#not to mention have it be a satisfying conclusion either.

[wickedghxst]

idk how they’re gonna have any time for it but i do hope we get some of miguel’s backstory bc like. how do you just Steal someone’s life. i want details.

[devilmademewriteit]

Playing Dangerous

part 2 of Salvatore

pairing: javier peña x afab!fem!reader

summary: sure, the fact that he’d schemed up an entire, elaborate ruse to get between your legs was upsetting. more upsetting was the fact that he refused to fess up, insisting that you needed to be protected (or at the very least—cautious) because your life was in ‘grave danger.’ most upsetting, however? that would be the fact that through it all and above everything else, you still wanted him—badly.

warnings: rough sex/smut (fingering, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content; afab fem reader; mentions of reader having long hair; bratty!reader; brat-tamer!javi; alcohol consumption; smoking; pet names (baby, sweetheart, cariño, hermosa); some angst; dubcon (slight intoxication, power imbalance, age gap).

word count: 10.7k (sorry again)

no use of y/n in this fic

hello here is part twooooo! thank you for all the love on Salvatore I absolutely love all of you so much. you don't rly need to read p1 to enjoy this, just know that: reader is the ambassador's secretary and is an asshole, Javi is also an asshole, they fucked for the first time a few days ago b/c he took her home after someone seemed to be after her life.

don’t forget to join the taglist if you’re nasty; feedback, asks, comments, smoke signals and carrier pigeons always welcome. kisses. -em<3

—

read part 3, Dark Paradise, here.

—

Let’s get in the back of your cop car, officer! - Playing Dangerous

“I am not speaking to you.”

Murphy’s eyes come alive with exasperation, a striking shift from their usual half-asleep, perpetually vacant gawp. Not quite at the point of impatience yet, his voice is soft when he responds.

“Please.”

You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. An impassive sneer makes its way onto your expression.

Not a fucking chance.

Not only were you not planning on ever doing Steve Murphy—and especially, his asshole partner—even the smallest of favours throughout your remaining time on this godforsaken planet, you’d come to the conclusion (quite recently, in fact) that you’d rather dance barefoot on broken glass than be in the same room as either member of the pair.

And it was a shame, really.

After that (now regrettable, once incredible) night at Peña’s place, everything had been fine.

More than fine. Not even awkward.

For a glorious moment, waking up next to him, ruined and sore and bruised and satisfied, sharing a morning coffee and then a ride to work—peace (and the planted seeds of something else, too) had finally settled across the worn-in battlegrounds between you, solid roots spreading with each passing second spent not bickering. For crying out loud, when he’d gotten called away to Bogotá that very same day, you’d put yourself to work keeping his place clean, going so far as to anticipate his return.

Everything had been fine.

Until, of course, you’d gotten the old Chevy serviced.

“Car’s running fine, señorita. Put that missing part back, s’good to go.”

“Missing part?”

“The spark plug—wasn’t in there when we looked.”

And the missing pieces fell into place.

How he’d waltzed into your car earlier on in the day, running his fingers along the hard, hot plastic of the dash—analyzing, observing, and finally commenting on your shitty engine. Then, he’d been conveniently there, waiting for you in the middle of the night, watching you wrestle your hood open in the parking lot after work. Hell, he took you to his place after he’d told you he'd seen a shady truck parked in front of yours… and you’d trusted him.

Without bothering to check for yourself, you’d trusted him.

You had to hand it to the man; it was a clever plan. Wear you down during the day only to corner you while alone, vulnerable, and at night, with no possible avenues for escape.

All to get inside your pants.

God.

Murphy huffs, bringing you back down to Earth. “Listen,” he rubs his temples, exhaustion weighing down the curves of shoulders, “We just want to make sure you’re safe. You don’t have to stay with him, either; Connie—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” you snap, narrowing your eyes in full view of his own. “I keep wondering, though... seeing as you're… thick as thieves, these days,” you lean forward over your desk, studying his swallow. “Was it you that shot off that gun? Or did he get someone else to participate in his little scheme?”

The agent tilts his head to the side, putting on the air of a wordless 'really, sweetheart?' before launching into a recitation of a sorely well-versed explanation.

But you cut him off, unforgiving in your suspicion. “Don’t bother, alright? Even if I did believe that, what, some 'cartel sicario'—” you emphasize the ridiculousness of the statement by tossing up a couple of well-timed air quotes “—was after me…?” and then you’re gesturing wildly to yourself, fingertips pointed straight to your heart. “I would rather die—really, seriously, die—than step foot into your home—or-or fucking Peña’s—Ever. Again.”

The mounting ire behind your breathless rambling finally wears him down; he surrenders his complexion to a look of genuine defeat. His arms drop to his sides, heavy and limp.

As you try to appear busy, fidgeting with the scattered papers and documents lying listlessly across your desk, Murphy turns on his heels, stooping toward the exit.

For a brief moment, he hesitates, coming to a slow halt halfway down his holy pilgrimage of freeing you from his fucking presence.

“Did you…” and he briefly trails off, anticipating your wrath with a wince. “Did you fill out that form?”

Irritation clouds your thoughts. Its manifestations in your body feel almost violent.

“What do you think, genius?”

You scare yourself with the aggression underpinning each and every word.

Inside the safety of your mind, your inner dialogue treats him even worse.

Go, motherfucker. Go, go, go, go, go or I’ll tear us both apart, I’ll explode, I’ll—

You hope that it’s Luck listening to your prayers (and not God), because as soon as your brain has time to register the nature of your wicked, near sacrilegious thoughts toward the man, Murphy’s yellow-dusted crown is drooping down in eventual resignation, leading the way as he trudges back to his corner.

A relief.

A short lived one.

Too short.

Because…

Well, because those fucking memories won’t stop replaying inside your mind, etched like crude Botticellis on the backs of your eyelids.

Overlaying the non-stop highlight reel of a vicious fight with Peña, just that morning—

“Well, I didn’t see a car. What I saw was you, whipping me over to your fuck-pad—and now? I see your whole... fucking masterplan to get me into bed.”

“You’re talking fuckin’ crazy. There’s no pussy in the world that’s worth pulling all that.”

—are flashes of his bare, glistening chest, an almost tangible haze of longing obscuring his eyes. You’d taken him in your mouth; you’d felt him all over: against you, with you, inside you.

And when you’re not seeing him, you’re forced to hear him, over and over and over again.

“You fuckin’ sing for me when you’re comin’ on my cock.”

So, you push certain memories away by calling on certain others, repeating every cruel word you’d ever exchanged with each other like a mantra, an affirmation.

They remind you of the man that Javier Peña truly was.

“You are the worst person I’ve ever had the shit-luck of meeting, Peña.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not too crazy about you, either. Got some serious growin’ up to do, sweetheart.”

A loud snap wrenches you back to your senses. You unfurl your fingers to reveal the broken remnants of a poor, innocent pencil you’d been white-knuckle-death-gripping.

What really had you ticking was that, after you’d hurled accusations and insults at him for the better part of an hour—totally monopolizing the space of the familiar, dusty old filing room—he’d had the nerve to continue on with his little act.

“You don’t have to stay with me—”

And his voice had been coated in poison, laced with the kind of fiery contempt that surely only a guilty man could achieve.

“—but do me a favour and just don’t be a fuckin’ idiot. It’s shit work, hiring new secretaries.”

He hadn’t waited around for an answer, leaving you alone with his final words and a mountain of your own unsaid ones.

So, you’d hissed a “fuck off” to the lingering ghost of his presence in the room, trying, in vain, to slow your shallow breaths.

You heave a sigh, forehead dropping to lay heavy against the desk.

If only you could take your brain out for the day. If only you could run it under cold water. Better yet, if only you could scrub it clean with bleach, put it in the dishwasher, run it with the damn laundry—anything to make it shiny and new and untainted.

Peña was lying.

He had to be lying.

What kind of shit sicario goes after secretaries who, beyond not knowing what they’re supposed to know about, don’t care enough to actually retain any of it?

Not a good sicario. Definitely not one who would still be alive in Medellìn, today.

It was all bullshit.

~

You weren’t the kind of person who attended work parties.

They always ran excruciatingly long. On top of that, you had to watch traumatized coworkers drink. A lot. Then, there was, of course, after-hours work-talk.

None of that had ever screamed 'best night ever!' to you.

Tonight, however, you hadn’t been given a choice: the ambassador had needed 'someone there, you know, just in case work stuff comes up’ which really meant that she was banking on you to give her a ride home at the end of the night.

Like that was happening. She hadn't been pleased when you'd made it clear to her that you were out of commission, off-the-clock, done-zo starting at fifteen to ten. You'd hoped that, at that point, she would've rescinded her original request. 

She hadn't. 

Still, Noonan had spent the week being remarkably kind to you—maybe her invitation was her (deeply misguided) way of trying to make up for the shit-storm she’d watched you face over past few days (whether she believed Peña’s dystopian, hitman fantasy was uncertain; either way, she’d witnessed your torment at his hands, and both realities seemed equally as emotionally taxing).

Despite all the hints you’d dropped about wanting the night off, she either hadn’t noticed, hadn’t cared, or thought you were just trying to be polite.

Come on.

She’d been your boss long enough to know there was no chance of you pussy-footing around out of politeness.

The event was meant to commemorate some big accomplishment—a narco sting gone right (or else, some big narco boss gone six-feet-under). The reason behind the festivities wasn’t of any importance to you—getting through the next few hours as quickly and as painlessly as possible took up all of the remaining (albeit limited) space in your head.

Because, afterwards? You were going out. 

A good friend’s bachelorette, a shit-ton of dark tequila, and the warm lips of a total stranger.

