each time you blink, and shuffle, before eventually the hand creeps up to lovingly pet along your hairline. Vash’s eyes are half lidded when you dare to cast a glance upwards, but even the slightest bit of light gives them a warm, impossible shimmer. It’s home, and you find yourself clinging onto him a little tighter. The only sense of comfort you can allow yourself when the rest of the ship still feels so hostile, and you two- foreign.

“What are you thinking about?” he whispers, and even in your childlike innocence, it takes you aback a little. There’s only a few things you can think of that keep you up at night, right? Worries you and him share, should both be concerned about. You never bring it up, though. Because he doesn’t either, and what big brother says, goes. But you are not nearly as unaware as a child of your age should be. And you worry about tomorrow. If Luida and Brad decide to kick you two out at one point, if…

No, when Nai niichan returns from his shallow grave. And you know he will. It’s only a matter of time.

“Can’t I come with you tomorrow?” His embrace is just tight enough to make you believe the promise you make every time you go to bed. “Everyone else but never each other,” you parrot, dutifully searching for his other hand to link your fingers with, “right?”

Vash stares for a moment longer, before a smile comes up onto his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s right.” We can lose everyone else. You’ve always believed your big brother. Trusted him implicitly, and without second thought, always. But for the first time in years, your throat closes up a little as your fingers tighten into fists of his shirt, and your desperate grip on him seems to be failing you. There’s no choice. There’s nothing else left to save.

Your head doesn’t hurt as much as you realistically know it should, when you come to. You groan, and your eyes slowly flick open to the sight of steam, and an intense heat that envelops you head to toe. The warmth of water all around your sore muscles is, by all accounts, a royal treat. Even the upper echelon has a hard time getting enough water to run a bath— and it splashes all around as you right yourself in the bath and try to come to. The first thing you notice is the shape of someone hovering near the doorway, and you wrap your arms around your upper body with a sneer.

Nai’s light hair is longer than it used to be. Of course, you don’t remember that much of the lean, skittish boy he used to be way back when, but you had pictures of the years you were too young to remember any more vividly. And when Vash died- when he left you- you barely got a glimpse of Nai before he vanished back into thin air.

The water is hot enough to make everything feel languid and soft and you have to fight yourself a little to raise an arm out of the water to go and grab for a towel. One that Nai snatches out of your reach, tossing it instead over the sink with a little lift of his brow. “Don’t be a brat. You probably haven’t had a bath in years, don’t act like you don’t enjoy it.”

You have no smart quip back to that, because you do of course, and instead let out a long breath. “Did you undress me?” Your eyes slide just quickly along his form-fitting white suit before tightening your arm around yourself. Along with your legs crossing, your spine straightens as he keeps his eyes on you too intently.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before when we were kids.”

Your dry chuckle fills the room only just. “It’s not the same as when we were kids, niisan. Not even close.” If he actually considers that fact, he sure doesn’t show it on his face, and the silence grows even tighter and more tense as you wait. After a few uncomfortable seconds, Nai turns his back on you to open the door.

“Vash, she’s awake.” If anything, that’s worse. You’d much rather spend another uncomfortable eternity stewing in your disdain for the eldest, than have to face Vash right now. But Nai doesn’t care, of course— and the slight shuffle outside of the large bathroom makes you want to sink into the water and resist the urge to come up for air. The two switch spots, and then the door is closed, and you’re trapped here again.

He calls your name so gently you almost think you imagine it, but it still tickles all the way up your spine with longing. And anger, and regret, all balled into a mess that is at risk of spilling over again at any moment. “How are you feeling?” His voice breaks the bubble. And you look to him despite everything, because you’re nothing if not trained to rely on him. It’s all you’ve ever known, and being betrayed doesn’t make that habit any easier to swallow. “Are you still hurting?” His cheeks are flushed over as he crouches down, and shuffles a little closer to the edge of the bathtub.

“Stop patronizing me, Vash. I don’t want your help.” You might say that, but you and him both know better. He says it out of genuine worry. The only problem is, you don’t want his fucking worry. You want him to plead for your forgiveness and explain and give you reasons to forget that you’re upset. You want his crocodile tears to wash away the fact that you’re hurting— and as long as you don’t get any of that, how can you forgive? His fingers reach out to grip along the back of your head and feel, and though you feel a very slight soreness, it’s mainly the casual way he touches you that sets you off. “Get your hands off of me.”

And then you’re crying, pulling up your nose against the wetness spilling out of your stupid, childish expression- and Vash, as he always does, goes even more familial and comforting. “Oh, my little girl, shhh- it’s okay. I’m so sorry, I am, c’mere.” He tosses his sweater aside to stand and move you out of the deepest part of the bath and makes room for himself, kicks off his socks, and slides in behind you. Uncaring about the fact that he’s in a shirt and boxers, he comes into the hot water and pulls you right back into him, and you don’t have the willpower to do anything but let him. “Big brother’s got you, shhh, shhh. I’m right here.”

You hate that it is comforting. You hate that you like the closeness.

And in the way you turn to press your face to his cheek, or how his arms fit around your curled up position in his lap, there’s a soft press between your brows that he fills with gentle kisses, where he runs his mechanical hand along the length of your thigh over and over again. And when you look up at him, Vash’s baby blues glint over, and he dips his head to be even closer to you. Close enough to feel his breathing on your face, and- have his lips pressing against your mouth. He lingers, knocks his forehead with yours, before the warmth returns and stays, and this time it heats your body up from the inside out.

“Niichan,” your voice breaks the silence, and he wraps his arms even tighter around you. Uncaring of the fact that you’re, his smallest sibling, is naked in his lap. Or well— you don’t dare think of any other option for his prodding and touching, happy to just live and let live for now. You’ve never been entirely ordinary in this world, after all, and… by virtue of proximity, it’s so easy to fall back into the role of the all adoring little sister. The press of his hips under yours is distracting when he shuffles, but eventually starts kissing down your neck.

“I never meant to leave you, I promise. Nai came to find me- and he forced me to join- I wanted to look for you, I swear, I went back- but Nai thought you wouldn’t … forgive him- and that you’d only be in more danger.” It goes in one ear and out the other. All you know is that your skin is so cold wherever his hands leave their traces, and that you don’t want him to stop touching you. You want him to say it. “Please forgive me. Please. I am so sorry.” His eyes are always so pretty when they’re aimed your way.

The bed sheets are cold when you land on top of them, Vash climbing over your body and running his lips down your neck and chest all the way down your belly. There’s something so high and out-of-this-world about the way he touches you, and clings to you, and you want to drown in it more than anything. But there’s just the one problem— He tosses the towels aside, and squeezes the soft plush of your thighs as he kisses you and his tongue opens your mouth again. “S- Love me,” he breathes into the kiss, before growling when your leg hooks around his thighs to pull him closer, “say you love me.”

The one problem that rears it’s ugly head as you watch your brother grab at your waist and scan your naked body before him like you’re just anyone- like- Your breathing hitches, and you shake your head. “No, no no no, wait, niichan.” You barely got a second to come to terms with the fact that you’re near him again, and barely one more to have him descending on you- that you didn’t stop for a second to think. This is your brother, and as much as your body might lie and say that it’s not so bad, you know better. He knows better. “Vash nii, no, we can’t. We can’t.” Your breathy moans of his name aren’t enough, and dragging a hand through his hair and tugging for good measure isn’t either.

He’s already panting and flushed above you, and tastes your mouth again as he spreads your thighs. “Oh, come on, imouto, please. Just lay back, lay back for me.” You try to push at his shoulder, but he only presses back harder, and stares at the point between your two bodies. Where his hard cock is dripping pre and the tip flushed red between his muscular thighs. It makes your tongue squirm in your mouth, as the cold glass of his hand comes to grip your jaw and he kisses and moans and does all of it without thinking. “Please, little sister, it’s been so long. I’ve missed you so much.”

His body lowers to yours, having his hard cock now brushing the top of your dripping pussy, heartbeat jackhammering against your ribcage like crazy. What is wrong with you? You know this can’t happen, know that the right thing to do is to shove him off and go to bed, but your body is so hot. He’s hot too, and so much different from what you knew him as— it fucks with your brain. Like a willfully forgiving haze that suffocates any sane thought. “Couldn’t get off without you, for five whole years,” he breathes, and kisses you, running his tongue along your ear and down your neck, “couldn’t do anything. I only wanted my little sister. Always- always wanted you.”

His other hand comes to trace random shapes on your tits, just barely brushing your nipples until they’re peaked and you have a cold shiver roll down your spine. “Don’t you want to be one with your big brother? Hm?” You do. Your arms instinctively reach up to wrap yourself around his back and feel his heartbeat against yours, larger shape basically crushing you into the bed. But it’s okay, and the way he rolls his hips against your waist, cockhead kissing the sloppy, needy entrance of your cunt- feels so fucking good. You can’t. Your head is shaking ‘no’ even though he pants your name and lines up to slide the swollen, ruddy tip between your bottom lips.

“We can’t, we can’t, niichan. It’s not right.”

“Shhh,” he squeezes your face before kissing you again, then flicking your nipples between expert fingers until your pussy is basically sucking him in itself, and your trembling legs slot over his calves. “I’d never want to leave my baby sister behind, how could you even think that.” The breathy admission is paired with a sloppy kiss above your heart, before he sucks the soft of your tit into his mouth and laves his tongue over your peaked bud. Then his hips roll again, and with a soft hiss, his heavy, hot cock slides into you. You should fight. You should run out of here. Should’ve never tried to find Nai to begin with.

But you moan as his heat fills your walls and he bucks slowly into you with unadulterated adoration, and tug at his blond head of hair for support. “Niichan, Vash niichan, no, no, y- can’t be inside me. Get out~” The out sounds more like a moaned ‘aw’, as his cock slides inside inch by inch and stretches you.

It aches. Every touch is more heated than the last one, and your nails automatically dig into the skin of his back as he bottoms out and tries to settle in your heat, tight little pussy barely big enough to fit all of him. Your eyes flick up to his face, and he laughs a little absentmindedly when you tear up. “Oh, fuck, you’re so tight. M- fucking my baby sister’s pussy- holy shit. I’m gonna move, m’kay?” It hurts and stretches you inside in a way that shouldn’t feel good, but it does, it does, you want to cry. He kisses sloppily onto your mouth and cheek, before groaning, “m’gonna -fuck.” The lewd sound of your cunny squelching as he pulls back and grabs himself at the base, pushing back in with a long moan— it’s so much.

But you’re entranced, totally sky-high with the way he looks above you, and over you. “Ah, ah, ah, nii~chan, I can’t, I-” you struggle to stay still under so much pleasure, hips jerking and your entire body pulling taught like a bow. “Vash nii~” Ever devoted, he blushes and groans your name and whispers to you, sliding in and out of you and pushing your thighs open further. With each pump, you’re a little further gone. With each pump, he seems to fill more of you, making your pussy drip all over the fancy, soft sheets. Your hands reach back to fist into the satin when he lays a final kiss onto your mouth, and rights himself to drape one of your legs over his shoulder, using his body weight to fuck harder and deeper— every pap, pap, pap sliding the bed back and forth in the dark.

And you choke on it, on your tears and spit and all the words that don’t make it out of your mouth; it keeps your head in a blissful cloud. One that has you slicking all over his cock as he fucks in and out, with rapid, rhythmic abandon. He’s so pretty. He’s so fucking pretty, is all you can think as he hoists your hips up with a hum and grinds his cock slower and deeper against your plush walls. “Oh, f-look at that. I can see myself through your belly, baby. Fu—ck.” It’s true. When you look down, he’s pressing on a little pouch that looks more raised than it should, and the push makes your pussy clench even harder around him.

“Niichan, n-niichan- that feels weird. S-stop.” He doesn’t, and the high blush on his cheeks and ears goes even more flushed when his eyes meet yours and he goes to wipe the tracks on your cheeks away.

“S’okay. I’m gonna take care of you, I swear ‘t. Ack, you’re so pretty, so fucking good.” His hand goes to change grip on your lifted thigh, while the other rubs sloppy circles at the top of your needy pussy until you can’t take it anymore. Your legs lock around him, and you grab at him arm in order to slow him down, but he simply shakes you off and spits onto your pussy for good measure. “You can cum, it’s okay. Big brother’s cock feels good in here, right? In that tight, little pussy. Go ahead and cum, cum for me. I know you want to,” the words barely come in, only the way your feet tremble and your muscles go even tighter.

You’re clenching so hard around him he has to fight to keep up the solid rhythm of his thrusts, and moaning, and throwing your head back as your nails drag down his arm. “I- I’m cl- oh god, I wanna cum with you, niichan—” you cry out with a tiny voice, getting shut up by your own hand slapping over your mouth at the terrible admission. But it lingers in the air as his fingers speed up more, rubbing that puffy nub until your vision goes black and white and the tightly wound coil in your belly snaps. “Vash nii~chan- I love you, I lo-love you. Please,” your voice dies, letting Vash fuck you through your orgasm as your toes curl and thighs shake and he jackhammers his cock inside you.

He heaves you off the bed into his arms before you’re even done to have your arms around his neck, and matching hysterical heartbeats thumping against each other, as he kisses at your temple. “I know, I know, I know, baby. Niichan’s gonna give you what you want, hm? And then you’ll say thank you, and I’ll fuck you again.” The kiss is sloppy when it finds your mouth, tongue taking more than you can give in your current situation. “Oh, I’m gonna fuck you again, hang on- shit, c-cumming. Love yo-mouto, love you, m’filling you up.”

As he moves your body up and down on his thick, slicked up cock like a doll, you can’t control the slick that runs down your thighs or the ruined expression— just that you cling onto him as the last twitches of your soft walls wrap around him like it’ll keep him right beside you.

With a last few punishing thrusts, all the hot cum from your big brother’s fat balls fills up your insides, pumping you full to the brim with heat. But you barely get a second to come down before he lets you back into the bed, and turns you over so you’re onto your knees, and his cold fingers push inside to plug you up a little more. “Gonna breed this little baby sister pussy, hah. That’s okay with you, right? I promise I’ll make it feel good, imouto.”

#vash x reader #trigun x reader #vash the stampede #vash smut #trigun smut #trigun stampede smut #tw.incest #tw.dubcon #tw.praise #tw.size kink #tw.belly bulge #tw.breeding #🍯honey.pot #💫ch.vash

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deanbrainrotwritings · 11 months

Text

— WHOLE LOTTA LOVE

SUMMARY : beau finds a way repays the reader after taking care of him when he’s injured, but also to apologise for worrying her. but most importantly, to prove he was okay.

PAIRING : beau arlen x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : none

WARNINGS/TAGS : nsfw (18+), smut, mostly fluff, PAIN (but physical)

WORD COUNT : 2.5k

A/N : title from led zeppelin’s song. I love beau, he’s so boyfriend-shaped, I wanna squish him. it was so worth staying up late every Wednesday just to see him. anyway, what an ending, right? LMAO XX

Bright light from the bathroom door shone on Y/N’s face when Beau stepped out after his shower, despite being quick to turn the light off, Y/N woke up. Groggy, vision blurry, and voice filled with sleep she murmured Beau’s name as he made his way to her in the darkness.