God, you needed that. Every intimate spot on your body was in desperate need of a cleanse. Your tongue, the soft skin between your thighs, the peach-fuzz on your cheeks…

They remembered him.

They made sure you couldn’t forget him.

About half-way through serving your sentence in regulatory purgatory, someone turns on the stereo. A Queen song—the one that everyone knows. You’re looking around, trying to locate the source of the sound.

It’s mostly administrative and political bodies crowding up the office's stuffy foyer. There’s an odd clink of glass meeting glass whenever someone new walks in, or else when a deal’s finally graduated beyond the negotiation stage.

It’s too highbrow, too boring and white-collar for restless DEA agents, you remind yourself.

Slowly, slowly the hours trickle by.

The music helps—every Diaz song has the minutes moving double-time.

And after what feels like centuries of excruciating small-talk, of brushing off endless, casual condescension, of staring at the clock hanging off the wall, finally, it’s time to go.

First, a last minute change (you’re not wearing a damn button-up to the bar—it’ll be a tight dress and cute shoes or absolutely nothing at all) and a quick refresher in the bathroom. Then, you’re trailing a bee-line towards the exit with 'home-free' on the tip of your tongue. 

Keep your head down. Nod. A chagrined smile to each pair of gawking eyes.

‘Cause soon? You’ll be dancing.

You’re straddling the office doors, left foot in, right foot out when an authoritative voice calls your name from behind.

Christ Almighty.

Turning slowly, you find yourself triangulated between Noonan and…

Fucking Steve Murphy.

That one looks apprehensive. The former?

A bit red in the face.

“Murphy, here,” the ambassador gestures sloppily towards the agent’s uneasy form, “Tells me he needs something. Papers, right? Think we can get that to him before you leave for your… little soirée—what do you say?”

She doesn’t catch it, but he does; your unbridled, aversive stare pierces him right between his eyes. Forcing it down (and oh, does it ever burn your throat) you etch a reluctant smile, nodding wordlessly to your boss.

God, if only money were an object. This damn job would be a short paragraph on your resume, a blip in your timeline on this Earth.

Noonan slaps Murphy on the back, harrumphing as though she’d just solved world hunger. Quickly, she finds someone new to accost (or be accosted by), swept into a different, equally-boring conversation before you can even begin to feel angry at her for putting you into such a… distasteful position.

And you whir on him.

Before the rush of accusations gets a chance to part from your lips, Murphy interrupts you, putting his hands up in mock surrender.

“I didn’t say a thing.” He sounds serious, sincere. “Swear. She came up to me and just… knew all about it.”

You narrow your eyes in suspicion. Nonetheless, your fingernails slowly retreat from their burrows in the skin of your palm.

It’s not because of his earnestness.

No.

It’s because only a serious maniac would flaunt their under-the-table bullshit so publicly, flying it right under the ambassador’s nose. Whatever those records were for (and whatever the reason why Peña and Murphy so badly needed them), it was becoming increasingly clear that they were not intended to land in either of their hands.

Murphy hadn’t been nervous because of you. He’d been nervous because of her. A little less drink, a bit more curiosity, and Noonan would've been privy to whatever it was that the pair was up to.

“Fine.”

He exhales, shoulders relaxing, dropping like stones with the release.

Without another word, you make your way down the hall, charging toward the alcove harboring your desk. Murphy trails behind, five feet back at all times like a recently-scolded school-child.

Good.

It takes a few, long minutes to get the job done.

He waits around anxiously, fiddling with your stationary (until you slap his hand away from your beloved pens and planners) and pacing around the room.

When it's done, you don’t read the form, you don’t investigate. The less you know, the better.

And frankly?

You couldn’t give less of a shit.

As the papers slide out of the printer, you warn him: “You’re gonna need a signature from their side, you know. I can only get you so far.”

He nods, taking the precious sheets in hand. “Think we got that side covered.” Then, he’s reading them over, checking to make sure everything's in order. You stand with your hand on your hip, waiting impatiently for his goddamn approval. After an eternity (really—by the end of it you’re genuinely wondering whether the man should get tested for dyslexia), Murphy hums in satisfaction, giving you an awkward, “Thanks, again.”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your half-exposed chest.

Didn’t even thank me a first time, asshole.

He spins around, aiming for the exit, when another body appears before him.

And the man stops Murphy in his tracks, deep-brown eyes trailing down to the packet of papers cradled between his partner's hands.

“Noonan came through, then.”

It’s all he says.

Your nostrils flare.

The skin on your face positively burns.

Of course it had been him. He was probably the entire reason behind the ambassador’s unusual tipsyness, too. Hell, he’d probably fed her Prosecco and half-compliments ‘til she’d been more than happy to do him a million favours.

Wasn’t that his M.O., anyways? ‘Get ‘em drunk and get my way?’

Three comfortable, familiar words find themselves sliding—easily—off your tongue.

“Fuck off, Peña.”

You surprise yourself with the cruelty of your tone, the biting emphasis of each word.

He settles his onyx eyes on you. They glaze over with hunger, with amusement, with danger.

Fuck.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, sweetheart—I will in a minute,” and he nods at his partner, effectively dismissing him.

Murphy hesitates, eyes jumping between the stand-off taking place before him. Likely, he was trying to decide which one of you was going to murder the other first.

Finally, with his beloved form tucked under his arm, Murphy heaves a sigh of resignation, and then he’s gone.

Leaving you alone with Peña.

The corners of his lips pull back into an arrogant smirk as his eyes rake over your body—done up, dressed down, and positively fuming in your little kitten heels.

“You look hot.”

It’s all he says.

Some girls would’ve killed to hear those words from him. You’d spent years watching their eyes trail his movements in the office, listening to their puling voices—'is Javi there?'—over the phone.

But it just makes you want to scream.

Fearing the actual possibility of that coming to fruition, you keep your mouth sealed shut. Tight.

Silence won’t do for Peña.

“What’d you tell me, once?” He muses softly, making his way towards your desk. “Somethin’ about this place not bein’ a… a what’d you call it? A brothel?”

Dog.

He yanks a retort from your lips as if he had full command over them. “I’m going out, asshole.”

His face twitches ever-so-slightly, just enough for you to catch the hint of emotion. Then, it’s gone.

“No, you’re not.”

Casual as ever, he does that thing: runs a finger from the corner of his bottom lip down the length of it, looks up at you through thick, dark eyebrows.

You bristle at the sheer, unwinding effect it has on you.

“Yes, I am.”

He raps his knuckles against the desk in irritation; nevertheless, his voice is soft, imploring as he persists. “C’mon, baby. I need you to listen to me, right now. It’s..." and he undresses you with a mere look, "It's not a good time for you to be goin’ to those kinds of places.”

Just like any other man.

Probably, Peña’s ego was so over-inflated that the mere thought of any of his conquests colluding with another man had him on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

Because God forbid you fuck anyone else.

God forbid you even think of touching anyone else.

And this strange, uncharacteristic possessiveness, this… need for control—it was wearing extremely thin.

The man had zero authority over you. He certainly didn’t get to preside over the choices you made during your free time.

“Don’t call me baby, Peña—I’m not your baby.” The snapped retort makes you sound so young, to the point where, for a moment,  you understand why the agent had called you a brat so many times that one, fateful night.

Still, you soldier on, focussed on freeing yourself from yet another one of the evening's grueling set-backs. “And I’m not gonna ‘listen to you’ just ‘cause you think you’ve got some sort of… machismo claim over me.”

A deft muscle in his jaw tenses. He rounds the desk, moving just a half-foot closer to you; that alone is enough to jump-start your heart, and you’re almost sure he can hear it, jack-hammering away inside your chest. You both know that being the first to step away signified weakness—concession—so you stay put (even when your legs yield to a slight wobble).

And he’s almost crooning. “You can spread those legs for half the country, for all I care, baby.” A condescending look, cast down at you over the bridge of his nose. “Not what this is about.”

Yeah, right.

“Please.” You roll your eyes. “Still working that angle?”

He takes a step forward. “Is it so crazy to think that I could just be tryna look out for you?” Meeting your gaze, he speaks earnestly—pleading through his irritation.

“I don’t need you to ‘look out for me’,” Your back grazes against the ambassador’s doors—you kick yourself internally for having subconsciously conceded to a back-step. “Especially not since the last time I thought that’s what this was?” your fingers gesture wildly between the (lack of) space separating your bodies, “You totally took advantage of me.”

A pause as the agent fluctuates from bafflement to genuine offense.

“Took adv—are you being serious?” he scoffs, shaking the coarse, dark hair on his crown. “I gave you, like, one drink.”

Victory courses through your veins at the sudden, intense flood of irritation marking his tone, the vein popping in his jaw. 

Anything to get to him, to make him tick, to scratch that itch. 

Dig. Dig. Dig.

A shrug. “Maybe you put something in it.”

His eyebrows jump up, eyes widening with the movement.

Just. So. Close.

“And… you know, I am a lot younger than you—”

“—okay, enough.”

Peña’s growled response has your voice fizzling out into nothingness. Closing what’s left of the distance between you, muscled form looming, he flattens you against the ambassador’s office doors. As one large hand slowly splays out next to your ear, the other comes up to grasp your chin. His fingers wrap around your jawbone, all the way from one ear to the other. 

You’re stuck, frozen under the weight of that dominant leer.

“Y’know,” he muses, deep and low, “It’s really fuckin’ obvious what all this is actually about, sweetheart.” Trapped in his glare, you watch his eyes grow dark, his gravelly voice falling into a register you’d never before heard it descend to. And he’s so, so close to you, close enough that you can smell him: that distinct, earthy scent of man that never failed to have your head spinning, your arms weak. “This… highschool bullshit you’ve been pullin’ since I got back… accusin’ me of all kinds of shit—"

You deny yourself the pleasure of looking at his lips when his words withdraw into an almost-whisper.