She sleepily turned to her side to face him when he chuckled softly, a lazy smile on her lips at the sound. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake ya,” he murmured. The bed dipped under his weight and he hissed softly as he got comfortable in the bed. Worried, she rubbed her eyes and squinted her eyes to try to see his silhouette with only the light from the moon that seeped through the big window of their room.

“You okay?” She sat up, twisting her body to turn the lamp on. The white light illuminated the room, allowed her to see him with his eyes closed and his face exhausted. Her expression softened, from worried to compassionate, she reached out to touch his face and he opened his eyes slowly. His thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks, his green eyes heavy with sleep, only lulled faster by the gentle brush of her fingertips along his cheek and bearded jawline.

“I’m okay, go to sleep, sweetheart,” he reassured her. His thick fingers wrapped around hers and he brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles softly. His dry lips gently pushed against her soft skin, tickling her a little with his beard.

She bit her lip, her eyes moved down his body, the sweatshirt he was swearing had ridden up, exposing his hip bone and waist where there was a giant bruise coloured his skin like a dark purple blotch of paint on a canvas. She felt her stomach drop and she inhaled sharply, felt queasy just imagining the pain, her heart skipped a few beats and he looked down to where she was looking.

“That’s nothing,” he reassured her, reaching to lower the sweatshirt so it went over his sweatpants. “I swear, I'm fine, okay?” He sounded a little irritated and she frowned, one part of her feeling hurt by his tone and the other part of her still concerned with the strong urge to help him.

“I… I was just gonna…” she stuttered and paused to push down the hurt she was feeling to focus on what she wanted to say. “I have something for it, Beau. You don’t have to be in unnecessary pain,” she said more confidently.

Guilt from both the hurt on her face and her kindness despite it made him give in and nod, allowing her to take care of him. He looked away at first, eyes cast to the side out of shame before he looked up at her pouty lips and her sad eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised earnestly, rubbing a hand down his sleepy face, “I had a bad day. I shouldn’t take it out on you. You’re just being sweet. Go ahead and fetch it, darlin’.” He groaned when he started to sit up, her body instantly twisting up inside at the pain he must clearly be feeling, a wince on both their faces as he settled against the headboard. He chuckled when he looked at her and he grabbed her hand, tugging her forwards so she’d come closer before she left. “I love you, Y/N,” he murmured, a weary smile on his lips, waiting a few seconds while her eyes scanned over his face.

“I love you, too, Beau.” The crease between her brows disappeared and her lips were no longer downturned, a relaxed expression now in place of it. She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, nuzzling her nose against his hairline, she could easily smell his shampoo. “I’ll be right back.”

He nodded, watched her get out of the fluffy bed to walk into the bathroom. He let his head rest against the wall, his hands going to the hem of his sweatshirt to lift it up, taking it off all the way. He made it into a ball and put it between their pillows.

Looking down while biting his lip, he inspected the large bruise. He was lucky he didn’t break a rib. He was only happy Y/N wasn’t scolding him the way she usually did, and since Jenny already did that, he didn’t think it was necessary to be told again that he needs to be more careful.

He just couldn’t let the guy get away, so he went all in instead of waiting. He didn’t want to take the chance that the man would continue to hurt people. He made a hard call and really it went well, he caught the bad guy, got him locked up and now everyone was safe again to continue their lives.

He was definitely not doing that again though. The bruise covered most of his side and it was ugly, with dark purple splatter-like colour surrounding the main bruise. It was painful as hell and he probably should have had it checked out, but he was too stubborn to admit it was something a little more serious than he let on.

Y/N came back with a tube of cream and a pill bottle after a while of him listening to clutter in the bathroom. She must have been on her toes, body stretched out to reach the objects in the medicine cabinet. She was so cute. He smiled at her, matched her good mood because he was home now. This was his safe space, his happy place was with her. When he had bad moods and tough days, he could just be here and all of that evaporated.

She returned to his side, frowned and bit her lip in concentration as she also inspected the bruise. She shook her head in disapproval, but didn’t say anything when she popped the cap off and applied the white cream to her fingers, hesitating slightly when she came close enough to feel the heat emanating from his body.

“It’s okay, I can handle it,” he reassured her, reaching out to squeeze her thigh. She exhaled and nodded, then very gently she smeared the cream on his bruise. He tensed up, pressed his lips together in pain when she moved her fingers along the purple skin, trying to ignore the way she couldn’t breathe knowing he was in pain.

She was gentle with him and he eventually got used to the pain, his stomach was still tense and he squeezed the pillow in his hand, but knew it would feel better after she was done. His skin tingled under her fingertips, eyes tracing the circles she drew on his body trying to evenly spread out the layer of cream that would relieve the pain and heal his bruise.

“There,” she huffed out a breath and wiped her fingers on the flimsy shirt she was wearing.

“Thanks,” he murmured, staring down at the bruise that now has a light layer of white over it like melted frosting on a cinnabon. He relaxed too, his body deflating now that that was over.

“No problem.” He watched her reach over to the water bottle she had beside her on the bedside table and then heard the pills rattle when she handed them to him. “Take two,” she instructed.

“Yes, ma’am.” He took both, carefully opening the pill bottle he tipped it over and let the pills spill over his hand, returning the rest so only two remained. He put both in his mouth and drank water to swallow easier, drinking some more just to remove the thirst he started to feel.

He placed both bottles on his side, wiping his mouth to clear water droplets. He turned to face her, worry still knitting her brows together despite the little smile on her lips. She couldn’t hide it from him, even if she wanted to. Even the fact that he knew her brain was working like a whole factory of chaos and future possibilities was clear in the way her eyes scanned the rest of his body for any other injuries.

“Hey,” he called softly. She finally looked at him, actually focused on him when he started to shift so he was now facing her while sitting back on his legs. “I’m alright, okay? I promise, I won’t do anything reckless.” The word again hung in the air, but neither of them addressed it. He tucked her hair behind her ear, his knuckles gently brushing along her cheek, warm and soft.

“Okay,” she conceded, closing her eyes at his touch.

She opened her eyes when he started to thread his fingers through her hair, holding the back of her head with his eyes glued on her lips. When she whispered his name for no reason other than being flustered, he looked up at her. She closed her eyes instinctively and he started to move forward, his beautiful lashes resting on his cheeks when he closed his eyes and tilted his head to kiss her properly.

The kiss was soft and loving, he pulled away just a centimetre to peck her lips over and over. Only stopping to nibble on her lower lip when she smiled, her hands finding his wrists to keep herself grounded. Clouds of love and adoration filled her head so she could only focus on everything about him, leaving her light and puddle-y as he gently parted her lips with his tongue.

The minty taste was enhanced by their tongues sweeping past each other, slow and soft making them both moan into the kiss. He was pushing against her slightly, eventually pulling away from the kiss breathlessly so she’d fall onto her back with her legs still crossed. Her back arched for her comfort and he hummed softly, his hand going underneath her shirt to slide his hand along the arch. Her chest started to rise and fall faster, her skin flushed with excitement, a reaction following the speed of her heart from his kiss.

He pushed her shirt up, little by little, and first revealed her underwear to him. The black cotton covering what he wanted from her at that moment just to prove he was okay and that he loved her so much for how she took care of him. The higher he went the more he was able to see, until she shivered and the shirt bunched up above her breasts, her nipples tight and erect.

“You’re so beautiful, darlin’,” he whispered, slipping back into his Texas accent. He leaned over her carefully, trailed his lips up starting from the waistband of her underwear, slowly moving between her ribcage to her breasts. She carefully straightened her legs out on the bed, let him straddle her hips when he wrapped his lips around her nipple, his tongue flicking the bud.

“Fuck, Beau,” she moaned. The tingly sensation between her legs multiplied, followed by heat that spread with arousal when he sneaked his hand down to her underwear, and teasingly moved his fingers along waistband. His breath tickled her skin, his beard was scratchy but felt so good against her skin, and his teeth gently tugged when he slowly started to drag her underwear down her legs.

He hummed softly against her. One of her hands began tugging at his hair and the other moved to tease her other nipple. She panted when he pulled away from her, sitting back on his legs again to bend her knees, slowly slipping her underwear off her legs. He let her legs relax on the bed, feet flat, and flicked her underwear to the side, letting them hang at the edge of the bed without even looking.

“You’re always looking out for me, huh?” Beau asked, grinning down at her to see her smile again. “Take the shirt off, yeah?” He carefully moved off the bed and pulled his sweatpants and boxers down at once, watching her naked body, now that she discarded the last article of clothes on her body. “You really are so lovely, honey,” he murmured, climbing onto the bed again with his hand jerking his cock slowly.

“Beau, are you sure?” She asked suddenly, her eyes drifting away from his busy hand to the bruise on his hip. He knew what she was talking about, but he chose to play dumb, moaning louder than normal when he swiped over the leaking head of his cock and stood between her legs. She got flustered, her eyes snapping back up to his adorable face.

“Yeah, darlin’,” he nodded, grabbing her ankle, “you’re so sweet, so carin’, and a million other perfect things.” She raised a brow at his words, blushing, but otherwise confused when he placed her ankle on his shoulder, and lifted her hips up. “Don’t give me that look. ‘Course I’m sure that you’re lovely.” He had the cutest, stupidest smile on his face and she simply rolled her eyes at him, shaking her head slightly. She was still mindful of his bruise when he placed her close enough to him that his cock was rubbing through her wet folds.

“That’s not what I meant,” she whispered, letting him press the back of her other thigh against his with her knee bent over the unbruised side of his hip. Beau bit his lip, his cheeks red with a blush, and didn’t respond when he pulled back slightly, the head of his cock gliding through her slick warmth until he was pushing against her entrance.

“Sweetheart, I want this, okay?” He reassured her, slowly, breathlessly pushing every inch of himself into her fluttering walls. “Don’t… fuck, don’t worry. I’ll be careful.” He bottomed out inside her, moaning softly at the feeling of her around him, his stomach clenching with excitement.

He pulled his hips back slightly, the light of the lamp pouring over her body, allowing him to watch himself pull out of her, slowly so that they could both feel every inch of each other. A pleased sigh rolled past her lips, her excitement clear in the way her pussy quivered around the tip of his dick. His hair fell in front of his eyes, messy and slowly drying from his shower.

Beau pushed himself back into her, teasing her first before picking up the pace. He rolled his hips carefully, hissed softly when his efforts began to make the sting in his hip worsen. He ignored it, played it off like the sound coming out of him was due to pleasure, which it partially was, but the faster he thrusted into her the more it hurt. The sting spread across his side, but he could already feel his orgasm building up as he watched her take every inch of him.

He leaned over her, hoping to ease the pain on his side, and allowing him deeper into her cunt. She moaned softly, holding his face to kiss him, soft and loving she pressed kisses across his cheeks and his jaw too, lazy pecks scattered across the freckles that covered his skin. Deep and gentle thrusts slowly built up their orgasm, breaths heavy, muscles tight with each movement, pressure building up until they both came with whispered praises and soft grunts.

taglist

@murdockscumsock @candy-coated-misery0731 @kellynickelss @spnfamily-j2 @deansbbyx

main masterlist

beau arlen masterlist

do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or republish my work on another platform

#beau arlen x reader #beau arlen x y/n #beau arlen #beau arlen smut #beau arlen x you #big sky #2.2

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pinazee · 9 days

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Lights camera homicidio

Hola! Me llamo pinazee! Me gusta queso!

Okay im just going to be honest here, when i first watched this (being part latina myself) it made me feel a lil’ icky because it was a knee jerk reaction of it feeling like a white guy doing a bad impression of a mexican; but once i learned James is half and that his dad enjoyed hearing him speak spanish on his show im perfectly fine enjoying all the over the top spanish bits. And listen, i understand that james wasn’t doing an impression of a mexican and it was really more an impression of the soap opera acting, it still felt like a degree of the culture was at play too. But again, its totally fine, and honestly even if he was a full blooded german i probably would have given it a pass, simply for the reasons stated above.

Anyways, I, surprisingly, don’t have a whole lotta notes for this one. So this might just be a set of gifs ;) i mean, look how much fun he’s having!

I love that rothstein and Jorge were almost instantly bff’s with shawn, to the point that the show called it out- which was great! He has this infectious quality of bringing people into his world and making them feel valued and listened to. The more i watch this show, the more im grateful that Shawn was the subversion of the “genius”trope we had at the time in the sense that he was actually great with people. Mid 00’s you had the mentalist (prick), house (prick), sherlock (prick), monk (awkward), charlie (awkward, p.s adorable), uh that lie to me guy (prick)- you get the gist. Shawns a lovable guy. I dare anyone to say otherwise.

Hahahhahaha get it? His sister is ugly! She looks like a guy! Hahahahahha -_-

*sigh* Look how deflated shawn gets because he’s so used to the criticisms at this point. Ugh, henry is really pissing me off this time around. But, i will say, this does add a little bit more to henry as a character. Like the whole bubble bath and tanning thing, we see henry is not the stereotypical manly man but instead feels he has to hide this more feminine side of himself, enough to the point that Shawn doesn’t really know the real him. Henry’s imposed this image of what he thinks a man should be while secretly hiding he doesn’t live up to that ideal himself. Henry’s a really guarded individual and i can’t help but wonder if there is a trauma there that built that wall, or if it was simply how it was growing up in his time. Idk, maybe a little of both. But, again, i don’t think it was ever really explored which is a shame. I would have liked to see henrys origin story. Could you imagine movie 4 opens with kid Henry and papa Spencer? That could be cool :)

The juliet B story- im so confused by what they were trying to say. It was naive of juliet to try to make friends? She shouldn’t come on too strong? Chief Vick is the only friend she needs?? I like the scene she has with the chief, and i honestly don’t even mind that lady being an asshole (cause feminism). I’m just confused by the plot really. I wish they would’ve given us some hope that she could’ve made a friend in the department. Like a passing lady says hi to her, and juliet smiles. Or had karen give her advice that was more than “be careful, these women are guarded.”

That scene juliet had with her did break my heart a little at this part. Juliet needs a friend okay.

Also, i think Ms. pascoretti thought juliet was hittting on her and thats why she filed a complaint, so she’s just a homophobic asshole who should be fired, and im going to assume she was as we never see her again so good riddance.

P.S TOO HARD!

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hattiestgal · 6 months

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any advice on making outfits for characters?

The biggest pointer I can give you is to let the outfit of the character tell their story.

That can be as simple as "I spent a lotta money for these boots and by god am I gonna wear em" all the way to keepsakes all throughout their life or a description of their identity.

Take Riley's signature outfit as an example- Tank top, cargo pants, nb belt loop flag, fingerless gloves and arm wrapping. It's a real simple look, but it can say a lot!

The tank top is comfortable, and shows off her arm fat (which is one of their favorite parts of their body). The cargo pants used to go with a pair of boots that their calves are a little too thick for (plus, storage space for various trinkets). The NB beltloop flag is on the nose. And the forearm wrapping and gloves are just a force of habit at this point. A good amount of the scars underneath are healed at this point, but Riley still has a certain insecurity about them. They're also just kind of a part of their character design at this point

Here, another example.

Allison's common abyss walking outfit tells you a lot about her right off the bat! Toxins and radiation are a common thing in the Abyss, so shes well prepared to weather the storm. The mask with painted teeth - along with her hand cannon really (which she intentionally fails to acknowledge trigger discipline with) - are attempts at intimidation. She's this huge lumbering giant and she knows it! She plays up the scares because she knows you can avoid conflict if she looks the part of the brute with a short fuse. There is genuine confidence behind that though. The open jacket showing off her sturdy frame is supposed to be a signal for more watchful eyes that she really can put up a fight if need be. A good amount of her look otherwise is subconsciously playing into a cowboy bit, or just plain practical. Well sealed from the often dangerous air she roams.

To put it simply- let your outfit play a part in characterizing your subject. Do they just like the way it looks? Is it sentimental to them? could they go on a whole rant about it for hours and hours? Let the look describe the character!

#hat answers #my art #my ocs #Riley Foxglove #Allison Dudz #ALSO I STILL HAVE YOUR OTHER ASK IN MY INBOX AND I PROMMY I'LL GET TO IT #THIS HAS JSUT BEEN A SLOW FEW DAYS

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chronicbeans · 1 year

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Wally Darling with a Restoration Project Reader (part 7)

We just got a letter! We just got a letter! We just got a letter! Wonder who it's from?

TW: None that I know of.

🗞️As you look through the mail with the other two, you begin to notice something. The lettering on them is more colorful than the one on the VHS tape's box. That wouldn't be such a red flag on its own, but the handwriting is also different. In fact, each letter has one of a few different types of handwriting: neatly printed, messily printed with an extremely shakey look to it, or an elegant looped cursive style. The letters all have a different set of colors based on which handwriting there is. The most interesting to you is the cursive, due to it having only two colors compared to the others that have four to five: a metallic gold and a shimmering baby blue, almost as if written with a professional art marker.

🗞️ You want to tell the others about the odd observation involving the VHS compared to the other mail, but they don't know of its existence. Considering how badly Daniel seems to have reacted to watching it, you are even more sure that they shouldn't know of it. You don't know if maybe Daniel just has a weak stomach or if it really is the tape doing something, but you don't want to find out. If anybody is going to be watching it again, it is going to be you. However, you can still let them know of the other observations...

🗞️ "Hey, guys, what if it is three people sending us stuff. Look, the handwriting is different. The coloring is, too!" They look at you as if you are crazy, before taking a closer look. Amy is the first to respond "Oh, yeah! You are right! I really like the cursive, it is so pretty! Whoever it is truly recognizes that it is an art form!" You roll your eyes "Amy, that isn't the important part. It may be pretty, but do you know what this means if it really is three different people? We could be getting conflicting information, or there could be three different streams of information we could focus on! Like, maybe the cursive guy is sending in the book pages, the neat print guy is sending in concept art, and the shakey print guy is sending in promotional material! So much stuff could be going on just because three people are sending it! If that is true, we need to take note of it!"

🗞️ Finn leans back, staring at an envelope "You could be onto something. Nice catch! Alright, let's switch this up. Amy, since you like the cursive writing so much, you open up mail only from him. I'll open up the shakey handwriting mail, and (Y/N), you can open up the neat print. Look for any patterns you find in what they send. Got it?" "YIPPEE FOR CURSIVE!"

🗞️ You begin going through the mail, finding that a lot of the mail this person sends has to do with the characters of Frank and Eddie. Frank and Eddie talking about mail and butterflies. Frank telling Poppy about things. Eddie concept art. Frank concept art. Anything about these two.

🗞️ After some time, Amy asks "(Y/N), you are focusing mainly on Wally, Barnaby, and Home, right?" "Yep. Why do you ask?" She hands you her mail, saying "This guy sends a lotta stuff about those two. Let's switch."

🗞️ So, the two of you switch it up. Now, you are getting a lot of mail about Wally painting, be it Home's walls or Barnaby's paw pads. Barnaby telling jokes, only to be booed for how bad they are. Wally singing to Home.... Wally singing to Home...

🗞️"Do you think we can figure out who sent this from looking around town? Think about it. We live very close to where The Playfellow Workshop was built. Maybe the people sending this have something to do with the people who worked there? How else could they get concept art? Wouldn't it make sense that most of the workers lived nearby, and as such, their families, too? So their descendants might be here in town."

🗞️ Amy chuckles "Descendants make them seem ancient! Their relatives most likely are grandchildren or something. You always have such an odd way of speaking. That's why we like you, though. We all have our quirks. (Y/N) has that weird way they keep staring at anything Wally related. I think they have a crush on the puppet man." You choke on your own spit, coughing as you say "You are such a child, Amy. He is just an interesting character... Let's just... Let's just set up a date to ask around town. I'll ask about the cursive writing."

🗞️ Amy giggles "I know, I know. Sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I have a small crush on Julie. How about tomorrow? My boss gave me the day off." Finn nods "Yeah. I am always free. I work online. I could just get my work done early in the morning." You shrug "Sure. I am free. No job, remember?" Finn looks at his phone "Okay. I'll ask Daniel tomorrow morning if he feels any better. He just texted me that he still doesn't feel good."

#welcome home #welcome home arg #wally darling #wally darling x reader

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mauesartetc · 1 year

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Thoughts on Helluva Boss Episode 204 ("Western Energy")

Well that was a whole lotta nothin', wasn't it.

Let's discuss.

Pros:

-Edward Bosco does a fine job with Striker's voice, and Bryce Pinkham has a couple surprisingly powerful line deliveries when Stolas has reached his lowest point. It's nice when the story gives this character some emotional range outside of horny and mopey.

-This character design is way too cool for this show, like damn.

-Striker's living space was unique and interesting, and the magma in the environment matched his horse well.

-The fight scene with Moxxie and Millie vs Striker was well-choreographed and the camera didn't move around too much. Looks like the animators learned their lesson from last time.

-I liked how Moxxie took a chance and used Striker's homophobia (or perhaps disgust toward "lesser" imps?) against him to escape his grip.

-The devil horns on the EKG screen were kinda cute.

Cons:

-What the hell's up with this title. "Western Energy"? Is that a reference to something? Is it a pun? I get the "western" part, but "energy"? It puts me in mind of some obscure Zen concept rather than this episode. Just vague, confusing and not clever. Hell, "Take The Shot" was right there! I know there's not much shooting in Striker's plotline (we'll get to that bit of stupid momentarily), but this references both the A- and B-plot! C'mon, writers. At least act like you care.

-Again with the arbitrary censorship... I think multiple characters utter the word "cunt" in this episode, but it's bleeped each time. Guys... This is an internet show. This isn't network TV. If you're worried about getting demonetized on Youtube, don't use that word in the script to begin with. Easy.

-Not many laughs in this one, huh. In the last couple episodes I've found at least one thing to chuckle about or say, "Hm, that's kinda clever, I guess", but man, I was stone-faced for the duration here.

-Is that really how you pronounce "Andrealphus"? I've been saying it "An-dray-AL-phus", but Stolas says "An-DREE-ul-phus". People who are more familiar with demonology than I am, feel free to weigh in.

-Speaking of which, it's quite an accomplishment to make Andrealphus look even worse than he did in his illustration. Something about how tiny his head is in proportion to his body throws me, and of course it doesn't help that his face was always pinched in a teardrop shape with a tiny beak (which looks nothing like a peacock, because fuck accuracy). And if anyone's wondering if he uses any ice powers this episode... He doesn't. He uses telekinesis to drop a couple lumps of sugar into his tea, but that's it. You rip off Elsa and set the guy up in an ice castle but couldn't even give him ice powers? What a load.

-Kinda floored at this line from Stolas: "Cheating implies a betrayal. This woman never gave two shits about me, or our very much arranged marriage."

For fuck's sake, writers.

"You guuuuyyyys, it technically wasn't even cheating, see? Stolas is totally innocent and pure and you should like him!!!" The camera even trucks out dramatically as if he's saying something heroic. Christ...

Even in an utterly loveless marriage, there's still the expectation that each party will be faithful to the other, and having sex with someone else is a betrayal unless both of them previously agreed to open up their relationship. No indication that ever happened here, so...

All this scene demonstrates is that Stolas hasn't learned a thing about being a fucking adult and owning up to his mistakes. This just doubles down on the whole "I'd feel bad if I hurt you" thing (when you obviously did hurt her, you twit). Does Viv Medrano seriously believe admitting fault and apologizing makes a person weak or unlikable? Because I have news for ya: It's very much the opposite.

-Also, Stolas ends that mini-speech with, "As far as I'm concerned, this divorce is far overdue." But... Stella and Andrealphus have already agreed to that. That wasn't even a question. They're just trying to settle what Stella will get in the divorce. Do these people even read their scripts out loud?

-Striker's return comes way too late in the series. There are too many episodes forming a cushion between his introduction and Western Energy for him to feel intimidating. It's possible IMP could've discussed a plan of action regarding Striker, but no one mentions him once. If the characters don't see him as a threat, why should the audience?

The tension would have remained high if, immediately after the harvest moon episode, IMP moved Stolas and his family to a safe house while Striker was still on the loose. Little does Stolas know, however, he's a sitting duck, since Stella has called Striker and informed him of their location. Feels like that'd be much more exciting than just ignoring his existence for five episodes.

-When Stolas calls Blitzo, he refers to Striker as "that little cowboy friend of yours", implying he remembers him from the Harvest Moon Games. But, um... Question. Did Blitzo ever tell Stolas Striker almost killed him?! We have no idea! It's never confirmed!

At the end of the harvest moon episode, I seriously thought the team just forgot to write Blitzo warning Stolas about his would-be assassin. I know the story's trying to get across how little Blitzo actually cares about him, but this is a pretty huge conversation to overlook. Like damn, just how thoughtless can one person be. Our hero, ladies and gentlemen!

-(Also, who the hell says they were "stolen", Stolas. You're not an object; you're a person. You were kidnapped. I know this is bordering on grammar pedantry but it's distracting how much this weird phrasing sticks out.)

-Once again, the symbolic sin colors are inconsistent. I mentioned in the last review that the Greed ring in Helluva Boss is green despite the fact that the traditional color for greed as a sin is yellow. In this episode, we glimpse the Sloth ring, as this official tweet informs us:

One problem: Sloth is pink instead of the traditional light blue.

I wouldn't mind this if the ring colors broke from tradition across the board, but they don't. The Wrath ring is red and Lust is deep blue, as is customary. So it seems the art direction is throwing darts at a board to see which rings get the "lol, random" color treatment and which ones don't. These odd choices would be much more understandable if there were a story reason for certain rings looking the way they do, but at this point, I think we know better than to hope for that.

-In both this episode and The Harvest Moon Festival, Striker is characterized as self-aggrandizing. His previous appearance saw him declare himself superior to other imps, while this one shows off his giant statue with an enormous boner. Why, then, is he annoyed at the little imps singing his theme song? Wouldn't that be an ego boost? It would've made more sense for him to play along with it, or even better:

STOLAS: How does one get their own theme song?

STRIKER: (smiles, rubs his thumb and fingertips together) You pay for it.

-All the scenes with Blitzo and Loona in the doctor's office could've been cut and the story wouldn't have lost a thing. You can show them arriving and show them leaving with Loona wearing the cone, but everything else in the B-plot is filler. These episodes aren't beholden to a TV schedule that demands the duration falls within a certain range. There's no reason this episode needed to be nineteen minutes long.

-Getting pissy at some rando wearing the same hat as you is just about the dumbest reason to start a fight I've ever heard. Let's change around the dialogue a bit:

BIKER: Lookee here, fellas! The city slicker got himself a cowboy hat! That is sooo cute. Well, if you wanna dress the part... (cracks knuckles) might as well play it. It's not perfect but holy shit, I came up with that in two minutes. What the fuck, Viv. This is why you have co-writers. They aren't there to kiss your ass and mindlessly accept everything you do; they're there to catch little things like this and make them better.

-There's no "thump" when the top of the exploded gas station hits the ground, and judging by its size and implied weight, there should definitely be a sonorous thump.

-Striker mentions that Stella paid him to give Stolas "the royal treatment" (aka a slow death), but if that's the case, why did he try to shoot him at the Harvest Moon festival? Why did he shoot at him in the cafe?? If one of those bullets hit, wouldn't that affect his payday? Also, can't help but notice how terribly convenient this is. We wouldn't want our expert assassin to be too efficient, or precious Stolas would be dead. God damn this is contrived.

-Here's a line with a ton of story potential that goes unexplored (and will probably remain as such for the rest of the season, let's be honest): Stolas points out that Striker "is working for a royal right now", exposing some hypocrisy in his hatred for them. This brings up an interesting question: Why is he in cahoots with this one specific royal despite detesting all others? Why is she the exception? Could it be his loyalty to her transcends a simple business relationship? If he has angelic weapons and wanted to kill just any royal, he could have done it. But maybe this is more personal. Maybe Stolas needs to die because he hurt Stella.

Perhaps on the other side, Stella shares Striker's belief that he's superior to ordinary imps- another exception. Giving any other imp the time of day would disgust her, but Striker's just different somehow. And being as athletic and rugged as he is, he's a far cry from Stolas, who she's never found attractive.

I know it's a pipe dream for this series to develop any romantic pairing besides Stolitz, but how interesting would it be if Striker and Stella were having an affair of their own, and genuinely loved each other? How would they reconcile their personal feelings with long-held prejudices? What kinds of effects would hiding this shameful secret have on them? Would they make strides to be more open-minded? Would they see how their relationship mirrors Stolas and Blitzo's and reach an understanding with them? Will Striker's anti-royal principles override his love for Stella? Will he, in possession of angelic weapons, fulfill his quest to kill all royals, including her? There are so many possibilities here.

But of course, wringing any kind of compelling narrative out of this show's villains would require the writers to treat them as complex people rather than caricatures, so... yeah.

-If Stolas' legs are untied, what the fuck is stopping him from getting up and sneaking out of the cave after Striker leaves him unattended? He even has enough range of motion to kick him in the face. Obviously his leg wound would cause mobility issues and he'd have to stop the bleeding so Striker wouldn't track him easily (perhaps rolling into a magma stream to cauterize the wound? If demons are immune to fire, as Episode 1 established, I don't think magma would hurt much), but goddamn, try something. If you're going to die either way, you don't have much to lose, do you?

OR, why doesn't he just roll off the back of the horse when they're still in the city? Just check behind you to make sure no cars are coming and bail, dude. Striker might not even realize you're gone until he's entered the desert.

This is the exact same problem Stolas had in Seeing Stars, where he was so helpless against the plot's demands he couldn't even climb out of a van window, or morph into his full demon form like he did in Truth Seekers, or just leave the studio to find his fucking daughter. Y'know how I keep saying these characters have no agency? These characters have no damn agency.

-Kinda weirded out by how flirty Andrealphus is with his sister. "You're so lucky you're attractive"? "My fiery vixen"? Just... why. I get that incest used to be a thing in real-life monarchies, but assuming Andrealphus has other romantic options readily available to him (see also: ambiguous bird class), this fixation on Stella doesn't make much sense. If Viv wanted to make him subtly creepy, well... there are other ways to do that.