“Makes you feel real innocent, doesn’t it?

You don’t respond, concentrating on stifling the growing ache in your core, the thump-thump-thumps inside your rib cage, the lump forming in your throat.

A rarity, a miracle, Jesus turning water into wine: words fail you. 

“Know what I think, cariño?” His fingernails press into your cheeks, digging soft indents. Not to bruise—

To hold you steady.

To assure himself of his command over your full, devoted attention.

When he finally continues, his smoky breath raises the hairs along your exposed skin.

God, it must be, like, nine-hundred degrees in the room.

“I think”—and he’s toying with you, near-black eyes dancing with amusement—“You’re just embarrassed.”

Leaning in, his lips brush against the ridges of your ear, slow words washing over you in big, heavy waves. “‘Bout how easy it was for me to get between these legs.” Male, calloused fingers ghost over the skin of your thighs, creeping higher and higher up the length of your body.

“Remember how wet you got for me, cariño? Beggin’ me to fuck you so rough?”

And for a brief, suspended moment—

You do.

He leans back enough for you to watch his eyes harden, uttering an “I remember it all, baby,” as his thumb leaves your jaw to trace the highest point of your cheekbone.

And his tone turns to stone. 

“Especially when you’re acting like you need a fuckin’ reminder.”

Your cheeks grow red-hot. The ground feels unsteady under your feet—and the spell breaks.

Pig.

“You’re fucking vile, Peña,” you spit, wrenching his grip off your face. “And also, dead wrong.” Slamming into his shoulder, you aim to storm out.

He catches your arm, twisting you back around to face him. “If you go out tonight,” the man near-growls, lecturing down at you like a damn parent, “You’re putting your life and everyone else's on the line.”

You tear your wrist from his fingers, shrugging off his empty warning with a dramatic spin on your heels.

Strutting out, you leave him with a poison-coated, “Say ‘hi’ to the whores for me.”

And you’re gone.

~

It’s loud. Your feet are sore from dancing in your heels. A different, unfamiliar body is in reach in every possible direction from your own.

It’s perfect.

Five shots in and you still feel like you could take more, if only to forget the exhausting events of the day.

Less than 48 hours ago you’d been prepared—dear God, longing—to hand yourself over to a man you were now quite happy to never see again. With your hands wrapped around a stranger’s neck, you’re determined to cleanse yourself of his lingering traces.

He’s gazing down at you, male, hungry eyes gunning for the taking. Local, you guess, or at the very least South-American. After a daring look, you grab him by the collar, brushing your starved lips against his.

“Want to get out of here?”

The pronunciation isn’t great—but it does the trick. He nods enthusiastically, allowing you to take his hand in your own without hesitation. Too easy. The hard part is weaving through the agitated, bustling crowd with your nameless partner in tow.

It’s reckless. It’s stupid. But God, is it ever necessary.

Escaping your friends at the start of the night had been child’s play, and they could be counted on to be too fucked-up at this hour to notice your absence, anyway.

Good.

Your act of desperation would be remembered solely by its participants.

A gentle evening wind swirls around your tingling body, the day’s heat hanging thick in the air as you step onto the street, the syncopated thumps of Latin music fading unwillingly into the background.

Pivoting abruptly, you flatten yourself against the wall outside, pulling the stranger in close by the fabric of his blue button-up.

“Yours or mine?”

He smirks, gentle lines forming by his golden eyes. Internally, you commend yourself: the catch was quite pretty.

“Here is okay, I think.”

Then, his lips are on yours, parting you open in a sloppy, drunk kiss.

This could work.

His traveling hands already seem to be numbing some of the tension simmering under your skin.

This could work.

His rough kisses overwhelm your senses, slowly filling the hollow ache lodged at the heart of your core.

Please, God—let this work.

Just as a hand reaches up to cradle the back of your neck—

(let this work, let this work, let this work)—

Just as a pleased moan travels from your lungs into his own—

Tires screech against the pavement, slamming you back into your body, wrenching you straight into the dire moment. Tearing your lips from the stranger’s, you peer over his shoulder, eyes widening at the sight of a black Camino screaming to a stop right before you. Time stops; the windows are down, and what you know to be the barrel of a hand-gun pokes out from the backseat.

“Get down!”

Maybe it's in your head (after all, it would make sense for your psyche to summon his voice in a moment so violent); or maybe it's real. Either way, you listen to the command, hitting the ground without any reservations. And those stupid heels—you stumble, face-planting onto the pavement, scraping every exposed part of your body against hot, rough cement.

A cry of terror rips from your throat as the sound of bullets punctuates the warm, summer night—Jesus, it’s louder than anything you’d ever heard before. 

Somewhere along the chaos, the pretty stranger from the bar books it down the calle.

Everything happens so fast. A familiar Cherokee veers in the way, separating you from the attackers. The surrounding air becomes rife with lead, a terrified chorus of male and female voices joining the symphony, and you really can’t tell whether the pain in your chest is from the friction of your own harmonizing screams or if it’s bullets tearing through your body. From the ground, you watch your attackers’ vehicle take off down the street, haphazardly parting crowds of cowering civilians in its wake.

When it all stops, it doesn’t really stop.

Violence persists, ringing in your ears like a doomsday clock going off, an A-bomb alarm siren. The echoes are happy to prolong your torment.

The Jeep’s passenger door swings open. You scramble back, scampering down the pavement as adrenaline claims you in never-ending rushes.

“Get inside, now.”

You nearly sob with relief at the familiar voice. It hadn't all been in your head. Jumping up on unstable legs, you lunge into his car, jerking the door shut behind you.

Without sparing a moment, his white-knuckled hands yank the wheel to the side, veering onto a road just off the main strip.

Javier Peña’s never looked so stressed.

“You’re not gonna follow them?” It comes out as a cry, a desperate plea for retribution.

He doesn’t answer.

Which doesn’t stop you.

You want to see them punished for making you feel so helpless, and for the scrapes and bruises decorating your elbows, your knees, your palms.

“Javi,” a begging king of shout, “Why aren’t we following them?”

“‘Cause you’re in the fucking car!”

In the heat of the moment, the cutting edge of his harsh tone doesn’t bother you. If anything, it’s gentle compared to the violent sensations stewing within your body and mind.

“So?”

He takes a sharp right, slamming your side against the Jeep’s hard interior.

“Been in enough…” He grits his teeth, trying to keep his irritation in check, “Compromising situations tonight, alright? Now, just shut up ‘n let me drive.”

You pipe down, not awfully interested in getting yelled at again in your fragile state.

At first, it feels like the full-body trembles wracking your entire being won’t ever cease. And yet, by the grace of God, after a few minutes, the thundering behind your ribcage slowly subsides.

It helps that you’re still a little buzzed.

It especially helps when his driving slows and the streets begin to empty—when the shops and houses become more and more recognizable, when the night grows more and more tame.

You know where he’s headed. The safety of the intended destination has you relaxing, finally level enough to take deep breaths.

Eventually, he stops the car, cutting the engine in full view of his building's front door.

The rumbling stops, and suddenly, it's very quiet. Javier groans, leaning back against his seat, bringing a hand up to his temples. He doesn’t look at you, keeping his eyes closed behind the palm of his hand.

And oh.

He’s pissed.

“Go inside, lock the door, don’t open it for anyone.” His command, though dripping with ire, is underpinned with genuine concern. When you don’t respond, he finally shifts his gaze to meet yours, fixing you with an intimidating, severe kind of stare.

“Do you understand?”

At first, your impulse is to respond with a bitchy retort, to meet his intensity head-on with your own brand of unpleasantness. You stifle that reflex, taking stock of the situation at hand: Peña had just saved you from a flurry of bullets.

Peña… had just saved you…

And the realization hits you like a punch to the gut.

He’d been telling the truth.

Someone was really after you. Twice, now, they'd tried to take your life.

And, still? Your addled brain can’t seem to wrap itself around the idea of Peña’s innocence. Your bursting question takes you both by surprise.

“So, you didn’t take my spark plug?”

He stares at you, full mouth parted in genuine bewilderment. Then, he scoffs, breathing an exhausted exhalation. “No, I didn’t take your damn spark plug, sweetheart. That’s what I’ve been saying. If you’d bothered to actually fuckin’ listen for once in your life…” he shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, “‘Could’ve avoided all… this.”

Shame tries its best to seep into your core. You resist it, scrambling for reasons to justify your actions to him.

To yourself.

You hated being wrong. That feeling had a tendency of overwhelming everything else—of overriding rationality, itself.

So, you turn to a classic defense, an ol' reliable: deflection. “After all the shit you’ve put me through over the years, can you blame me for not, just like, blindly trusting you?”

He scowls, angling his shoulders to square off with your own.

“Never asked for you to ‘blindly trust’ shit, though, did I?” He huffs, “Jesus.” 

You try not to wince as he continues on, as the truth of his words and the seriousness of his delivery render you mute. “You’re a secretary, sweetheart. This is my job—my life—okay? When I tell you to be careful, for the sake of your own damn good, you need to listen to me.”

There’s a long pause as his words tease out your final, entangled threads of resistance.

He was right. You’d been stupid in your denial, putting yourself and dozens of others in danger.

Putting Javi in danger.

It takes everything you have to fight the tears threatening to well along your lashes. But there's no sense in allowing yourself to mourn your mistakes—at least not at this very moment.

No, now was not the time to work through your shame.

Now was the time to seek forgiveness.

To make amends.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, trying to catch his downcast eyes. 

And it’s true.