And let's be real, we can safely surmise Viv hates research with a passion, so I'm betting she didn't get this idea from history, but from Game of Thrones. I get a strong feeling she sees real-world facts as boring homework and the fictional world as exciting and full of wonder. If a person just cherry-picks different elements from fictional media they like and stitches them together like Dr. Frankenstein grafts body parts, that'll result in something great too, right? ...No.

-You're seriously telling me Stella didn't know how royal lineages work after being betrothed to a prince since childhood?

I mean wow, the show has portrayed Stella as inconsiderate and comically sadistic, and now she's stupid as well? These writers are hell-bent on giving her zero positive traits, aren't they.

-"A Goetia's never behaved like this before." Are you shitting me, Andrealphus? Hell's existed for (presumably) thousands of years and not a single noble has fucked an imp before? I could maybe buy that none of them have been as stupidly blatant as Stolas has, so perhaps these affairs have gone unseen and unremembered. But assuming they never happened? Come on now.

-Where'd Striker's horse go?? Feels like he could've been helpful in the fight against Moxxie and Millie, but after the theme song, he's completely missing. We don't even see him in a stable or anything. I know he's animation-intensive but y'all could at least give us a narrative reason he's not on screen.

An easy fix to this would be to show Bombproof (yes, that's his name, and it's awesome, and I hate that the characters never say it) out of breath at the end of the long journey, and Striker telling him he's earned a good rest. He could then hop into a magma pool and disappear under the waves for the remainder of the episode. There ya go. Simple.

-If Millie's ordinary axe can chop Striker's angelic pistols in half, why are angelic weapons such a threat to demons? During the yearly extermination in this universe, what's stopping them from forming an army and shooting the angels' weapons full of holes? Crazy how a single scene can unravel Hazbin Hotel's entire conflict.

-Did y'all want any kind of satisfying closure between Blitzo and Stolas regarding what went down in the Ozzie's episode? Well keep dreamin', because we've got this horrendously half-assed, tacked-on bullshit that you'll easily miss if you blink.

Fuck you, show.

And in another text following this, here's what Stolas says:

"If you don't feel like coming, that's OK! I'm sure I can do without [the grimoire] for one month."

Why do you need the fucking book at all, Stolas.

He's used it to make the harvest moon visible at the festival, but it's never clear what purpose that serves. We've never seen him use it for anything in his daily life; just that thing that happens once a year. Come to think of it, we've never seen Stolas in his day-to-day job. As a Goetia demon, he has legions to command (Andrealphus even mentions them), but the story never shows us the political, leadership-driven side of his life. He just sits around doing sweet fuck-all. Striker's argument against monarchs is that they "talk over [the lower classes]", but there's a strong case to be made for them simply contributing nothing of substance to society.

All in all, this episode made me feel nothing. There was no meaningful progression in the story. Sure, Stolas is injured, but he has the exact same problems of being married to someone he wants to divorce and Blitzo being emotionally distant. Stella has the same problem of Stolas being alive, even though she herself called off his execution. Striker's still at large. Moxxie and Millie still have a squeaky-clean relationship, Blitzo's still an ass, and Loona will likely return to her regular self in the next episode. Functionally speaking, everyone ends the episode in the same place they began, making me wonder what the point of it is in the larger narrative. Getting a hunch that Viv just needed an excuse to hospitalize Stolas so the audience would pity him.

I'm calling it now: Stolas is out of the hospital in the next one. He might still have some bandages and whatnot, but his injuries won't present any real obstacles to him until they're convenient to the plot. I'm betting there won't even be scars where Striker stabbed him, because at this point, continuity is WAY too much to ask of this show.

If this were a better-written series, Stolas would actually use his damn wealth and political power to put a bounty on Striker's head that'd have everyone in Hell gunning for him. Or why not use those legions he has at his disposal? Furthermore, now that he knows Stella hired Striker, what's stopping him from having her executed, or banished, or imprisoned, or something? But then if the characters used their brains, Viv wouldn't get the plot she wants, and we can't have that.

The previous episode had me curious to find out what would happen next. This one just added nothing to my life. I don't know how much longer I can keep watching this show. I'm not a fan of hate-watching media as life is short and there are numerous shows and films out there that'll make much more enjoyable use of my time. "If it sucks, hit da bricks" and all that. Yet Helluva Boss still has a pull in being an incredible teaching tool for how NOT to write a series. Writing these reviews has been thoroughly educational for me, and it seems they've helped others as well. But fuck, man. At what cost. When will I finally throw up my hands and say "Enough"?

If I hear the next one's not terrible, I might give it a watch. But that's a pretty big if. I'm very tired.

#helluva boss #helluva critical #critique #criticism #long post #writing #review

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specialagentlokitty · 5 months

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Rosita x sibling!reader - we got each other

Hi! I saw that you have opened requests for TWD characters. Could I request a story where the reader is Rosita’s sibling, who (I have two ideas for the character; please pick which one you think is best ❤️) either gets taken by the Saviors like Darryl, and Rosita saves them and helps them with the aftermath - or one where the reader and Rosita reunite after a long time of being separated? - Anon💜

You had never stopped searching for your sister, not since you had lost her at the start of this all, because you knew she would be alive somewhere.

If you had to spend your whole life searching the whole country up and down then you did, because at this point you didn’t have anything to lose.

There was nothing.

No home. No job. No bills to stress about.

It was like freedom with a heavy price, the price of the dead wondering around, the the price that you hadn’t seen Rosita in so long you weren’t sure where she would even be.

Standing by the side of the road you looked at the map in your hand and sighed, stuffing it back into your pocket at looked around.

You decided to just follow the road, see where it was going to take you since you were bound to come across a town or something which you could hold up in for a few days rest.

Pulling your hat a little further down so you could block the sun from your eyes, and you squinted a little as you saw figures in the distance.

Reaching into your bag you pulled out some binoculars and looked to see it was a small group of people and a few horses.

“Well shit..” you whispered.

They were walking towards you, so you stuffed your binoculars away and your hand hovered over your gun.

You kept walking, and you could tell they noticed you by the way they got ready to grab their weapons and you stopped.

“Who are you?” You called.

“You first!” A man snapped.

He was aiming a crossbow at you.

“Nah, I asked first.”

Another man walked in front, raising both his hands, gesturing for his friend to back down a little.

“We mean no harm, we’re just travelling. That’s all. I’m Rick, what’s your name?”

You studied him for a moment.

“You a cop?”

“How’d you know?”

“Cop recognises cop. I’m (Y/N).”

You relaxed a little bit still didn’t move your hand, letting Rick know that you were ready to use it if it came to it.

He did the same thing, letting you see that his people were also armed and ready to attack if you tried to attack them.

“A lotta shit there for a small group, you got more people?”

“Sorry, I can’t tell you that. We’re not sure if you’re with another group.” Rick said.

“Well, seems we’re at a crossroad then, because I’m not moving, but I ain’t telling you shit about me either.”

“Want to tell us why you’re out here?”

You thought for a moment.

You hadn’t seen people in a long while, and knowing your sister she would’ve done the smart thing and gathered with a group.

“I’m reaching for a photo, don’t shoot.”

You reached into the pockets of your jeans and pulled out a photo, walking over to Rick and you held it out the him.

It was folded in half to hide you on the other side, and you showed him the woman.

“You seen her?”

“Who is she to you?”

“Have you see her?” You pressed.

Rick gestured to the photo then to his people.

“May I?”

You nodded your head, letting him take it and he walked over to the others where they had a hushed conversation.

A few of them glanced over at you, and a woman walked over.

“How many walkers have you killed?”

“What is this? An interrogation? I don’t know. Lost count.”

“How many people have you killed?”

“Two.”

“Why?”

“They were bit.”

She turned to Rick, and Rick gave a nod of his head and walked back over, placing his hand on the woman’s shoulder.

He handed your photo back to you.

“We know where your sister is.”

“How’d you know she was my sister?”

Rick smiled, reaching into his pocket he pulled out a photo just like yours.

“Rosita gives it to someone who’s going out just in case they come across you. Let me introduce you to everyone.”

There was a few minutes of introductions before they began to move again, and you were walking alongside of them.

They told you about how they came to meet your sister, and that she was alright, and as you got closer to their community you felt yourself growing nervous.

It had been a while since you had been around people, so knowing that just beyond those gates was even more people made you uncomfortable.

You flinched a little as they creaked loudly, the gates slowly opening, and you were led inside where you just stood awkwardly to the side.

Michonne stood next to you.

“Has it really been that long since you saw Rosita?”

“We had an argument before this started, I decided to leave. Then the world went to shit.”

“And you’ve spent all these years trying to find her?”

“She’s my sister, my family, course I have.”

She smiled, gesturing behind you and you turned around.

You both just stared at one another, and you slowly set your bag on the ground, giving a little smile.

“Hey…”

Rosita walked over, and she stood in front of you, not saying a word.

You noticed a small scar on her face, and you frowned a little bit.

“You been causing shit?”

“Shut up.”

She pulled you in for a hug and you laughed, hugging her back tightly, letting tears fall from your eyes.

“You’re a fucking idiot…” you whispered.

You held her hit your back.

“You’re the dumbass who ran away…”

Pulling back, you nodded your head, running a hand down your face in order to wipe your tears.

“Yeah, I know…”

“Come on.”

Rosita grabbed your bag, leading you away from all the prying eyes that were watching the pair of you and she took you somewhere quiet.

She set your bag down in her room, and you sat down against the wall while she sat down on the bed.

“Looks like you got a pretty cozy place here.”

“Yeah, ain’t bad really. A good group of people.”

You nodded your head, taking the photo out of your pocket in order to look at it.

Rosita watched your for a moment, not really sure what to say.

You had both been looking for each other for so long, she had given up, but you? You kept going, you kept looking for her and she began to feel regret.

Getting up, she walked in front of your and sat down.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t look for you…” she whispered.

You just smiled, that same smile you would always give her whenever she did something stupid when you guys were kids.

You reached out, placing your hand on her head.

“It’s okay. I’m just glad you found a place to stay safe, and people to look after you.”

Rosita moved over, sitting next to you so she could lay her head on your shoulder, and you held her hand tightly.

“Don’t leave…” she whispered.

“I’m not…”

Rosita was beyond excited to show you everything she had been doing here at Alexandria, she wanted you to love the place like she did.

Whether it was the people, or the things they were trying to do she wanted to show you how worth it it was, and she wanted you to stay.

“Rosita?”

She hummed a little bit.

You reached out and lightly back handed her stomach.

“Wanna go kill some dead fuckers?”

“Oh fuck yeah.”

You both jumped up, grabbing your weapons and you ran out of the house with her on your heels, turning it into a race.

Because everything was a competition between siblings, especially in the middle of the apocalypse

#the walking dead #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead x you #the walking dead x y/n #the walking dead imagine #twd #twd x reader #twd x you #twd x y/n #twd imagine #rosita espinosa #rosita espinosa x reader #Rosita Espinosa x you #Rosita Espinosa imagine

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fansids · 1 year

Text

Alright, I gotta lotta thoughts on s4, but this is the main thing I'm not particularly happy with.

It's not very organized, I'm writing as I'm thinking so I apologize beforehand.

Spoilers obvi.

I really don't appreciate how Sun Wukong's character has been treated up until this point.

Look, I don't mind the "perfect, heroic mentor is actually not always so perfect and heroic and made mistakes that are still effecting the world now" like fine. Fine. But the way the show goes about it makes SWK look like a worse and worse person. It crosses the line of him making mistakes, to just being generally careless and not learning.

I mean: leaving Xiaotian in s2 and inadvertently neglecting him in the process, keeping the 4th ring a secret in s3 until it's too late, being the reason there was a fourth ring to begin with, the whole Macaque thing that the show seems to be leaning more towards SWK being in the wrong for, and his whole deal with his sworn brothers in s4.

It was already irritating in season 3, especially when he's shown to get yelled at by Xiaotian & Zhu Dachu then continues his usual way, often being unhelpful. I get that Xiaotian is the mc, but like c'mon. SWK is depowered, there are like a million ways to sideline him without doing that.

Season 4 is especially egregious as someone who's read jttw because the Lion, Elephant, and Peng are all terrible villains who spent a good amount of their time eating innocent people. I'm not sure why the show especially seems to be insistent on making the Azure Lion sympathetic and one that feels bad for trapping SWK...then again Macaque exists. You know what no, I don't see why they are insistent on doing that when Macaque exists. He may be one too many times, but once was enough.

Jttw aside, if in Azure Lion's point of view SWK willingly betrayed them and all the "good" they stood for, then trapped his other brothers for thousands of years, and before that was happy to join heaven's courts for like 20-30 years, then I don't know why he'd ever show that level of concern for him. If that happened to me, it would be monkey season, straight up.

(also the fact that he said he'd let SWK go when they completed what they wanted to, I call absolute bullshit. Even if he did feel bad, releasing SWK at any point in time would be a god awful idea)

From what s4 has shown, I think what the show writers wanted to do was build a parallel between Xiaotian and SWK, both having made mistakes that endangered the world and their loved ones as well as Xiaotian learning that his hero is just as human (for lack of a better term) as him. But the execution is lacking as a lot of Xiaotian's mistakes are not really his fault.

DBK taking his staff? It's not like he handed it to him.

Spider Queen using his hair? Is he supposed to stop shedding?

Red Son getting the skeleton key? Again, it's not as if he handed it to him. Also, wouldn't that make it the Bull family's fault, since they opened the coffin?

It wasn't him being careless it was him losing 2 fights and a bit of his hair. Whereas with SWK, it's implied these things happened because he didn't think about the consequences of his actions. They don't really seem comparable.

Also, if you've read jttw (and even if you haven't, but I think the context makes it worse), then lmk SWK is a very miserable character right off the bat. As we can see, he never became a Buddha, his friends are heavily implied to be dead, there are no monkey yaoguai on the mountain, or even a nation anymore, implying that his subjects left, died, or both, and in the midst of all of this he has no support system. Nor does he ever seem to obtain one in the show.

And I think some of these issues could be remedied if he was given the opportunity to tell his side of the story. Everything wrong he does is seen told through the perspective of another person. Not to say they shouldn't be upset, but the fact that SWK just absorbs whatever blame is put on him, never really giving any fair defense doesn't sit right with me. It wouldn't change any of the things he's done, but it would make him a lot more understandable as a character, instead of him consistently being some form of a fuck up.

#lmk s4 spoilers #monkie kid spoilers #lego monkie kid #monkie kid #lmk #sun wukong #qi xiaotian

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cosmicck · 2 years

Note

how about prompt 36 with top koko !!

-♡Smut prompts

-♡Character(s): Kokonoi Hajime

-♡Top Koko, bottom male reader

-♡A/N: I'm guessing there is not a lotta Koko content-

You really didn't know.

You just felt a little feminine so you just chose out some feminine clothing.

But what you saw as feminine is what Koko saw as slutty. Fucking short skirt that almost revealed your ass, and a crop top as high as your belly button with fishnets, are you serious ?

I mean you were confortable in it, and it was no problem for Bonten at all, but it was the biggest problem for Koko.

The urge he had to just rip those fishnets off you and fuck you right were you stood.

The amount of times he's crossed his legs just to hide his raging boner from his pants was getting annoying.

So, when he was finished with most of his work, he pulled you aside in another room, his bedroom.

"Are you trying to turn me on, or are you just really that oblivious ?"

Were you ? Honestly you werent sure, but why don't you play along for a bit.

"Hm ? So what if I am Kokonoi." A hand harshly pulled your face into a deep kiss. Your mouth opening in suprise being easy accses for Koko's tounge to slip in.

A suprised squeak can be heard from your mouth as Koko continued to kiss you not letting you catch your breath until you slightly hit him telling him to stop.

Koko breaks the kiss, both of you panting out of breath giving you a slight look of confusion.

"What's wrong baby ?" You chuckle a bit before fully wrapping your arms around his neck.

"Your going to fast baby, slow down." He rolls his eyes picking you up as you wrap your legs around his waist leading you to his bed, sitting you down turning you onto your stomach.

"Ah Koko, what are you waiting for dear ? Go ahead."

Koko smirks reaching for the lube on the nightstand opening the lid and squeezing it onto his fingers then setting it back down.

He uses his other hand to slightly move the fishnets out the way or your hole moving his lubed fingers and inserting them, as you shiver to the cold sensation.

Koko pumps his fingers in and out, prepping you your body making slight jolt and whimpers at times before he pulls out his fingers.

"You ready baby ?" You nod your head as he uses his hands to secure your waist still and alighning his cock with your hole.

He slightly pushes your hips down as he goes down on you, the thrust going slow at first but going at a faster paste as the seconds pass by.

"F-fuck- ahn~ Koko, please~."

"Please what dear ?" He teases, as you gasp and whimper between sentences trying to get what you wanted out.

"P-please- go faster !" You plead, Koko having a smirk ln his face holding your waist tighter and his pace brutal most likely tearing the fishnets even more.

Dammit those fishnets costed money, oh well.

It was sure as hell worth the wait.

ok- I'm outta writers block now we good👌🏾

Also @devilswhore-emrys imma start ur fic now❤

#Smut prompts #Tokyo revengers #kokonoi hajime #Koko x male reader #Kokonoi Hajime x male reader #koko x reader #Koko x you #Smut #Bottom reader #Top koko #Tokyo revengers x male reader

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gothcsz · 23 days

Text

𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒇𝒂𝒓𝒆 / Chapter XI.

GIF by tomshiddles

PAIRING: Javier Peña x Original Female Character

SUMMARY: Truths are unveiled and Javi begins to regret ending things with our MC.

WORD COUNT: ~7.4k

RATING: 18+ Explicit topics such as sex, drugs, murder, the occult, religion, cannibalism and other triggering matters will be explored in this body of work. Minors DNI.

CHAPTER SPECIFIC TAGS: discussions of religion, light smut but not between our main couple (rip), another case of detective!javi, lotta plot stuff/exposition dump, other things that I'm probably forgetting.

DISCLAIMER/WARNINGS: The Javier Peña referenced in this body of work is solely based off of the character that appears in Netflix’s Narcos and not the actual person. Very canon divergent and I will tweak things as I see fit to compliment the narrative of this story. While efforts have been made to be accurate in terms of canon timeline, a lot of details will be fictionalized.

A/N: hola primas we're back again with another installment of wtf is going on in this fic?! lmfao i had a little too much fun writing this chapter so i hope u all enjoy it and thank u for reading <3 i may or may not be an august stan idk how we feeling chat?! as always feel free to drop any type of feedback/support on this blog or ao3. i'd really appreciate it <3

♰ read on ao3. ♰

♰ playlist | pinterest | series masterlist ♰

“A woman, a mother, a mother is a very special thing and other than the Lord Jesus Christ, I think that a mother is one of the most precious gifts that God gives to this world because the mother is the one who loves the Lord and always seems to be there when we need her. A mother is a very special thing. A mother is a very special thing.” –– Family Tree (Intro), Ethel Cain.

“No peekin’, okay?” August whispers against her neck, his voice filled with playful insistence.

Paloma can’t help but laugh, the sound light in the quiet night. “That’s the third time you’ve told me that. I promise, I ain’t lookin’!” she assures him, her eyes squeezed shut and her free hand covering them for good measure. Her heart races with anticipation, wondering what surprise he has in store for her. She can feel his warmth and the gentle pressure of his hand guiding her forward, heightening her excitement.

Sneaking away from home had been surprisingly easy. She told her father she was going to spend the night at Sloane’s and would be back the next morning, not really feeling like doing her usual show at the bar. At first he had been skeptical, but a few well-placed batts of her eyelashes and a practiced pout later, his resolve softened and he relented with his usual father spiel. She knows she was pushing her luck, but the thrill of the evening and the promise of August’s plans makes it all worthwhile.

She was also cautious not to reveal the location of Sloane’s new home. Instead, she told him that she was just going to the motel in town, maintaining the illusion that her friend still resides there. This little deception is necessary to keep him at ease, even though it means bending the truth.

Now, she finds herself being led to a mystery spot where he has prepared their long-awaited date. She has no idea what to expect, but it doesn’t really matter. The mere fact that he has put so much effort into planning this is more than she can ask for.

As they walk, she feels the summer evening breeze brushing against her skin and the soft rustling of leaves underfoot. The night is alive with the distant chirping of crickets and the faint, sweet scent of blooming flowers.

“Just a little further,” he says softly, his voice laced with a hint of excitement that matches her own. Paloma nods, biting her lip to contain her smile. She trusts him completely, knowing that whatever awaited her would be worth the secrecy and the suspense.

They come to a halt, and he gently squeezes her hand before letting go and moving to stand behind her.

“M’kay, you can open ‘em now,” his southern drawl is like syrup in her ear, his breath warm and inviting. She blinks her eyes open, her vision adjusting to the soft glow, and she gasps softly as she takes in the scene before her.

They’re in the greenhouse, transformed into a romantic haven. Various candles are scattered around, casting a warm, flickering light that dances across the glass walls and lush greenery. In the center of the space, a picnic blanket is spread out on the floor, adorned with an assortment of dishes that she assumes make up their dinner. Cutlery and plates are neatly set aside, everything meticulously arranged.

“Oh, August…” she breathes, her voice filled with awe. Her hand instinctively comes up to clutch her chest then she turns to face him, eyes glistening with adoration. Unable to contain her feelings, she pulls him in for a sweet, lingering kiss; a silent thank you for his thoughtfulness.

“You like it?” he asks with a hint of nervousness. She takes a step forward, her eyes wide as she absorbs the sheer beauty of the setup.

The moonlight streams gently through the skylight window, casting a silvery glow over everything. She almost pinches herself to make sure she isn’t dreaming, the scene is so perfect.

“Like it? I love it! You did this all yourself?” she exclaims in genuine admiration. The flowers that surround them appear even more delicate under the soft glow of the candlelight. Unable to resist, she leans forward to sniff at the peonies nearby, their sweet fragrance filling her nose.

“Had some help, but for the most part, yeah,” He replies with a modest smile. “Here, come sit.” He beckons her over, and she complies eagerly, settling herself next to him and smoothing out the skirt of her dress.

“Well, you outdid yourself. This is the sweetest thing ever,” she leans her body weight against her palm, gazing up at him with a gentle, appreciative stare.

“Let this be the first of many sweet things I do for you, pretty girl. You deserve it,” he replies, winking. Her blush deepens and she finds herself fidgeting with the hem of her dress, her heart fluttering at his words.

Their date goes effortlessly, filled with lighthearted flirting and laughter. He boasts about his cooking skills, and Paloma playfully challenges him, only to be quickly proven wrong when she takes her first bite of the lasagna he’s made. It’s fucking delicious.

She feels a sense of enchantment growing with every passing moment, the romantic setting amplifying her emotions. She mentally chides herself for not pursuing him sooner, for wasting time on the mustached older man who had occupied her thoughts for far too long.

They finish their meal, and just when she thinks the evening couldn’t get any better, he pulls out a small angel cake with the perfect arrangement of strawberries and whipped cream from the picnic basket.

“How did you know this is my favorite dessert of, like, all time?!” she exclaims, eyes wide with delight.

They share a knowing look before answering simultaneously, “Sloane.” Her smile widens, her cheeks aching from how the expression has hardly left her face since she arrived.

August scoops a spoonful of the cake and brings it up to her lips, his eyes twinkling with playful intent. She opens her mouth, maintaining eye contact as she takes the sweet dessert.

She moans softly as the flavors meld in her mouth, the light, airy cake complemented perfectly by the sweetness of the fresh strawberries. “Delicious,” she murmurs, savoring every bit.

He watches her, a satisfied and boyish grin on full display. “I’m glad you like it,” his voice is low, seductive. He takes a bite himself, nodding in appreciation of the treat they’re sharing.

They take turns feeding each other, and she is completely absorbed in his company. He makes her laugh, his eyes swimming with mischief and warmth, and she feels a connection she hadn’t thought possible.

She looks at him, beaming with gratitude and something more profound. “Tonight was amazing, August. You’ve really made me feel special.”

He reaches out, moving a strand of her hair that had fallen forward aside. “You are special, Paloma. And s’just the beginnin’.” He holds her stare briefly and she softens, “Night’s not over yet, girl. There’s still somethin’ I want to show ya.” His words promise more surprises, and she feels her excitement renew, eager to see what else he has for her.

“I’ll be right back,” leaning in to place a tender kiss on her lips, he tastes a hint of the whipped cream lingering there and it takes all his willpower to pull away.

She sighs wistfully, watching him leave. To pass the time, she busies herself by cleaning up. She carefully moves the empty containers into the basket and stacks their dirty plates before pushing them aside.

He returns not too long after, holding what looks like a photo album. Her curiosity piques immediately. “What’s that?” she asks inquisitively, shifting in her seat so her legs are tucked beneath her as he lowers himself beside her.

“A scrapbook…” He trails off, and she can sense the nerves radiating from him. Her brows cinch together, waiting for him to continue.

“‘Fore I show you this… I need you to understand how unique you truly are.” He sets the book down between them, his hand coming up to stroke her cheek affectionately as he gazes deeply into her dark eyes. She doesn’t know what to say to this, so she remains quiet but offers him a reassuring look that encourages him to go on.

“Knew it from the moment I set eyes on ya. At the time, I didn’t know what it was. I jus’ assumed it was another crush on a pretty girl. But then I got to know you, and slowly but surely… everything started makin’ sense.”

There’s an unidentifiable tone in his voice, one that makes her heart beat a little faster. “What do you mean ‘started makin’ sense’?”

He takes a deep breath, his hand dropping from her face as he places the leather-bound book into her lap. The force of it feels significant, almost like it carries the gravity of his words.

“This is goin’ to be a lot, ‘n I understand if you dunno know how to process it all after I show you everythin’. But… can you promise to wait ‘till I explain ‘fore you react?” His eyes search hers, pleading for understanding and patience.

Her heart races with anticipation and uncertainty. “August, you’re scarin’ me,” she giggles nervously, her hands growing clammy at his elusive words.

He flips the book open to the first page, revealing a photograph of a group posing in front of a grand, old church. The faces in the picture seem frozen in time, their expressions filled with a mix of hope and solemnity.

“There was a group in Italy,” He begins slowly, “that believed a new age of peace ‘n tranquility was nearing. They devoted all their time and resources to prepare for it. They were convinced a woman would be the one to bring it into fruition, so they searched for her all over the world.”

He turns the page, revealing more photos of the group alongside the majestic church. The images capture moments of gatherings, rituals, and serene landscapes. she can’t help but feel a strange sense of connection to the story, though she remains unsure why he’s telling her this.

“Why are you showin’ me this?” she voices her thoughts, her curiosity mingling with apprehension.

“Because, Paloma,” He says, turning another page to reveal a faded, hand-drawn map marked with various locations, “They documented everythin’ , kept records, and followed signs. This group believed that the woman who would bring about this new age had certain qualities, certain... traits.”

Her eyes scan the map, noting how meticulously it’s marked, the sense of urgency and dedication evident in the detailed annotations. Her confusion deepens, but she remains silent, partially engrossed by the unfolding story.

He turns another page, revealing a photograph of a necklace, a delicate cross pendant with intricate engravings. “This pendant,” he continues, “was said to be a key, a symbol of her identity.”

Her heart races as her gaze falls to the piece of jewelry. She inhales sharply, her breath snagging. It’s the same pendent that had belonged to her mother. Her fingers absentmindedly go to her collarbone that’s bare since she opted out of wearing it tonight. “What does this have to do with me, August?”

He takes a deep breath, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that makes her pulse quicken. “The more I got to know you, the more I realized you embody everything this group was searchin’ for. Your kindness, your strength, your spirit—it all matches what they described.”

“Are you saying… you think I’m this woman they were looking for? Don’t be ridiculous––”

“Just let me finish.” He cuts her off, looking away briefly and trying to collect himself before relaying the next bit of information. “Then they found her. The woman they’d been preparin’ and searchin’ for. She lived halfway ‘cross the world in the orphanage where she was raised. After gettin’ in contact with her, she agreed to move to Europe.”

She listens intently, her body buzzing with a feeling she can’t explain as she absorbs his words. She waits patiently, her eyes fixed on him.

Another turn of the page, and this time, she gasps loudly as her eyes land on the photo. It’s her mother, clear as day. A photo she’s never seen before, but it’s undeniably Abilene Leighton. She is always told that she resembles her, but seeing her at about the same age Paloma is now is uncanny—they look identical.

“Mom…” Her voice trembles with emotion as her fingers trace the photo, tears welling up in her eyes. He watches her carefully, studying her reaction. He wants to give her a moment to process this revelation, to come to terms with the implications, but at the same time he’s eager to keep unveiling more.

“Her real name was Calmana. The women that raised her in the orphanage didn’t think she needed a surname. From the moment she arrived in their care, they knew she was special. Seemingly dropped off on their doorstep. No one ever adopted her. She was different from the others…” His voice is filled with reverence as he speaks, his words weaving a tale that feels so foreign.

Calmana? The name sends a shiver down her spine, leaving her speechless as her eyes trace every detail of the picture. There’s a haunting beauty to her mother’s image, a sense of mystery that lingers in the air.

He presses on, his tone solemn yet tinged with awe. “Don’t know how they did it, but they were able to figure out part of her family tree. Paloma… you come from a marked lineage, akin to the story of Cain and Abel.”

Her world stills, mind reeling at the magnitude of his words. Her heart pounds in her ears with a mixture of disbelief and wonder.

“According to some religious traditions, Cain and Abel had sisters,” He continues, his voice steady as he delves deeper into the mythic lore. “Calmana was the oldest daughter of Adam and Eve and, in plenty’a sources, the twin sister of Cain. Others say she was his wife. That would make her the first female human who was born naturally. You, your mother are direct descendants of somethin’ fuckin’ divine.”

Her mind spins with the implications of this revelation. The idea that her bloodline is tied to spiritual origins feels dreamlike. Fake. Isn’t everyone technically descendants of Adam and Eve? It’s what she’s been taught growing up.