Javi shakes his head, resisting your apology. He says nothing, and your heart aches for him.

Whatever this man was—he hadn’t deserved a fraction of the hell you’d given him.

The hell you’d given him because…

Because he’d gotten close. Too close. Close enough to soften you, to see you in a way that not one single person had the right to. He’d been a novelty: the first man you’d trusted enough to be capable of handling the full breadth of yourself. And when that had started to feel volatile—as though he’d gained too much of you?

Well, you’d needed a reason to push him away. To wrench yourself back from him.

Because you’d been embarrassed.

Knowing that he’d been right about that, too, makes you feel so small, so young, and deeply naive.

Immature.

You lean over, crooning at his turned profile.

“I mean it, Javi.” His name is your weapon—you will it to wear him down—a reminder of what it sounds like leaving your lips. “I’m sorry.”

Again, silence.

It’s fucking unbearable.

Placing an unsteady hand on his knee, you trail it up his thigh—slowly. His chest hitches with the force of a deep, sharp inhale and yet, he still refuses to meet your gaze.

But you catch his reflection in the glass: a slight twinge of the eyebrows, a delicate parting of the lips, and a hint of longing within those furious eyes.

Wiggle room.

“Could you ever forgive me?” You ask timidly, seductively, fingers creeping towards the crease of his trousers and that big silver buckle looming right above it.

Finally, he turns, his expression meeting yours with a hungry (albeit still deeply annoyed) look.

That wanting you’d learned to recognize…

It excites you.

And as you tug at his belt, releasing it with tantalizing slowness, you keep your steady gaze on his undecided one, uttering a pleading, “I can make it up to you, baby.”

Wordlessly, he watches your fingers move to the button of his pants, then to his fly, working with dedication, with delicate care.

There’s movement as you reach your fingers underneath the fabric. He grows hard for you, burgeoning out of the fabric in a matter of seconds.

It’s all the invitation you could’ve possibly hoped for.

His skin is hot against your knuckles as they slide down his lower abdomen. Grasping the base of his cock, you use two hands to spring him free.

God, he’s even bigger than how you’d remembered him—bigger than even your guiltiest fantasies.

Javi groans softly when you pull him, releases a hot, shallow breath when you stroke him, and a low, breathy “fuuuck” when you finally, finally take him in your mouth.

He tastes like the salt of the ocean. This close, you can smell men's cologne mingling with sweat.

It’s heaven.

And you just don’t want him to be angry anymore. It’s all you can think about—lips cradled adoringly around his cock, tongue running up and down the long length of him—as he throws his head back in pleasure.

He eventually relaxes, conceding to the ecstasy you persuade him with. Almost drinking the uncertainty—the resistance—right out of him.

“Christ,” he groans, tangling his fingers in your hair, forcing you to take in every last inch of him. “Wanted to shut you up like this all fuckin’ day.”

It becomes a challenge to breathe, but air simply isn’t a priority with a man like him at your fingertips, as your responsibility. This, he knows, his heavy hand determining the slow, careful pace, the impossible depth, and the angle of your unspoken apology.

Growing wet and lightheaded at the same time, you loose a moan against his velvety skin.

Javi laughs, darkly. “Always got somethin’ to say, huh? Even with a mouth full of cock.”

You smile around him—taunts are good. Better than silence, anyways. “Mhmm.”

The sounds of his laughter rumbles soft and low throughout his middle—so different, so sweet and innocent compared to the wet, filthy ones produced by your mouth’s ministrations.

You give him everything you have, ignoring the droplets forming in the corners of your eyes and lips, the dull burning inside your lungs. When the tip of his cock lodges at the back of your throat, you keep him there.

Whatever Javi gives you, you take.

Happily.

Every last drop would find its home inside you, traveling down the length of your tongue and into all of your warmest places.

It was the least you could do for him.

But he has other plans. His hand bunches up your hair, tightening into a fist to pull you off of him. His cock pops out from between your lips; you’re guided up to face him.

He looks stern.

Dangerous.

Out of breath, tears sliding down your cheeks, lips glistening with the slick of your own spit—you’re a welcome sight to any man of his kind.

“Say it.”

He makes use of his free hand, wiping the coarse pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, clearing the string of saliva collecting there.

It’s not rocket science, figuring out what it is that the man wants to hear.

“I’m sorry, Javi.”

Neither of you had ever known how much an apology could sound like a prayer.

“Yeah?” Despite the gentleness of his tone, his eyes darken with lust to the point that you feel genuinely nervous about his intentions. “What are you so sorry for, hermosa?”

Fuck, the pet-names... the way his voice changed when reverting to its native tongue—rolling with confidence. At such an awkward angle, you’re forced to grip onto his forearms to keep balance. They feel strong and unbending beneath your fingertips. 

Everything… everything about him draws you in.

He just makes you crazy.

Crazy enough to smile, to turn your profile to the side, laying a long, careful kiss to his palm. Crazy enough to answer his question in a needy, whiney whisper: “for being such a brat.”

He almost smiles, near-black eyes dancing with hunger, with approval, with a playful kind of ire.

Jerking his head to the right, he gestures to the backseat. “Wanna show me how sorry you are, cariño?”

You’re nodding before the question really even registers.

He releases his hold on you, deft fingers quickly untangling from your hair.

Victory. Victory. Victory.

Then, you’re stumbling out of the passenger side, opening the door to the backseat.

(You take a second to commend yourself for driving a man so wild, making him so impatient that he couldn’t be bothered to walk the ten feet required to fuck you inside his apartment. Or, maybe he just liked letting the neighbours watch.)

Before you can even step foot inside the car, you’re being hauled by your upper arms onto Javi’s lap. He manhandles you into his desired position, spreading your knees around his thighs until your dress is hitched up, only covering your ass half-way.

After snaking a hand between your bodies, the agent runs his thumb down the slick fabric of your underwear.

Already, you’re holding back a slew of pathetic whines.

“Next time you give me head”—God, the feeling of those fingers against your clit, the bliss of them pushing your panties to the side, assessing your readiness for him—“Wanna be able to see that pretty mouth while my dick’s inside it, sweetheart.”

His lust has him speaking a bit out of breath. It makes every crude, filthy word sound sweet, almost endearing to you.

Nodding in response, you work with him—lowering yourself onto his fingers as he pushes them between your folds.

“Jesus Christ,” he smiles, head falling back in appreciation, “You’re soaked.”

His fingers curl up, pressing to please in all the right places. Your answer arrives between gasps: “You tasted good.”

That pleases him.

“Yeah?” and he’s dragging his digits out of you, letting them trail through your folds and along your heavy, sore clit before leaving you wanting, leaving that needy cunt clenching around nothing. “I bet you taste even better.”

Then, his grip is on your jaw, pressing damp spots into your skin under his index, middle, and ring fingers. With the pad of his thumb pressed firmly to your bottom lip (and the row of teeth behind it), Javi eases your mouth open, wider and wider and wider for him.

“Show me—show me how good you taste.”

His index crawls onto your tongue. You close your lips around it, sucking him in until his fingernail scratches the back of your throat. He wants to be shown, so you show him: gazing intently into his eyes, you watch his brow furrow as he studies your every movement, as he drinks in your every moan.

“Fuckin' hell,” he groans, commending your efforts. “You’d do anything I asked right now, wouldn’t you, hermosa?”

Your bottom teeth graze the undersides of his index as you pull off—“yes, Javi.” Almost instinctively, you’re reaching your hand down, letting it coast down the hardness of his chest to rub circles around the slick tip of his cock, still peeking out from his open fly.

“Not yet,” he clicks his tongue, pushing his index, and this time, his middle and ring, too, back through the opening of your lips, “Need to clean yourself off every one of these fingers, first—thaaat’s right.” You listen, obediently sucking everything he gives you. He instructs and praises, “easy—easy, cariño, there it is,” as he watches you glide up and down him in slow, big pulls, all the way down to his knuckles.

It’s fucking filthy, and he loves it, unable to keep that arrogant smirk off of his face.

He’s practically in paradise, coming up with a mental list of creative ways to shut you up.

Still, Javi allows you to multitask: all the while, your fingers continue to explore the exposed parts of his cock. Only when he’s satisfied, when his length couldn’t possibly get any harder—only then does he free your mouth, letting his damp fingers trail down the side of your neck.

The feeling sends a shiver up your spine.

Without warning, he yanks down the straps of your dress and bra, pulling them all the way down until you’re postured on his lap, chest fully exposed; his abrupt movement has you loosing a stunned "Javi!" He runs his palms over the most sensitive peaks of your breasts, a hungry smile teasing the corners of his lips.

Then, he shrugs. “Told you last time I wanted to see them. Got the prettiest fuckin’ tits, hermosa.”

You don’t have time to roll your eyes, to laugh, or to really even register the vulgarity of his words, nor the taunting, degrading way they’re delivered to you. Javi’s already holding both you and himself up in one arm (and, oh, how you’d simply ached for the feel of his strength) pulling down the waistband of his pants. He maneuvers you into the proper position to receive him in, two pairs of downcast eyes watching his cock spring free, tip curving in, grazing against the fabric of his shirt.

He rushes, but it still feels torturously slow. You’re craving, needing, as he uses the dark head of his cock to ease your ruined underwear to the side, guiding himself towards your dripping opening.

This time, he’s far too impatient to make you beg for it.

Ecstasy forces your back into an arch as he pushes himself between your walls, as you feel him filling you up, up, and up—wordless mouth falling open, your heavy head collapses aaall the way back.

Immediately, a hand is at the back of your skull, forcing your gaze back downwards. “No, no, no, baby, you let me see—let me see you when you ride,” and his voice is a little strained, a little desire-stricken, a little bit softer as he settles his every last inch inside your cunt.

Your irises could be forest fires as you set your sights on his own, seeing nothing, absolutely nothing but Javier in that moment.

Moving your hips in tandem, you set your pace.

Mother Mary—it’s hard, so fucking hard to keep your legs steady when he stretches you open—wide fucking open—and as his head grazes that spongy spot inside.

He doesn’t help, either. In fact, while your hands dig anchors into his shoulders (sometimes his chest, his neck, his waist) just to keep yourself upright, his own are trailing up to the pocket of his shirt, pulling out a pack of smokes.

You mewl softly at the heat building inside your cunt, loosing an indignant whine as Javi neglects his responsibilities toward your climax.

“Gave me such a hard time today, baby,” he muses, placing a cigarette between his fingers and tossing the rest aside, “Wanna hear a fuckin’ ‘thank you Javi’ every time you come.”

His words dance around you like streetlights passing in the night, barely registering inside your disintegrating mind. How could they? With the feeling of his thighs grazing the undersides of your own, the buttons of his shirt nudging against your aching clit… how could anything else even exist?

All you can give him is an “Mhm.”

He pulls a lighter out, smirking. “‘Tough-talker ‘til this pussy’s all full, huh?”

“I-I’m sorry, baby, I’m s-sorry.”

And he laughs. “Don’t say it, cariño,” he takes your hand, placing the light inside your fist. “Fuckin’ show me.”

He rolls his hips. Your weight collapses against his chest.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, pushing you off, straightening you up before placing the cigarette between his lips, “Aaall you gotta do is light up the tip. You got it, sweetheart.”

His hands travel down to your ass, giving it a rough squeeze before his fingers splay out. He spreads you open over his thighs, watching the etchings of your lust corrupt your expression as he fucks himself—slow, deep, hard strokes—inside you.

“Fu—please, Javi—I can’t, s’too much, baby—please—”

A smile, full lips parting around the dart. “S’wrong, baby?” The words are low, breathy, teasing, contorting around the smoke in his mouth. “Can’t focus?”

God, just make him happy.

It’s the only thought you seem to be able to form. His request doesn’t seem to be up for debate, either.

So, summoning every last bit of control still lingering inside you, you bring a trembling hand up to the unlit end, a string of moans and ‘Javi’s rising from your throat.

And fuck, he’s beautiful, brimming with playful passion, orange filter hanging off those pretty pink lips.

Trying to still yourself, you flick the lighter on—the flame dances between you, illuminating the expansive darkness lurking inside his gaze. It takes everything, everything you have left to light it for him, to make that white tip glow red hot, to stay steady enough, to keep from burning him.

And also, to hold your pace. That grip of steel wrapped around your hip serves as a constant reminder—

Keep taking it.

In those final moments, he picks up his pace, of course. Your simmering blood bubbles to a boil, the flutters inside your cunt graduating into pulsing throbs.

As the flame finally takes, you feel every muscle inside your core tense—when Javi inhales his first drag, you straddle the precipice of your orgasm.

Your weight falls onto his shoulder. One of his arms reaches up to ash the cigarette; the other wraps tightly around you, bouncing you against him as exhales a cloud of smoke into your hair.

“Baby—Javi, I’m coming, I’m coming, I'm c—”

Heat builds between your thighs, and as that bundle of nerves grows heavy, pulsing with the rush of your orgasm, his thrusts only deepen.

He pulls you in close.

“I know, cariño,” Javi coos, condescending into the shell of your ear, basking in the feel of your cunt near-strangling him in adoration. “Can feel you, y’know? Got such a grateful lil' pussy,” he places a kiss to the side of your neck, groaning against the soft skin. “Always lets me know how much you love having my cock buried inside it.”

As he speaks, you try to catch your breath. To come down from your high.

It doesn’t work. Not while his hips continue to grind against yours, not while cradled between his arms like his holy beloved, and especially not with his tip still pressing against every available, wanting spot on your walls.

Javi takes another long drag from the dart. “What do you say when you come, baby?”

A big, laboured inhale, and the words come out in one, rushed exhalation. “Thank you, Javi.”

He responds with a downright cocky laugh. “You’re welcome, cariño. Good girl.”

The praise… it makes you melt.

Tangling his fingers in your hair, nails grazing the skin of your scalp, he pulls you off of his chest. Your heavy breaths mingle together in the stale heat of the Jeep Cherokee. 

You buck up, doing your best to keep pleasing him as he studies your devoted movements, as he leans back against the seat—groaning.

His hand—often glued to your rolling hip—provides you with only a mere hint of stability.

“That guy you were with,” he takes a drag from his cigarette, using his free hand to toy with one of your peaked nipples. “At the bar. You’d’ve done this for him?”

Your lips part, but no sound crosses the threshold of your lips. You’re dazed—still coming—and building to yet another peak. His unwillingness to move starts to ground you; the long length of every hard muscle beneath his arms, the round, bulging ridges of his shoulders… they become your salvation, places to lay your weight into. Riding him becomes second nature: you’re attuned to his rhythm and the desperate, commanding desires of your body.

Suddenly, you’re a part of him; when he exhales, the smoke creeps out of his lungs and into your own.

You burn right along with it.

He drops the still-smoking cigarette onto the seat next to your entangled bodies, bringing both his hands to rest against your dampened skin. One comes down hard, delivering a quick, harsh slap to your ass.

It would leave a mark.

“Tell me. Use that pretty mouth, hermosa. ‘Know you know how—used it—ran it all fuckin’ day.” Javi grunts, angling to bend over you, pushing into your guts as he wraps you in his arms, finally taking the burden of your weight off of your scraped up, wobbling knees. He continues on, “Tonight, too—been so easy, baby, lettin’ me put anything I want in there like a good lil' slut,” drinking in your cry of pleasure. He almost says it to himself, eyebrows furrowing as he reminisces, as your cunt begins to throb around his hardening cock once more. “You'd've done that for him, cariño?”

You swallow, trying to clear the stars dancing before your eyes, and that fuzzy sound of static. It muffles the symphony of Javi’s hoarse breaths, your own, helpless cries, and the filthy sound of skin colliding with—grinding against—skin.

He quickens, now, using you like a damn toy. Every rough thrust brings you closer to heaven; every ardent, breathtaking squeeze of his arms around your middle feels like angels sighing.

“No,” you breathe, closing your eyes. Your arms cling around his neck, fingers fanning through his thick hair—everything is him, him, him. He leans forward again, ducking down to kiss the hollow of your throat; you pull him in faithfully, moaning softly at the feel of his lips, his teeth under the valley under your jaw. “Only you.” It sounds like worship, sliding up an octave as that low ache worsens, as he compells a second climax out of your already-quivering body. “Only you, Javi.”

He growls, lips dragging up to your ear as the hairs of his mustache tease your cheekbone. “Prove it,” he breathes, deep thrusts growing even more erratic— needier, sloppier. You can barely hear him over your own noises, but he continues his gravelly coos inside your ear nonetheless. “Gimme another one, baby—wanna feel you comin' on my cock when I fill you up so fuckin' full, baby—show me that you’re mine—z’this pussy mine, hermosa?”

“Yesyesyes—oh God, y-yes—m’yours, Javi, y—”

Your legs seize as yet another release tears through your body. The skin of his neck anchors you in place, and you hang off of him like a rosary, digging your fingernails into the warmth of his flesh with every ounce of strength at your disposal.

He fucks you through your second climax, headed straight for his own.

“S-such a good girl, cariño—f-fuck—” Arms, wrapped around your waist, tighten enough to snap you in two as Javi crushes you against his chest, using the momentum of your entire, shaking body to finish himself off. He comes with a grunted “s-shit”—and you pay attention, wanting to commit the divine sound to memory. Swelling between your silken walls, Javi spills everything he could possibly give inside you.

A final, abrupt thrust, married with the non-stop, involuntary clench-and-release of your cunt works to cover every square inch of you with him.

When it’s over, the man refuses to let you part from him (not that you had any real desire to do so, anyway). A big, shaking hand keeps your head cradled in the firm crook of his neck, and he slowly, slowly  softens inside you. He basks in the final, weak flutters of your cunt as you lose yourself in the smell of his cologne.

His heart hammers in his chest. You can hear it with your ear pressed to his neck. Going limp, your damp forehead rolls onto the hard roundness of his shoulder.

That aching, sore opening soaks the skin of his thighs. You shiver softly, dripping onto the base of his shaft.

“Say it, cariño,” Javi murmurs, laying a rough kiss to your temple. He runs his hands up and down your bare spine, fingers dancing along your sticky skin.

You loose a breathy laugh against his golden skin. “Thank you, Javi.”

And you pull back just in time to catch his genuine smile.

It fucking melts you. Adoration, pride… spreading like tree-roots under rich, forest soil throughout your still-heaving chest.

He rubs the pads of his thumbs under your eyes, wiping clean some of the going-out makeup that had no-doubt become a total, leaking mess.

“‘Pretty when you’re nice, y'know,” he mutters, moving to cup your cheeks between his warm, hardened palms. And then he pauses, reconsidering his words. “But fuckin’ hot when you’re mean.”

A breathy giggle. “What can I say,” you whisper, trailing a few appreciative fingers up and down his forearms. “You bring out the very best in me, Peña.”

He scoffs, but smiles all the while.

Off in the distance, there’s music. Sounds of debauchery and excitement travel through the warm summer air, audible even through the closed windows. The night is alive for the rest of the city; somewhere far, far away, an engine growls, rubber tires squealing against the pull of hard pavement.

It takes him away.