But as she looks down at the picture again, she sees her mother in a new light—a woman with a story.

She can’t help the way her hand comes up to cover her mouth, overwhelmed by everything he’s saying. It feels like the ground beneath her has shifted, leaving her reeling in a sea of uncertainty. As he continues to flip through the book on her lap, showing proof of every bit of his story, she feels a rush of conflicting emotions—astonishment, skepticism, and a growing sense of unease.

It’s too confusing, it simply must not be true. Yet, with all the texts he’s had her read and all the books they’ve both bonded over, there is a nagging possibility that all this is actually real. The thought has goosebumps curling at her skin, her mind racing with a million questions and doubts.

“No, no way.” She shakes her head, her voice trembling as she moves the leather book off her lap and places it between them. She feels like she can’t breathe, despite being surrounded by fresh air and all this greenery. Every fiber of her being screams for escape, for a return to the familiar, to the world where such tales belong only in the books that she loves to read.

She quickly stands, her movements frantic as she turns to make her exit. August’s eyes widen in alarm, and he follows after her, his voice pleading as he reaches out to stop her.

“Paloma, wait––” His words are urgent, filled with desperation. “I asked you to wait ‘til I was finished to react. Please… just hear me out, ‘n then you can decide what it is that you wanna do.”

His words hang in the air, a silent plea for understanding and patience. She pauses, her heart pounding in her chest as she wrestles with her unrest. She knows she can’t simply walk away without giving him a chance to explain, to unravel… whatever the fuck this is.

Her back is to him and she wipes some of the tears that managed to spill. With a shaky breath, she turns to face him, her eyes searching his. “Okay,” she whispers, her voice barely audible above the rush of blood in her ears. “I’ll listen.”

He lets out a brief sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing as he beckons her over again, eager to resume the exploration of the scrapbook together. She hesitantly steps over to him, her body still trembling with the heaviness of her mother’s past as she lowers herself back into a seated position on the blanket.

“Your momma… well she was the one who was supposed t’ bring this new age into order,” He explains, his tone informative, “but the group disbanded before they could follow through with it. They lost track of one another, and she ended up here in the States with a whole new life.”

“August,” she begins, her words trembling with shock, “How do you know all this?”

A silence falls over them like a veil.

“The woman that left me all this…” His voice is somber, his gaze distant as he recalls the memories. “She was part of the original group. Told me stories whenever I helped her out. At first, I thought she was some crazy old broad, so I jus’ let her talk. Then she started showin’ me photos and all kindsa crap, and that’s when I actually started payin’ attention to her ramblings.”

Her eyes widen in realization as his words sink in. The pieces of the puzzle start to click into place, connecting the dots of the journey.

“She’s the reason I started this group, s’why I started lookin’ into things on my own. She moved away abruptly, and it wasn’t ‘til I got this house and found that scrapbook that I knew why she left it all to me. She wanted me to find that woman and carry out what they couldn’t back in Rome.”

This feels like an out-of-body experience, really, as if she is standing outside of herself, watching as her mother’s past is revealed to her.

It explains so much, she thinks, her mind jumbled as she recalls all their shared memories. How she was cagey when Paloma asked about her childhood, how she was always so vigilant of her growing up. Now that she knows this new side of her mother, she doesn’t know what to make of it. The woman she thought she knew, the woman who raised her, suddenly feels like a stranger—a mysterious figure shrouded in secrets and untold stories.

Who was she, really? Did her father know all of this?

Her silence is deafening, in the air like a dense fog, and he tentatively reaches out to caress her forearm, gently urging her to look at him. She meets his gaze, her misty-eyed expression a mix of emotions—sadness, confusion, and a glimmer of something else.

“Then I found out she had passed years ago, which left you, the next in line to fulfill this… prophecy,” He continues, his voice soft yet filled with conviction.

“Me?!” She can’t help but snort, though it’s tinged with tears. The idea feels absurd, impossible.

“Yes, you, my little dove,” He replies with unwavering intensity. “I told ya you were special, ‘n you can’t sit here ‘n tell me you haven’t felt the magic that’s embedded in your bones. You’re one of a kind, Paloma. A gift to humankind that must be treasured. Think of all the pain and suffering in this world… think of how you can be the one to end it all.”

The enormity of this newfound responsibility is too big for her to fathom. She looks into his eyes, spotting the earnestness and sincerity there, and for the first time, she allows herself to entertain the possibility that maybe, just maybe, there’s truth in the stories that are intertwined with her own life.

As they sit together in the quiet of the greenhouse, surrounded by the soft glow of candlelight and the scent of flowers, she feels a sense of purpose stirring deep within her—a spark of something powerful, waiting to be unleashed upon the world.

He was right. This is a lot.

Her face must say it all because he draws nearer, enveloping her in his comforting embrace. She doesn’t move at first, but then he places a soft kiss to the crown of her head, and she lets herself go. Her shoulders drop, a heavy sigh leaving her as the weight of it all settles in her chest.

“If you need time ‘n space to process this––I understand,” he murmurs, his voice soothing. “I jus’ had to tell you, angel. Had to make sure everythin’ was alright before I dropped it on your lap. Knew if I had told you the first day we met you woulda called me crazy ‘n sent me on my way.”

“M’tempted to do that now…” she mutters jokingly against his neck, nuzzling her face there and taking a deep breath, letting his scent fill her lungs in an attempt to ground herself.

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest, and she melts further into his touch. “Go ahead. Told ya you were free to do as you pleased after I was finished… ‘n well… s’all I have for ya.”

Okay, there are no more twists. That comforts her some. She pulls back to look up at him, her tear-stained cheeks and beautiful brown eyes glowing softly under the romantic lighting, making her look breathtaking. Like a true angel, one that can bring so much good into this world.

Her mind is still reeling, but in his arms, she feels a sense of security. “This is a lot to take in, August,” she whispers, her voice barely steady.

His eyes soften, and he gently brushes a strand of hair from her face again. “You’re stronger than you think, Paloma. ‘N whatever comes next, we’ll face it together. You’re not alone in this.”

His words wrap around her like a warm blanket. Much needed reassurance. She takes another deep breath, feeling the overwhelming storm of emotions begin to settle.

She leans in to press their lips together and he hesitates at first. He murmurs her name in protest, but she deepens the kiss with a sense of urgency. Her lips are soft and plump, molding against his with a fervor that he can’t resist. The heat between them is palpable, the shift in the air thick with their shared desire.

His resolve drops as he succumbs to her. It’s not long after that he’s got her spread out on the blanket, naked and his tongue buried in her cunt while her fingers tangle in his hair.

She cries his name out while she comes, her legs trembling as he kisses his way up her body, whispering sweet affirmations and filthy promises against her skin.

You deserve the world. I’ll treat you right. You’re such a good girl.

He takes her right there, fucking her passionately. His kisses are devout, his touch tender yet insistent, as he shows her just how beautiful and remarkable she truly is. She feels utterly vulnerable, caught up in the overwhelming intensity of the moment. Every fiber of her being responds to him, her senses alight with the raw, unfiltered emotions coursing through her.

The perfect date he orchestrated was already enough to sweep her off her feet. But then he gave her more: life-altering revelation of her family history, a truth so profound it has reshaped her understanding of herself.

She clenches around him, coating his cock with her slick release as her orgasm rattles her harshly. He follows not much after, filling the condom then collapsing onto her. His weight presses her into the floor before he rolls onto his back, taking her with him so she straddles his hips. Still joined, they savor the afterglow, their breaths slowly returning to normal as their hearts pound against each other’s naked and sweat glazed chests.

Looking into his eyes, she sees a reflection of a future he envisions for them—a future where she can make a difference, bring about change, and fulfill the destiny he’s convinced she’s meant for. And in this euphoric state, with her heart and soul laid bare, she knows she’ll believe anything he tells her, because with him, anything seems possible.

The next part of Javier’s investigation involves diving deeper into Jessica Valdez’s background. She was the only one to be taken and held captive for a period of time, indicating that there is something specific about her that caused the perpetrator to deviate from his usual methods.

He isn’t sure what to expect from her family. Families react in a myriad of ways to an investigator’s presence, especially when he needs to look through personal belongings with a fresh perspective. As he arrives at the Valdez home, he prepares himself to be as sympathetic as possible, turning on his Southern charm to its full effect. To his surprise, Jessica’s parents are eager to help. This relieves him, and he can’t help but note the distinct difference between them and the Thornton family. While the death of their daughter had shattered the Thorntons, it seems to have brought the Valdez family closer together.

Mrs. Valdez guides Javier to Jessica’s room, her presence lingering at the doorway as if reluctant to leave. She offers a small, encouraging nod before stepping back, leaving him to his investigation. He surveys the room, taking in the floral pattern of the bedsheets and the posters that decorate the walls. He doesn’t find anything at first, just typical things you’d come across in a twenty something year old’s bedroom.

He can’t help but compare it to Paloma’s room, thinking about how similar yet distinctly personal each space is. Javi scoffs. No matter how hard he tries to focus, she always finds a way to sneak into his thoughts, her presence lingering like a stubborn fucking ghost.

He rummages through the vanity, but finds nothing unusual—just makeup products and other miscellaneous items. Frustrated, he stands in the middle of the room, hands resting on his narrow waist as he rolls his tongue over his teeth, deep in thought. What had the assailant seen in her that made him want to keep her captive? What did she possess that the others didn’t?

Determined to find answers, Javier makes his way to her closet. A distinct groan from the wood flooring stops him in his tracks. Intrigued, he retreats a few steps and hears it again. His brows furrow as he shifts his weight, pinpointing the source of the sound. Kneeling, he notices one of the floorboards is slightly raised compared to the rest.

His blunt fingers try to pull it free, but it doesn’t budge. He quickly goes back to the vanity, grabbing a metal nail file to help loosen the board. With some effort, he manages to detach it completely, revealing a shallow hiding spot beneath. There, lying in the small cavity, is what looks like a diary. He wastes no time in taking it into his possession.

The diary has a fragile lock, but with the nail file still in hand, he carefully jimmies it open. As the lock gives way, he flips through the pages, his eyes scanning for anything that might shed light on why Jessica was different. The entries are personal, detailing her thoughts, fears, and dreams. He feels a pang of guilt for invading her privacy, but he knows this might be the key to understanding what set her apart.

One entry catches his eye, dated just two weeks before she was taken. Jessica writes about a man she noticed watching her, how she felt both intrigued and unsettled by his presence. The details are chilling and Javi’s pulse quickens. This could be the lead he’s been searching for.

As he continues to read through it, Jessica talks about meeting this guy who’s promising her the entire world. Her writing is whimsical, capturing the excitement and mystery of young love. She doesn’t go into detail, carefully avoiding specifics. She explains that this mystery boy told her that if she dared speak or write about all he’s revealed, none of it would come true.

His jaw tenses. To him, it sounds like a classic manipulation tactic, designed to keep her quiet and compliant.

“Bullshit,” he mutters under his breath, his exasperation amplifying as his fingers dig in to temples; alleviating the building migraine. He can’t believe she fell for such a transparent ploy, but he also understands the allure of a charming stranger spinning grand tales in small towns like these. It pisses him off that this guy—whoever he is—managed to weasel his way into Jessica’s life and fill her head with empty promises. He probably did the same with the others.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his emotions. He knows getting irritated won’t help him find the answers he needs. He forces himself to focus, flipping through more pages to see if there’s any additional information about this mystery guy. The eccentric tone continues, filled with hopeful musings and vague references.

He has to identify him, the one who captivated Jessica and possibly led to her captivity. He gently closes the diary, his mind racing with new questions and a burning desire for justice.

With renewed purpose, he exits the room, ready to confront whatever challenges lie ahead. Her fantasy-filled writings might have masked the danger, but he sees through it. Her descriptions of a mysterious suitor aren’t just youthful reveries—they’re potential clues.

He tucks the diary securely under his arm and heads downstairs, stopping to make conversation with her parents on the way out. Very subtly, he asks them questions about any new people in Jessica’s life, a boyfriend or a close guy friend she might have been spending time with recently. They aren’t much help in this regard, reiterating the same information they’ve already provided in various statements. Of course, Jessica wouldn’t have mentioned this secretive relationship to them, but he still had to ask—just in case.

The drive back to Seminary is quiet as he mulls over this discovery. He can’t shake the gnawing feeling that he knows who’s behind this, but his thoughts are muddled by the disdain he harbors for the blonde, tattooed sleaze that fits the vague description Jessica had written in her diary.

The charming promises, the elusive nature of this mystery man. They match the profile of the younger guy he’s had his eye on for a while—this local troublemaker known for his smooth-talking and shady past. This connection is worth looking into, especially since he already has the plans to tail August’s group.

Entering the sheriff’s department, he immediately notices Romeo chatting with Lorraine, who is gathering her things to leave for the day. Javier glances at his watch, seeing that he should have left hours ago.

“You workin’ a double?” he asks, flashing the older woman a charming smile as she bids them both goodnight.

“Had a meeting with Abbott over the phone then I did some paperwork. Paloma’s out with her friend ‘n won’t be back till morning. M’not really lookin’ to bein’ at home alone. Might stop by the bar to kill some more time.”

At the mention of her, he feels that all-too-familiar internal reaction—the one he experiences every time she’s brought up. No matter how hard he tries to bury his thoughts of her beneath his work and other bullshit distractions, it’s impossible when Romeo talks about her so frequently.

And why wouldn’t he? Romeo is none the wiser to what Javier and his daughter have been entangled in for the past few months. His guilt and desire swirl together once again, creating a complex cocktail of emotions that he has to suppress each time her name is mentioned.

He knows exactly which friend she’s with, and considering what he just discovered in the diary, he can’t help the way his heart races at the thought of Paloma being in danger. His rational mind tells him there’s no actual threat—everything is circumstantial. But he’s desperate for answers, and unfortunately, the person who currently fits the bill is too close to her for comfort.

“She not doing a show tonight?” Javier asks, his tone laced with practiced nonchalance. It’s Friday, and he knows how much she loves and looks forward to her weekend performances.

“Nah. Said she was havin’ a sleepover with Sloane at her place. Well, shit, the motel. S’where that poor girl is livin’. Dunno why they didn’t just stay at the house––she kept sayin’ that she doesn’t wanna be there all the time and that she’d just be in town. So I figured, what the hell, she is twenty-six years old. I shouldn’t be so goddamn strict on her all the time.”

He processes this new information. The fact that Sloane lives at the motel is news to him. If she stays there, it’s possible that others in their circle do too. He wonders what information he can get about them from the employees.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Javier responds, forcing a smile. “She’s an adult and can take care of herself. Still, you’re a good dad for looking out for her.”

Romeo’s face softens with appreciation, but his thoughts are already elsewhere. He needs to visit that motel and scope out anything he can get. The urgency of his mission pulses through him, driving him to take steps he might later question. But for now, he’s only focused on getting as much dirt as he can on this group.

He taps his fingers rhythmically on the surface of the entrance desk, his mind resolutely focused on his goal for the night. “Seems to me like you should be enjoying a child-free night. Just don’t drink yourself to death down at the bar, alright?” His lips quirk up into a small smirk, eliciting a chuckle from Romeo, who agrees with him before gathering his things and leaving Javier alone in the station.