Javi grasps your shoulders, pushing you up and back to effectively slide you off of his half-soft length. “I’ll wait for you to get inside,” he says, yanking his pants back up over his hips, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Make sure you lock the door, alright?”

Pause. 

What?

“You’re leaving?” You mirror him, hastily rearranging yourself—skinny straps find their way back above your shoulders, your short dress finds itself yanked down to its rightful place.

It’s awkward work, given the confines of the space.

The agent slips out from underneath you. He opens the door, rising from the backseat and straightening up with a groan. “Think I know where he was going,” he responds, mostly to himself. “I’m only, what…” a flip of his wrist as he checks the time, “Thiiiiiirty? Thirty-five minutes behind him?”

Before you know it, you’re bristling with irritation.

Again.

You throw your heels down on the street, unceremoniously shoving a cramping foot in each one. “Don’t be an idiot, Peña,” and you try your hand at standing, buckling slightly on a pair of Jell-o legs.

He comes around to your side, steadying you on your feet. Reflected in his deep-brown eyes is the same annoyance flashing across your own gaze. “D’you just expect me to be there, sweetheart? Z’that it? Every time your ass needs saving?”

Shame heats the soft skin of your cheeks. Your eyes trail down to the ground, volatile, incomprehensible emotions building with every passing second.

“It won’t happen again—I won’t-I won’t be so stupid, or-or—I won’t go out, anymore.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, well, that’s nice 'n all, but it’s sure as shit not gonna change anything.”

When you don’t respond, when you don’t look up, his edges soften. “They went to your house, sweetheart.” With his hands on your shoulders, he implores you to see sense. “It’s either we get them or they… get you.”

You exhale, hard. “You’re being dramatic.”

That does it for him.

After an exasperated shake of his head, he’s grabbing your hands in his own, placing a set of keys in the cradle of your palm.

His tone is low, demanding, unbending. “Lock the doors.”

Then, he’s turning to leave, walking to the front of the Cherokee.

Before rounding the corner, he turns his hardened profile to the side. The glare of the building’s lights dance on his tanned skin, turning the whole scene into a sort of lucid dream.

“Y’know, you’re really starting to piss me off with this whole… utopian fantasy you’re livin’ in.” He barely even addresses you, mumbling the rest of his sentiment mostly to himself. “I’m fuckin’ tired of being the only one looking out for you.”

Utopian fantasy?

You try to dismiss him—to call him ridiculous, to throw yourself into the familiar task of poking holes in his arguments—but… you can’t. Over and over, his words rush you in waves: “the only one looking out for you” “utopian fantasy” “the only one looking out for you” “utopian—”

Suddenly, you’re on a different street. In the same clothes, and in the same body, but somewhere far, far away, facing a different man. It’s somewhere very loud, where tires and knees come to a screeching stop against cement, where the downbeat of every Latin measure is punctuated by the sound of a bullet, inscribed with your initials, ripping through the static summer air.

Panic hits you like a bolt of lightning.

It doesn’t go away, either.

Not even once you’re back on Javi’s street, fossilized in amber, watching him move to the driver’s side of his Jeep.

All the fear you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel…

You’d forced him to shoulder it for you, instead.

But, inevitably, what goes around comes around. And he’s dropped your burden right back onto you with a few well-timed words.

Truth bares itself to you, settling heavy atop your bones like an ancient, primal wound. The result is a pair of unsteady legs, a perennial tremor in both, white-knuckled hands, and a crackling voice, resisting use.

“Javi…”

Only when you hear the sound of your own terror echoed back to you do you permit yourself to cry.

And there you stand. Disheveled, confused, broken—clothing misplaced, ruined, broken—

And you just don’t want him to leave.

Not now.

Not when you need him.

Not when you need someone.

Not when you think you’ve finally got it figured out, and especially not when you’re so damn close to speaking it into existence.

Realization. Acknowledgement. Expression.

It’s not a customary pattern, in your experience.

Javi stops in his tracks, stunned to a halt at the sheer emotion in your plea.

It stings when you clear your throat. “I just…” and you falter, strange, unfamiliar words sticking to your throat, sickly-sweet dried honey. Each vowel reverberates back to you, amplified by the acoustics of the empty street and their novelty.

Still, you’re not quite sure how he’s able to hear you, given that you can only bring yourself to speak a handful of decibels above a damn whisper.

“I’ve just never been important, Peña.”

You wipe a self-conscious hand across your face, clearing the sea-salt from below your downcast eyes.

Before you’re able to put a stop to it—it all comes rushing out. Averting his gaze, you ramble on in agitation.

“Not beyond being a-a pair of hands to make fucking photocopies—or as the butt of some sort of “prissy receptionist” joke or even just as some—as-as a kind of fucking challenge to men—men like you, Javier—because I… well, because I’m mean, and I-I guess it’s just fun for everyone to see how far they can take it before—before I…” You give your head a fervent shake, trying to reel yourself back in, trying to close off the monologue.

But the cracks had formed, and with nowhere to go, the mounting pressure of the seven seas washes away the rest of your weakened dam.

The agent can't even get a word in.

“Anyways, that’s-that's not the point. The point is that it just… it didn’t seem possible that anyone in this whole fucking country would even think twice about me—even if it was just to… to kill me…”

A lump forms, lodging behind your larynx.

You start to rush.

“So I really am sorry that I acted like such an asshole, but none of this makes a fucking lick of sense to me—I’m-I’m a secretary, for fuck’s sakes—I’m nothing, no one, I’m not—” and then you’re frantic—

The gunshots, the tires, the music, the spark plug, a Camino—

“Just please, don’t go, don’t—I-I know you’re mad, just—please, just don’t—”

It’s impossible to catch your breath. Every heaved sob racks your lungs, shaking you all the way down to your buckling knees.

You want to turn, to run and hide, to fling yourself into oncoming traffic—anything to end the interminable humiliation you couldn’t seem to keep from putting on display in front of Javier Peña.

And shit. No man could see a woman in the same way after this. No man would care for a woman like this, destroyed and pathetic and—

“Oh, cariño—”

And he’s there.

Those arms—so used to taking—they wrap you up, pulling you into the heat of his body, protecting you from the pointed echoes of laughter and song breezing through the night air. Those hands, the ones that bruised, slapped, grabbed—they hold—the right unburdens you of your oppressive weight, pressed flat against the small of your back. His left cradles the back of your head, laying your temple to the side of his throat.

“You’ve always been important to me, sweetheart.”

His soft murmurs tumble down your spine. That smoky breath envelops you; it reminds you of those blankets in the movies—the ones that the firemen hand out after the disaster’s over, the survivors rescued. In the denouement.

“S’okay, S’okay. I’m sorry, baby, alright? I’m not mad, cariño, it’s okay.”

Running his fingers through your hair, supporting your head like a delicate, sacred object, murmuring comforts against the softest parts of your neck—Javi goes on and on. Despite the frequent shifts between Spanish and English, you manage to catch the main gist of his crooning.

“I could never be mad at you, baby.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m not mad, cariño.”

“And I’m sorry, baby.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad.”

“I’ll stay.”

“I’m sorry.”

After an eternity, you feel calm enough to pull away. You’re a wreck, gazing up at him with big, silver-lined eyes.

And it’s then that you see him.

That you really see him.

The concern, the anguish, the affection… You’d punished him for doing the very thing that you were incapable of doing.

Protecting you.

Caring for you.

As tears continue to leak from your eyes, you take note of his beauty. Not just of his looks, but also in the sheer power radiating from him, towering like a knight over you. In those capable, caring hands—hands that had torn others apart, that had put you back together—there was beauty in them, too.

You wipe your face dry.

And you soften your tone, aiming to lighten the mood. “Stop trying to get in my pants, Peña." A sniffle. "I don’t sleep with cops.”

He rolls his eyes, the ghosts of a smile tugging at his lips. “Y’know,” he cups your face, drying the final, lingering remnants of your melt-down off your cheeks, “I waited outside that fuckin’ bar for hours  tonight. Just in case.”

Oh.

God, you’d never even bothered to think about how he’d gotten to you so quickly.

Of course he’d been there.

That truth feels… warm.

He goes on. “Watched you… saw you with that guy.” He scoffs at himself, shaking his head. “Had to look away when you came outside. S’why it… took a minute. To get there.”

That has your gaze trailing off, eyes cast down in shame, studying the worn-in rubber on the Jeep’s tires.

It would have never worked, anyway. There wasn’t a man on Earth who could ween your mind off of this one.

With the pad of his thumb against your chin, he brings you back to him. Javi commands your full attention with the just the sincerity of his stare.

“Even when you want nothin’ to do with me... I’m there, alright? I’m here, baby.”

Those eyes… softened with affection, hardened with conviction. Javier always had a way of straddling both worlds at once.

He waits for your signal, your quick nod of acknowledgement.

Then, he’s kissing you—softly. Fingers curling around his forearms, you borrow his strength to keep yourself from swooning. He holds your face as tenderly as he caresses your lips, and with every synced inhalation, he speaks yet another unspoken word into existence.

After giving you enough to make you feel whole again, he pulls away.

With his great-big-palm to your cheek, he says everything you need to hear.

“Let’s go inside, sweetheart.”

—

part 3

—

TAGLIST: @millllenniawrites @pining-and-tired @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @bookofbee @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @raeluvshammett @silkiers @jupitersmood @supernaturaldean67 @razrsharpwhiteteeth @peqchsoup @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @totallynotastanacc @dzaga890 @swedishscumfuck @killerrxger @niallsbunny @cilliansangel @snowyarcher @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @julesonrecord @bbyanarchist @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0 @princessdjarin @isitselfishifwetalkaboutmeagain @pseudonymist @goldengrapejuice @soullumii @jazzerbelle14

—

Officer Officer Everybody knows that I'm a good girl, officer No, I wouldn't do a thing like that, that's for sure The house was already on fire, I swear I'm not a liar (Well) I'm a little shaken, but I'm fine, thanks for asking Tell me, do you always work alone so late? Gosh, I'm a little shy standing here in my night gown Do you really have to put those tight handcuffs on?

Looking at me, then suddenly

I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

I've been bad, I've been wrong Playing a dangerous game I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane, hurricane, hurricane

Let's get in the back of your cop car, officer You can ask me anything you want Anything, anything

Do you have a girl? I don't see a ring on your finger Well, that's interesting Have you ever thought of dating a singer?

The flames are getting higher So is my desire It's kind of exciting Don't you think?

Then suddenly he's uncuffing me

I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

I've been bad, I've been wrong Playing a dangerous game I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane, hurricane, hurricane

Love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I can be the bad girl I'm getting you so hot You can be the good guy Tell him please stop

Love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

You can be the good guy (Officer) I'm in love Tell him please Stop (Officer) (Officer) You can be the good good (Officer) I'm in love Love in a hurricane

—

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

III ║ Edgestitch

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Part II: Threads | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: M

Summary: You wear those jeans for Joel when you see him again at the baby shower at Tommy and Maria's - like he asked you to.

Warnings: Spicy thoughts but not explicit, sexual tension, sexual innuendos, flirting, mention of food and drink, some language, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!Joel, no use of Y/N

Word count: 7k

Notes: It's here! This one was a long and winding road as I mentioned in Behind the Seams, I'm so relieved and excited when it all finally clicked and fell into place! I'm absolutely blown away by the love you guys have shown Joel and Pin so far, thank you, there's no greater motivation for a writer ❤️ I hope you guys enjoy the chapter!

‘Damnit, Lucy,’ you mutter under your breath, this close to stamping your foot and pouting at the door that refuses to lock up. 

Lucy may be your best friend, but you’re not blind to the fact that she literally cannot be trusted to get anything done around the shop. It’s been two weeks since she promised to get the locksmith to come in, but here you are on Friday evening, wrestling with the key that refuses to turn the last quarter of an inch in the faulty lock.

‘Hey, Pin!’

Glancing over your shoulder, you force a wane smile at Tommy, who has his hands full with a cardboard box at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Need some help?’

‘Yes, please,’ you reply sheepishly.

You nod at the bottles of wine that clink delicately against one another as he sets them down. ‘Getting ready for the party on Sunday?’

Tommy steps up to the door and wriggles the key left and right experimentally. ‘Yeah, you comin’, right?’

‘Yes, with Lucy.’

‘Good, the more the merrier!’ He makes a face at the door lock, which is not cooperating with him either. ‘You should get someone to look at it. Probably time for a new one.’

‘Lucy was supposed to get Andrew to fix it, but you know Luce.’

Tommy yanks the door knob backwards hard as he twists the key. There’s a grunt of metal, and a triumphant aha! when it finally turns, the internal mechanisms of the lock sliding into place with a satisfying click. 

You nearly fall onto your knees in relief. ‘Thank you so much, Tommy. You’re a lifesaver.’

He grins and deposits the key in your waiting palm. ‘You can ask Joel for help, you know. He’s handy with this kind of stuff.’

You blink, blindsided by the seemingly random mention of his brother - but his dimpled smile tells you otherwise.

His brother, who was so solid and broad under you on the studio floor, just a few days ago. His brother, who you can still feel pressed between your thighs, in your bed in the dead of night. His brother, who has taken up residence in your mind, waking or otherwise, since he sauntered out of your shop with that infuriatingly attractive confidence when he asked you to to wear those jeans for him again on Sunday.

Joel has existed solely and safely in the parameters of your workspace for the past fortnight and a half, with only Lucy bearing witness to whatever it is between the two of you. Having to suddenly deal with any mention of him outside of it, especially with that knowing arch of Tommy’s eyebrow, has you completely flustered. It doesn’t help that his eyes are uncannily like Joel’s, a gorgeous deep brown, expressive and sharp, though the mischief sits a lot closer to the surface in the former’s.

Mercifully, your brain unscrambles long enough for you to reach the conclusion that of course, Joel must have told Tommy that he invited you and Lucy. It’s their party, after all. Surely, he doesn’t know anything else -

Or does he?

You’ve been quiet for too long to say anything about it now, so you clumsily change the subject, stumbling over your words. ‘I, uh - I was just wondering what I could bring on Sunday?’

Tommy graciously lets you off the hook. ‘We’re a bit short on sweets, actually, if you bake.’

You latch on to that gratefully. ‘I do - what kind of cake were you thinking?’

‘Do you make a carrot cake?’

You perk up. ‘It’s my favourite!’

He flashes you a cheeky grin. ‘What a funny coincidence, it’s Joel’s as well - the only way to get carrots in him.’

Your pulse spikes with adrenaline at the unexpected tidbit Tommy drops in your lap, and you greedily squirrel that little fact away, slowly colouring in the Joel-shaped space in your head.

With a wink, Tommy bends down to pick up the wine. ‘See you in a couple of days, Pin!’

At least you have the decency to wait until he turns the corner - once he does, you sprint across the road to the Jackson Grocer’s and clear out their stock of carrots for the day.

There are many things about Jackson that throw Joel. 

The plentitude after years of rations. The safety, which comes off more jarring than comforting.

But most of all, it’s the sounds. The kettle on the boil and the pop of the toaster in the morning when Ellie gets ready for school. Friendly chatter on the high street. Laughter. It still makes him jump when he hears playful shrieks in the neighbourhood playground, blood rushing in his ears and sending him halfway across the house for his rifle before he remembers where he is.

Where he is not.

It was always loud in the QZ. Loudspeakers blaring, alarms wailing, the indistinct hum of conversation and radio through paper thin walls in the slums at all hours of the day. And he was always listening - for danger, for trouble, and everything in between.

And then all that noise had blown up, literally, with the State House. With Tess.

Joel finds it hard to remember those first few days after leaving Boston behind. Mostly the raw cuts on his knuckles that wouldn’t heal and the ring in his right ear from the explosion, lingering like a pesky fly. 

But he knows it was Ellie who broke that silence first. And once that door was kicked down - 

‘Fuck no, dude!’

His face snaps up and he scowls across the lawn, the stern reprimand rolling off his tongue like second nature. ‘Ellie!’

She’s sitting with her friends, crowded around her most prized possession of the moment, a boombox she found in the thrift shop a couple of months ago and begged him to buy and fix up for her. 

Not that she needed to do much begging, he caved far too easily. It plays a bit wonky - the bass too heavy - still, it does the trick.

The teenagers around her cower immediately, but she defiantly stands her ground. ‘What?’

‘Watch your language,’ he barks, no real bite behind it.

She rolls her eyes so hard her head falls back, and he has to press his lips together to not smile.

It helps him sleep better at night seeing Ellie fit right in - at least one of them has. She doesn’t hate going to school half as much as she pretends to, the routine of homework and chores anchoring her to small town life. She’s even volunteered to help out at the farm, spending most afternoons in the stables with the horses.

There are times when he wonders to which extent all this is a coping mechanism. But well, at least she’s coping.

And while Joel still hasn’t made up his mind about Jackson, its townsfolk seem to have unilaterally made theirs up about him. The wary whispers and watchful stares have given way to cautious gestures of acknowledgement, some even bold enough to throw a good morning in his general direction as he walks down the street. 

They nod at him now as they file into the garden party, still keeping their distance, but not as much as he would’ve liked.

The expectant parents have gone all out for the occasion. Several tables are lined up end to end in the middle of the garden, filling up with potluck dishes as guests arrive. Tommy lords over the barbeque, the brisket having been smoking since dawn, with chicken, bacon and homemade sausages sizzling on the grill. Maria is in her element, flitting from well wisher to well wisher with a protective hand over her rounded belly, making sure everyone has a drink and a loaded plate in hand.

Joel hovers in no man’s land, dodging the crowds and sipping on beer that has long gone flat, trying to remember the last time he celebrated anything. 

Well, he supposes dinner parties at Bill and Frank’s count, as far and few in between as they were. Not that they ever celebrated anything specific, per se - they didn’t need a reason beyond the fact that they were all still alive and kicking. Bill, bless his soul, did make a mean roast, and Frank used to host with enough flair for forty instead of four. Tess had a black dress she stowed away at the back of her closet for these parties, and a red one that she saved for the really special occasions -

A strong hand on his back jolts him forward and out of his thoughts, spilling lukewarm beer over his fingers.

‘Havin’ a good time, brother?’ asks Tommy jovially, cheeks stretched with joy.

‘I was just now,’ he grunts pointedly.

Tommy grins. ‘Lighten up, man. Get drunk, be merry! You’re gonna be an uncle.’

‘Don’t try to butter me up. I ain’t babysittin’ for you.’

Thumping his chest in mock hurt, he asks, ‘What about all those times I babysat Sarah, man?’

Joel gives him a long-suffering side stare. ‘Please. You used to hire that college chick ‘cross the street to babysit whenever you were supposed to. Then you’d hit on her all night long.’

Tommy chuckles. ‘Damn, your mind’s in better shape than I give you credit for, old man.’

He can’t help a smile. ‘But for all your devious plans to get into her babysitter’s pants, Sarah did love her Uncle Tommy.’

He goes quiet for a beat and takes a sip of his beer, his eyes softening. ‘I think about that girl every single day, y’know.’ 

Joel nods, staring into his own beer, and it suddenly strikes him that he’s missed the shape of her name on his lips. ‘I know.’

Tommy nudges him on the shoulder. ‘I can only hope my kid will love their Uncle Joel just as much.’