His eyes drift to the clock on the wall. The overnight deputies are due in an hour, giving him a small window of time to prepare.

With his notes updated and a clearer picture forming in his mind, he closes the diary and slips it into an empty drawer at his desk. He stands, stretching his legs and rolling his shoulders to shake off the tension before heading towards the door, a determined set to his jaw. He tells the two deputies he’s going out over his shoulder, not giving them the time to reply before he’s in his cruiser and heading towards the Trails End motel.

The first car he sees when he arrives is Paloma’s, and he isn’t sure if he should be relieved or not. Parking right by the entrance, he finishes his cigarette, the neon lights of the flickering sign casting an eerie glow over his hardened facial expression.

He wonders what room she’s in, what she could be doing to pass the time, what she’s wearing. Javier curses under his breath, his lips tingling at the phantom feeling of her soft skin beneath his touch. He recalls how he could feel the pulse in her neck amidst burying himself inside her, each beat syncing with his own racing heart.

What an evil fucking thing it is to reminisce on such a memory like this. It’s regressive, the opposite of what he should be doing, but she has such a tight grip on his heart–– he wants her to squeeze it until it pops into a bloody mess. Maybe then he’d be free of this torment of yearning for her.

He exits his car, flicking the finished butt of his cigarette into a nearby bin. The cool night air doing little to calm the heated thoughts swirling in his mind. The motel’s façade is weathered and uninviting, everything one would expect from a dingy place like this. He pauses at the entrance, drawing one last deep breath before stepping inside.

The lobby is dimly lit, a faint smell of stale smoke and cleaning products hanging in the air. The clerk at the front desk looks up with a bored expression as Javier approaches.

They engage in small talk for a moment before Javi is pulling out the mugshots of August, Sloane, and Gabriel. He slides them across the counter and asks the man what he knows about them.

“Oh yeah. That’s Miss McCarthy!” The attendant points to the picture of Sloane. “A real sweet thing. Stayed here with those boys for a good while before she moved out a few weeks ago. Her checks from the bar still get mailed here, and she’s back every week to get ‘em.”

“Moved out? She’s not living here anymore?” Javier’s eyes narrow, intrigued yet confused.

“Nope. Got a house out there somewhere.”

“Is she here tonight?”

The man gives him a wary look but quickly backs down under the intensity of the sheriff deputy’s stare.

“No. Haven’t seen her since last Sunday when she came in to get her check.”

He digests this information. Sloane’s absence complicates things. He had hoped to walk away tonight with maybe a few more bad stories about her and her companions. Instead, he’s left with more questions.

His jaw clenches as he exhales through his nose, collecting the mugshots and shoving them back into his back pocket. “Alright, thanks. Mind if I take a look around before leaving?”

“She ain’t in no trouble, is she?”

“No trouble. Just following up with something.”

The attendant shrugs. “Suit yourself. Just don’t cause any trouble.”

Acknowledging him with a nod, Javier bids a brief goodnight before stepping out of the stuffy office and into the dimly lit parking lot. His footsteps echo against the pavement as he makes his way towards her car.

His frustration mounts at the revelation of the unlocked door. With a touch, it swings open easily, the interior bathed in the soft glow of the overhead light. His brows furrow as he scans the car, his irritation growing with each passing moment.

He conducts a brief search but finds nothing of significance until he flips down the visor. The keys tumble out with a muted thud, landing on the seat. Javier curses under his breath, his exasperation boiling over at the sight. She left her car unlocked and the keys inside—an invitation for trouble.

With a resigned sigh, he returns the keys to their place, his movements deliberate. He closes the door with a little more force than necessary, the sound ringing out in the quiet night.

Turning away from the car, he resumes his patrol of the motel grounds. He glances at the few rooms with lights shining from within, unable to discern which one she might be in—but he knows she’s not here at all. This fuels him to continue sleuthing.

The realization of her absence only gnaws at his unease. Where on earth could she be? Is she in some kind of trouble? Did she purposefully lie? Is she being shoved in the back of a van to meet her demise? These questions swirl in his mind, his fists clenching at his sides in a futile attempt to contain his growing anxiety. His nostrils flare with each agitated breath, the tension radiating off him like heat from a flame.

He knows he shouldn’t let himself get so worked up, but he can’t help it. The mere possibility of something happening to her fills him with a sense of dread that he can’t shake.

Determined to find something, He presses on with his search. He even manages to corner one of the motel’s housekeepers, hoping for any shred of information that might shed some light. Unfortunately, she offers nothing new, echoing the same vague responses he received from the front desk attendant.

Feeling like he’s hit a dead end, he retreats to his cruiser, the frustration mixed with anxiety pressing heavily on his shoulders as he goes through the motions of lighting another cigarette.

It isn’t until days later that Javier spots her leaving the library, a spring in her step as she rounds the building towards the alleyway. His heart races as he quickly exits his truck and crosses the street, determined to catch her alone. His conscience whispers for him to turn back, but he ignores it, driven by his relentless need for answers.

He calls out her name, and she freezes, turning sharply to face him. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words elude him, leaving him feeling foolish for being so easily affected by her presence.

Rolling her eyes, she begins to walk away. “Wait!” he calls after her, but she shows no signs of slowing down. Closing the distance, he reaches out and grabs her forearm, hoping to halt her retreat.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me!” She hisses, pulling viciously from his touch and the action hits him straight in the gut, having him set his jaw firmly because he knows he deserves this.

“Where the hell were you last Friday night?” Javier demands, his words sharp and impatient, as if he holds authority over her whereabouts.

She stares at him incredulously, a disbelieving laugh escaping her lips. “You’re unbelievable,” she scoffs, shaking her head. There’s a new intensity in her gaze, a depth he’s never seen before, and it unsettles him. Though always spirited, her demeanor now is charged with an unfamiliar energy, conveying emotions he struggles to decipher.

“You use me, break my damn heart, have the audacity to tell me to leave you alone–– and when I finally do, you’re actin’ like this,” she accuses, her voice heavy with vexation. “Treatin’ me like I’m just some doll you can play around with ‘til you get bored then get possessive over when you can’t control her. Have you not already caused me enough pain?”

For a fleeting moment, she softens but she can’t help it with the way his mopey brown eyes tug at her heartstrings. Even after all the hurt he’s caused.

He’d miss the flash of vulnerability in her stare if not for how attuned he is to her. She’s right, and he fucking knows it. He’s made a bigger mess of things, a realization that pierces through him like a dagger.

But then he remembers the anxiety that had crawled over him once he realized she wasn’t at the motel, how pissed he’d gotten at her recklessness.

“That’s not what this is about,” he retorts through gritted teeth, “All this shit that’s going on and you’re just disappearing off into the night. There’s a psychopath out there, preying on girls like you and I’m just––”

“You’re just what?” she interrupts, her voice laced with a mixture of defiance and exasperation. “Please don’t tell me you’re ‘looking after me,’ because that’s a damn joke. I can take care of myself. Like you said–– s’not your job to be babysittin’ me. Go do what you’re here to do, Javier, and leave. me. alone.” she concludes, her tone mirroring the sharpness he had directed at her that night at the party. “And stop followin’ me around.” With that, she turns on her heel and walks away, leaving him standing there, tussling with the burden of his own sense of wrongdoings.

His gaze follows her retreating figure with a heavy heart. He catches sight of August, leaning arrogantly against his motorcycle with an air of superiority at the end of the alleyway. Javier’s entire body tenses, standing there seething like a furious statue. Anger flares along his skin, transforming his melancholy into fury.

August’s smug posture, coupled with the intimate embrace he shares with her, ignites a jealous fire deep within Javier’s chest.

Every movement, every touch between them feels like a taunt aimed directly at him, a reminder of what he has lost, even though she wasn’t his to begin with.

His hands curl into tight fists, jaw twitching as he watches his possessive hand boldly grope her ass. It’s a sight that downright torments him as his mind is consumed by thoughts of what could have been and what she currently has with this piece of shit.

Paloma dons the helmet and straddles the bike behind August, pressing herself against him, and that is enough to finally get Javier to tear his gaze away. The roar of the motorcycle engine echoes in his ears, drowning out the sound of his own tumultuous emotions as they disappear into the distance, leaving him alone with his bitter regret.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfic #javier peña smut #javier pena smut #javier pena fanfic #javier pena fic #javier pena narcos #pedro pascal character fanfic #javier peña narcos #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña fic #javier pena fanfiction #javier peña x ofc #narcos fic #narcos fanfiction

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poognthebrainbois · 5 months

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Rant/vent about current denial spiral under the cut - some context first: (*extremely brief mention of abuse/SA, medical history mention)

Had a fight with my mom about why I "still think it's DID." There were a lotta layers to that conversation, including:

- My (our) experiences don't line up with all the "research" she's done about DID

- according to her, co-consciousness doesn't exist and "you would have no idea there's another person [controlling your body], you can't be 'standing behind, watching.'"

- she doesn't trust anecdotal/personal experience of actual systems because "that's just people on the internet making up whatever they want"(paraphrase)

- she had also never heard of OSDD before. Even though she claimed she knows all about the DSM-5.

(medical trauma/history mention)

- I was never *physically abused or SA'd, therefore I don't have trauma. (She doesn't believe in emotional/verbal abuse, and all my *medical trauma/history was during/right after my birth (I was born 10 weeks early, had a surgery while in the NICU) so it doesn't count [I can't disagree with that])

(Might make a separate vent post about what we consider possible trauma that she "doesn't count")

- she told me "it sounds like you found something and stuck to it" (paraphrase) (meaning I learned about DID and just decided that was my problem.)

- made the same sweeping generalizations as always about my entire generation "wanting to be different" and "wanting to have something wrong [with us]"

(Again, I could make a separate vent post about what she says during literally every argument)

- told me (us) to "stop saying 'we' for Christ's sake!" (We will not.)

- she decided I (we) need to bring her "actual sources" of why I (we) believe it's DID/OSDD.

Which meant to us that we were gonna stay up all night doing extensive research.

Or that was the plan, before the denial set in.

(Recreation of Denial spiral below, just to throw it out to the void and be able to come back to it later to disprove I guess?? Could be triggering (lots of repetitive phrases, disbelief of trauma, derealization/depersonalization, there's a lot in here.)

What if she's right and I'm not a system? What if it's not DID or OSDD and I'm just desperate to make it into something? What if I actually don't have trauma and I'm secretly an endo??? (Any headmate tries to talk to me) You're not real, shut up. Why did I do this to myself? I ruined my life over something that's not even happening! Why did I let it get this far? Why am I still perpetuating this if it's not true?? It was never a problem until I did weed and "opened doors" that was just weed! I'm making up trauma that's not real! I want so bad to be traumatized so I can feel justified to be mad at my parents when really I'm just an entitled little bitch who's never had anything happen to them and needs to pretend they're worse off than they are! She has real trauma! She's actually been through real abuse and they've never done anything to me other than yell and that doesn't mean anything and I'm just a crybaby for being scared of getting yelled at they never actually threaten me (why do you remember the "I'll give you something to cry about" threat/phrase then???) and I cried over nothing all the time for no reason and I've just always been afraid of nothing. I can't believe I'm actually sitting here thinking about doing all this research just to prove a point?? Just to prove her wrong? That doesn't mean anything! That's not a good reason! I shouldn't even bother. This is a waste of my time. I should just tell her she's right and move on. It's not DID and (Losing my train of thought trying to write this, Jesus) I've just convinced myself it is but it's not. I've made it out to be more than it is so they'll care and that didn't work anyway. I can't believe this is happening right now. There's no way I got this far. That all of this really happened over nothing. They were just characters in my head! Why did I ever start believing more than that when I don't have trauma! Nothing that bad has ever happened to me and all these thoughts that keep coming up are fake and even if some of this stuff was trauma it wasn't in my childhood so it's not relevant. I spend too much time on the internet and I shouldn't just believe all of this stuff. What do I think I'm actually "relating" too? I should've just left it at Maladaptive Daydreaming and been fine. I've made everything worse for myself. There was a reason I stopped doing research on DID years ago! 'Cause I don't have trauma and I can't sit here and pretend I do. Why am I doing this?

(Etc etc etc. Front changed while writing this. I've been in co the whole time but Parker needed to step back for their own comfortability.)

We went back n forth for a while about a bunch of this stuff. Had a number of headmates hop in co-front just to prove a point, only for Parker to continue to tell them they're not real and it's "all me and I'm faking" bro you are at that point proving a point to yourself but okay.

Anyway, eventually Kiara took front and started on research anyway. We were up til 5am. Didn't finish but marked all our tabs so we could go back and finish it up the next day (yesterday). Did not get back to it yesterday 'Cause Parker got anxious.

We now have a deadline to present this shit. We've got a psych appointment tomorrow morning and Mom's leaving on Thursday to visit a friend. So we should get to it today. But they're really not ready for that conversation. Unfortunately we (Lio) told our psychiatrist that we might actually get to that conversation with our parents before our next appointment so now Parker feels like we have to. And if we don't then they'll be anxious about it the entire time Mom's gone which is also not productive.

There's a worry that if any of the rest of us try to explain it then it won't be taken seriously because we're not them. This whole situation is exhausting. We weren't planning on trying to have this conversation yet and now we're so rushed and there's a lot more pressure.

In any case, there's a chance we'll post an update if/when it happens.

If you've read this far, any kind of support would be appreciated. <3

-❤️

#system denial #abuse mention #spiral #emotional abuse #verbal abuse #depersonalisation and derealisation #pooger.txt #fuckboi/pos #dissociative system #osddid #did osdd #system vent #vent post #personal vent #endos dni

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indigos-shits-and-giggles · 1 year

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Charlie the Unicorn is Paul Matthews coded: An overly long analysis

So, I've rewatched the entire series of Charlie the Unicorn multiple times, and with it has come a whole lotta brainrot. Not only is it just a great series in general and I love the absurdism of it all, but there's also something else I love about that I just... could not put my finger on. Well, that's until I listened to the song "Everyone is Smiling", and the reprise Charlie later sings. Charlie the Unicorn (both the series and the character) is incredibly Paul Matthews coded and I feel things about it.

(the rest is under the cut because I kinda made this waaayyyyy too long than I meant to)

First, let's talk about Charlie the Unicorn. Charlie, as a character, has no control over his life. He has to follow along with whatever his tormentors, two other unicorns by the name of Pink and Blue, decide would be fun, and it seems like he exists only to follow along with what they want. If they want to steal his kidneys or drag him to the moon, there is nothing he can do about it.

Well, nothing except complain.

See, there is one thing he CAN control, and that is his emotions, and how he feels about all the fucked up shit he has to deal with. The antagonists of the show constantly are shown to be annoyed by Charlie's negative outlook, and they make desperate attempts to strip him of the tiny shred of autonomy he has. The most obvious of these attempts, of course, being the somg song "Everyone is Smiling", where a dolphin wonders how Charlie could still frown and be so depressed when everyone around him is having a fantastic time, and tries to get him to join in and ignore the horrible shit that's going around him. The final lyric of the song before the dolphin leaves is literally "Just stop feeling dread, so there can be good times ahead." Then, there's the reveal that both Pink and Blue, the people that have been torturing our protagonist since the series began, are just corpses puppeted around by literal demons, where you can really start to see the similarities.

Then, there's other half of this comparison, that being Paul Matthews himself. In TGWDLM, there are many signs pointing to the fact that Paul's fate was sealed the moment the show began.

For example, there's the opening of the show, which has the entire cast of actors all onstage already singing and dancing, including Emma who only gets infected by the very end, or the entire existence of the finale and how it's literally just Paul singing about he was doomed from the start and the fact that the song is LITERALLY TITLED INEVITABLE, or the little detail you see even before you watch the show: the title of the musical. What is it called again? Oh, right, The Guy Who DIDN'T Like Musicals, "didn't" being in past tense. He has no control over what will happen to him, his fate is set from the moment the show began.

However, there is one thing he does have control over, that being how he feels and reacts to the apocalypse, his strong dislike of musicals, and his strong lack of a "want". The infected zombies see all of this for what it is; the one thing standing between them and complete control and power over him. Paul's lack of strong desires especially means that they don't have something obvious to exploit, and they can't trick him into accepting apotheosis by making him sing an I Want song.

That leads us to "Let It Out", where the infected zombies all wonder how Paul could possibly not accept apotheosis yet, how he can still refuse to listen to call of the singular voice when he'd finally feel happy (wouldn't that be nice?) and get what he wanted. In this moment, he is surrounded by corpses of his friends puppeted around by an eldritch god, trying to strip him of the small shred of autonomy he has.

This is where their stories start to kind of diverge.

See, Charlie succeeds in defeating his tormentors, shaking off their control over him and his world for good. He does this by singing a reprise "Everyone is Smiling", a direct response to the passive aggressive tune claiming that it's his fault for being miserable, that everything would be easier if he decided to smile instead. In this reprise, he asks why he has to smile, even as the world ends and it withers and dies. He accepts a world that is dead and through his negativity he manages to banish the demons that have been ruining his world. Paul, meanwhile, succumbs to the Apotheosis with a smile. His tormentors succeeds in stripping him of his autonomy, in removing his dislike of musicals and forcing him to accept apotheosis and the withered and dead world that comes with it. This is made increasingly easier by the fact that Paul has a want now, he wants to make a world where he and Emma can be happy together. Where Paul fails to save his world, Charlie succeeds.

In a way, the stories of Charlie the Unicorn and TGWDLM are kind of different versions of the same core premise. One where the protagonist manages to not only cling to their teensy shred of autonomy but also use it to defeat the demons that have been sucking the life out of their world, and one where their small amount of control is not just ripped away, but they're convinced to throw it away themselves.

#please reblog this im unironically so fuckign proud of this #paul matthews #charlie the unicorn #the guy who didn't like musicals #tgwdlm #hatchetfield #hatchetfield universe #team starkid #character analysis #goated with the apotheosauce

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prpfs · 2 months

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💖🎀🕊️

keeping it simple, im looking for a sapphic fxf rp, with a lotta of smut and angst and a lotta modern urban themes! fluff welcomed as well. i’m 20-22 nb (afab if that matters), looking for 18+ partners of any gender. i’m a semi lit to novella writer, but have been leaning in lazy lit lately as to not stress over replies, however i’m still quality over quantity and don’t accept one liners. while i love smut i still want a good plot as i love world building and playing side characters, im also cool with ooc. i only have one limit to dead doves themes which is animal abuse and i’m open to many kinks. i’m even looking for step/incest plots. ik my ad it simply but i’ve been looking for fxf rps for so long i’m just tired😭

give a like and anon will get back to you

#oc roleplay #oc rp

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lyn-js · 2 months

Text

One Step at a Time | Prologue

Calvin Evans x OC Reader

Summary: Everything in Ava Mason's life was what you call normal. She has a steady job as a lab tech at Hastings, has a beautiful bungalow in Sugar Hill, and sometimes babysits her friend Harriet's kids. But that all changes when social services show up at her doorstep with, her 2-year-old niece Delilah. Ever since then, it has been keeping you from your job, going to work late, and leaving when everyone else has gone home. But a certain chemist wants to know why a lab tech is staying late.

Warning: Angst, swearing, mentions of drug & alcohol abuse, dysfunctional family, mentions of adoptions & being put into foster care, and a whole lotta fluff.

(This story is kind of based on what actually happened in Lessons in Chemistry. But no dying. We need to keep one of Lewis's characters alive.)

I also do not own any characters in Lessons in Chemistry except for my character Ava Mason.

Walking up to the sounds of little feet padding into your room, you couldn’t ever want to trade that sound in for the world. Fluttering your eyes open, you can see the little girl waddling her way to your bead, for how far her feet can take her. You can also see her hair sprawled out in different directions, and a dopy smile on her face, happy to see you. You focus your attention on your niece your big golden doodle Poppy to come to trodding next to Delilah to help her stand.

“Mornin’ Aunty Ava,” she says with a cheeky grin on her face, while also trying to hide it from you. “Good morning Bunny,” you say to her. Then, the next second you lift her onto the bed, smothering her face in little kisses while she erupts into a fit of giggle. You had to stop your kisses when Poppy jumped onto the bed and sandwiches between you and Delilah. “Poppy missin’ the kisses too Aunty,” she says while still giggling. After the laughter died down, you over at the clock that was on your nightstand. Having to move some homemade drawings that Delilah made you the other day. You read that it’s 9:30. You’re Late.

Oh Shit.

You pick up Delilah and rush out of the bed, try and get her and yourself dressed, teeth brushed, and out the door. You are getting her buckled in the car and on your way to Harriet's house. When you both arrive, you see a man across the street stretching, maybe he was getting ready for a run. But after he’s done stretching you both stare at one another. It felt like you both were stuck in time like the whole world stopped spinning, and the attention was just on you and him. “Hey Ava!” you snap out of your daze and hear Harriet walking down her porch to greet you and Delilah. You wanted to see if the mysterious tall man was still there, but when you turned back around. He was gone. “Hey… Har’. I was wondering if it’s no trouble if you can watch Del again tonight. The amino’s lab is busting my butt. I need to get some more work finished-” “Hey, It’s okay. I’m happy to watch the little bun again. Plus, we're gonna have so much fun, whaddya think Del?” Hariient asks. Delilah just jumps up and down, “YAY! Hab so much fun Aunty!” you both laugh at her squealing excitement. You kneel down to Delilah’s height and kiss her cheek. “I’ll see you later Bunny. Be good for Harriet okay?” “Otay, Bye, Bye Aunty Ava!” She says waving while being carried up the porch. You give her one more wave until she and Harriet disappear into the house. You let out an exhale, start up your car again, and put it in drive.

Off to Hastings, it is.

Most of your day was spent in the lab cleaning up beakers that were once of a failed experiment, secretly correcting the mistakes some newbies made while writing their problems, and making them coffee. They can go down to the cafeteria and grab a cup, but all of the chemists butter you up with compliments “They don’t make it as you do,” or “At least you know how to make a good cup of joe than the other ladies on the staff.” You wanted to feel insulted, you wanted to speak up and say something. But you knew they would run off to Donatti and there was a high chance, you could get fired. So just keep your head down, mouth shut and be the disty lab tech. Who apparently makes good coffee?

When walking back from lunch you were walking past the secretaries room. Suddenly you hear your name being called. “Miss. Mason…Ava?” you turn around and see the head of the secretaries department, Fran Frask. “Good morning Miss. Frask,” you say to her with a tight-lipped smile and continue walking down to the lab. You knew she was going to bug you again about the pageant. But time and time again you tell her you can’t participate because you have plans that night, meaning you are having a movie night with your niece. That was the only night you could get off on time, and have some time with Deliaha.

“I hope you can still sign up for the Little Miss Hastings pageant, you know your lab is in between secretaries and you fella could use a boost for the event.” She asks “I’m sorry, but I'm not a secretary,” I say to her being a little offended because she knew for a fact that I was a lab tech. A very good one to be at that. “Well… Ya know lab techs can participate too, it’s any female support staff.” “Thank you, Fran but pageants aren’t my idea of fun,” I say to her while grabbing lab coats and passing them out on each table. “Well, what do you consider fun Ava?” she says with a little enthusiasm in her voice. “I-I like to cook and bake.” “Well ya know, let me know if you change your mind.” “I won't but thank you. Now if you don’t mind I have a lot to clean up before the chemists arrive.” You give her a small wave and a smile so she can hopefully get the hint to leave.

She gives me another little cheeky grin and points her red-colored nails at me. “I’ll put you down as a maybe.” then walking away. Why can’t your life get any easier?

Walking around the lab once again you hear men wanting more coffee, and helping out some others who need help with their equations for the expedients. When coming around to the station where you set up your coffee, you see someone who was a part of the lab walk in with a magazine, and on the front was a man holding up test tubes and seeing what was inside. He looks so familiar, but I don’t know where I have seen him before. You think to yourself, but you snap out of your thoughts and finish making the coffee. But you keep getting distracted when all of the men keep talking about the infamous Calvin Evans. “What does he have that we don’t,” one of them said out loud. Also saying he was up for a Nobel prize, “Doesn’t give him the right to take all of our supplies. I mean how much ribose does one guy need?”

Maybe this could work, maybe if you can get back some of that ribose you can finally be seen by the lab. Not seen as some female ditsy lab tech. You can finally matter in the world.

It was now after hours and you were over at the sink cleaning up some test tubes and beakers when you heard your name being called out. It was the head of the Aminos lab, Dr. Price. Just telling me to not stay later because he would get in trouble with Donatti. You just nod your head and oblige to his rules, but not listening. After everyone leaves you sneak your way out of the lab to avoid being seen by the janitorial staff and make your way over to Mr. Evans's lab.

When you reach his lab you see on his door there are cardboard signs saying “Keep out” and “Do Not Linger” but I know for a fact that I’m not keeping out, and I’m lingering. So screw your signs. You go back to sneaking in, so you take one of your bobby pins from your hair and unlock the door. Once open you can get a full view of what the infamous chemist does in here. You see records scattered all over the tables, so many loose-leaf pieces of paper with different equations and answers on them. And his lab coat hanging over a lounge chair in the corner. But you start to look around for the back room so you can find what you're looking for.

You pick another lock to the other door, you scan the shelves to find the little tiny bottles. When you finally come across the ribose, the shelves were covered from front to back with so many bottles. How many bottles does this guy need? You think to yourself. You grab a couple of bottles, lock up the doors, and seak your way back over to your lab, finish up your work, and finally head home to see your baby bunny and finally get some sleep. But what you didn’t know was when you were “sneaking” back to the lab, the best of the best secretaries Fran Frask watched you go back into the lab while she was locking up her room for the night.

Once again you wake up late, and trying fast as possible to get ready. You arrived super late around 9:00 but of course, there was traffic, and show up at almost 11. You rush up to the lab so you can get started on handing out the rest of the equipment. But you were stopped by Fran again to tell you Donatti needed you in his office. He sums up the meeting by saying that you weren’t supposed to be staying late, and if it happened again you would be let go from Amino’s lab and Hasingscompletely. Not only that but he was forcing you to compete in the pageant. You try your best to argue why you can’t participate, but of course, he threatens to fire you. That sets you back a little bit more when Fran confers you to take a picture and be put it on the bulletin board for the pageant. Can this day get any worse than it already is?

You finally make it up to the lab. But, you stop suddenly when you see a man sitting on the table holding a miniature bottle of what you assumed was ribose.

Oh No.

“Ah, there she is. The thief,” the man says in a mocking tone. I just looked at him like I didn’t know anything. “I beg your pardon?” you ask back. He hops down from the table and starts pacing back and forth. It looked like his head was about to explode. “I have been through every department, and interrogated multiple chemists. Including ones from this very lab,” he twirls his pointer finger around and then points to me. “Who say that you, Miss. Mason have a history of ruffling feathers. And also have an arrogant attitude of self-importance.” “Have you heard yourself speak Mr. Evans?” I say with raised eyebrows. “Oh, s-so you don’t deny it? I-I mean what would a secretary have anything to do with ribose, aside from selling it on the black market.”

I just look at him dumbfounded, almost looking like this crazy man has 3 heads. “I am a chemist Mr. Evans, not a secretary!” I said back to him but he was almost out the front door. “Oh, and a fibber, now aren’t we?” I drop my jaw when he walks out the door. “Oh, yes. Because there is such a high demand on the black market for monosaccharide!” “This is very disappointing! Very–- I’m disappointed Miss. Mason.” he turned the corner, and then he disappeared.

(Calvins’s POV)

You were pacing back and forth in front of Fran Frask’s desk, deciding what I should do about this unbelievable situation.

“One: My lab was unlocked last night, so I want someone to speak to janitorial and have new locks placed on the door.” I see Fran write down on her paper and nodding her head. “Two: I have calculated the cost of the missing ribose, and I want to make it clear, that will not be coming out of my budget. Three: I want the floors sterilized. At least one person entered without my authorization. And with my allergies, I cannot risk any contaminants. You understand?” You look back at her to make sure she has every little detail down to a tea. She just nods “ Yes. I’ll take care of it, Dr. Evans.” Writing the rest down.

“And lastly, I would like the secretary held accountable.” You look up to see Fran have a little smile on her lips. “Don’t worry. I’ll have her fired.”

I furrow my eyebrows a little bit, “Well… just a formal reprimand will suffice.” I see her giving the same look back at me. “I’m shocked that it was on my face. “Dr. Evans I’m shocked that it was one of my secretaries, honestly. Um, you said it was in the Aminos lab? Because that’s Mary Ann Rogers.” She tells me the woman’s name. It’s not her. “No, no, no. Her name is Ava Mason.” She looks back up at me. “Oh, she not a secretary. She’s a lab tech. Puls she should know better, she has her masters.” she looks back down scrambling around, looking for some important papers. “Her masters? In what?” “Chemistry.” Now I look a little dumbfounded at what Fran just told me. Then she asks about the “Little Miss Hastings” pageant, asking if I will be attending. I just simply ignored her and just walk out the door back up to my lab. But, I stop in my tracks to look at the bulletin board to see the contestant for the pageant. As I look in the lower corner I see the picture of the one and only Ava Mason. For some reason, she looks so frightened. Not wanting her picture to be taken, but giving a half-smile just trying to look nice.

You just simply walk away from the board and continue your journey back to your lab. Why would she want to steal some stupid ribose, and why would she be staying late? You need to get to the bottom of this, and fast.

To all of you reading this, I hope you enjoy this story. I've said this many times with other stories, but I do have big plans for these 2 characters. So, stay tuned for what's about to happen.

Reblogs are always welcome. Unless you're under 18. I will block you. and comment if you want to be added to the taglist. If I forgot anybody message me and let me know. You will be added.

Also, If I forgot anyone on the taglist message me. I will add you.

Taglist: @petersunderoos96 @mrspedropascal5683 @callsign-magnolia

dividers are by @saradika

#lewis pullman #calvin evans #lessons in chemistry #masterlist #calvin evans x reader #lessons in chemistry masterlist

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