Eventually, he harrumphs, ‘If they do - I’ll think about the babysittin’.’

Tommy chortles just as the backdoor to the porch swings open with a loud creak.

Joel spots you easily, trailing one step behind Lucy. You’re holding onto a cake on a round wooden board like a security blanket, shoulders tense and eyes wide at the noise of the festivities. Spotting Maria, Lucy bounds down the stairs, leaving you hesitating at the landing, and -

You’re wearing the jeans he asked you to.

Something primal swells in the cavity of his chest, between his ribs - a pride that is distinctly male.

Tommy shouts, ‘Pin! Over here!’

Joel shifts on his feet, swallowing thickly as you approach. If your shy smile is anything to go by, he’s not the only one feeling the nerves.

His brother gives you a careful hug around the cake and plants a kiss on your cheek. When he steps aside, Joel hesitates, uneasy with having an audience, his palms suddenly clammy with indecision.

Does he… hug you? He can count on three fingers who he’s hugged for the past twenty years, and he’s sorely out of practice. A kiss is an option, but the way his eyes dart to your mouth, it’s dangerous even entertaining that thought - 

Tommy elbows him in the ribs and puts him out of his misery. ‘Why don’t you kids catch up, I think the brisket’s burnin’. Have fun tonight!’

Joel can feel the tip of his ears turning red as he stands there with his drink, one hand shoved in his back pocket, not knowing how to do this. How to entertain. Clearing his throat, he stammers, ‘Uh - can I get you a drink or somethin’?’

You give him a small smile, lips moving in an answer too quiet to reach him over the music. Rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, he admits, ‘Sorry, I can’t hear you. I’m uh - a bit deaf in my right ear.’

You look apologetic, speaking up, ‘I’m sorry - I didn’t know.’

With a shrug, he jokes, ‘It’s ok, I’m a bit broken all over.’

You pinch your lips, and he recoginses that face - he knows that you want to disagree with him. But you hold your tongue, skirting around him to his good ear, and he stoops to close the distance, even though he doesn’t need to.

Your breath brushes his ear. ‘I’d love a drink, but I want to put this cake away first.’

‘Yes, of course - sorry, don’t know where my manners went.’ He puts his unfinished beer away and takes the cake from you despite your protests. The potluck table is packed to the brim, so he gestures towards the house. ‘It might have to go into the kitchen for now.’

You follow him, side by side with one polite body width between you, past bands of neighbours and friends catching up, the fairy lights catching your eyes and the well-kept lawn crunching beneath your soles. Unsurprisingly, you feel the weight of curious stares on your back as you go - Joel is still very much a novelty around town. Neither of you speak until he holds open the backdoor for you to slip inside.

It’s quiet in the kitchen, the muted conversation outside a low hum through the double-glazed windows. The free-standing island is already chock full of all kinds of baked goods and pudding, and Joel has to move an actual jelly castle (which wriggles precariously) to free up space for your contribution.

Dusting his hands, Joel turns to you. ‘That carrot cake?’

You nod, keeping mum.

‘It’s my favourite.’

‘I know - Tommy told me,’ you confess with a bashful half-shrug.

His warm eyes crinkle at the corners. ‘Talkin’ about me behind my back, sweetheart?’

Your breath quickens at the sweetheart, and you wonder if the thrill of the nickname will ever wear thin. Emboldened, you tilt your head to one side and tease, ‘Why? You like the attention?’

A smirk on his lips, he steps into your space, the very proximity of him stealing the air from your lungs. ‘I might if you’re not careful.’

And there you are again - with nothing more than a dozen words exchanged and even more unsaid - on the brink of something, right where you left off on the workshop floor.

‘Wanna grab a bite to eat?’

Tucked away in an intimate corner of the back porch in a wicker chair, Joel surveys the party with a seriousness that is borderline comical. 

The strategist in him clearly favours the higher ground the porch affords him so he can keep an eye on everyone and spot whoever approaches from a distance. His seat is an easy three steps to the door, an escape plan in his back pocket. For all his stillness, the intensity is unmistakable, if slightly out of place in a baby shower.

Two dirty plates licked clean are stacked on the coffee table between you, piled high with bones and leftover gravy, the delicious food sitting warm in your stomach.

‘They’re comin’ closer,’ Joel complains, taking a long gulp of his beer.

‘I guess they figure if I’m talking to you, it means that you don’t actually bite,’ you quip.

‘Will they back off if I make you cry?’

Your shoulders quake with a chuckle. ‘I think you’re too much of a gentleman to do that, Joel Miller.’

You’re taken aback by the flash of heat in his answering glance, as if there’s something he wants to say. But then, he changes his mind and leans back in his chair, one palm resting on his spread thighs, and he nods towards a couple standing close to the barbeque.

‘Who’s that over there? He lives on my street.’

‘That’s Andrew. He owns the only hot tub in Jackson.’

Joel splutters, ‘A hot tub?’

‘To be fair, it came with his house, but he managed to connect it to the water a few months ago.’

He snorts. ‘Not very communist of him to divert public resources for a private hot tub.’

‘Let’s just say Jackson is a commune with American characteristics,’ you say diplomatically.

He arches an eyebrow at you. ‘A cynic, sweetheart?’

You reply matter-of-factly, ‘We all know how communism ended.’

Fuck. He takes a swig of his beer and swallows hard. A woman after his own heart.

‘You want to keep him on your good side though. He’s really handy with electrics and the like.’

He shrugs. ‘So am I.’

You turn to him, surprised. ‘Oh?’

‘I was a contractor in another life.’

He notices your attention flicker to his hands, before you catch yourself and look away bashfully. ‘That’s good to know.’

‘You need things fixed?’ he asks, and promptly wants to kick himself for sounding so hopeful to be of service.

‘Here and there,’ you say with a dismissive wave. ‘It’s not important. It’ll hold up.’

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip thoughtfully. You have to work on asking for things, but it’s ok - he doesn’t push you. He files that away for later.

Glancing across the yard, he catches Ellie’s eye, who’s arching an inquisitive eyebrow and pointing straight at you with all the subtlety of a flying brick. He knows he should probably introduce you at some point, but he’s not ready to share your attention with someone else just yet, let alone the nosy teenage loudmouth.

Joel gives her a firm shake of the head, to which she responds with a disgruntled I’m watching you gesture.

Ignoring her for now - and knowing that he’ll pay for it later - he asks you, ‘And who’s that in the red dress?’

You crane your neck until you spot her. ‘Ah, that’s Patricia. She’s the dance teacher down at the school.’

‘Why’s she starin’ at me?’ he mutters.

You shoot him an amused grin. ‘Why, it looks like you’ve caught the fancy of our local femme fatale.’

He scoffs. ‘Should I be worried?’

‘Well, she’s been married and divorced three times since she arrived,’ you answer with a straight face. ‘The last one just disappeared. Never found his body.’

Joel stares at you in stunned silence, until you let out a poorly contained giggle. He grumbles, ‘Havin’ fun pullin’ my leg, sweetheart?’

‘Just a bit,’ you tease.

‘I liked you better when you were shy,’ he ribs.

You shrug. ‘Too late. You don’t scare me anymore.’

Glancing the other way, Joel sits up in alarm at the flutter of crimson fabric. ‘Shit, I think she’s comin’ this way.’

‘Time for carrot cake?’ you prompt.

He’s out of his chair quicker than you’d expect his knees would allow him to. ‘Let’s go, sweetheart.’

The state of the kitchen island stops you in your tracks, while Joel lets out a low whistle behind you. ‘Jackson really turned out for this party, huh?’

‘Well, your brother and sister-in-law are pretty popular around town,’ you quip.

You didn’t think it was possible, but every square inch of the kitchen island is now jam-packed with sugary confections, stacked on top of one another.

‘I can’t even find the bloody cake,’ you laugh, literally searching high and low as you skirt the parameter.

On the other side of the island, Joel tosses a dry good luck in your direction and puts the dirty plates and cutlery that he brought in into the sink with a clatter, turning on the hot water. You stutter to a stop opposite him, gawking at how his broad shoulders fill the frame of the window that sits in front of the sink, before your gaze inadvertently trails south - over the nip of his waist and the hem of his shirt skirting the back pockets of his jeans. You find yourself wishing he’d tucked the tails in.

Rooted to the spot, you watch him unbutton the cuffs on his flannel shirt and push up the sleeves to the crease of his elbows, baring his strong forearms. Your mouth goes dry despite the wine you’ve been sipping on all evening, peering at the sinewy muscles flexing and straining as he lathers the plates with an offhand familiarity, his thick fingers dwarfing the sponge in as he works the grease stains. 

Making quick but thorough work of the washing up, Joel dries the plates and then runs the tea towel over his big hands and wrists, catching you staring as he turns around. If he knows you’ve been watching all along, he lets it slide. Tossing the towel to one side, heat prickles under your cheeks when he sidles up to you with the clean plates.

The sight of this man doing something as mundane as dishes really shouldn’t get you this hot and bothered.

‘Is that cream cheese?’ he asks conversationally with a nod at your cake, which you have found sitting on top of a tall plastic caddy, a chocolate cake inside.

Having to consciously unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, you’re surprised your voice doesn’t shake. ‘It’s not carrot cake without it.’

‘Where did you get the cream cheese? Never seen any ‘round town.’

Almost bashful, you admit, ‘I made it.’

His eyebrows shoot up. ‘You made cream cheese? How?’

‘It’s not that big a deal. It’s just milk, lemon and salt,’ you say, trying to downplay it. Your arms are definitely not aching from the hours of straining and beating and whipping.

‘And the walnuts?’ he asks.

‘Someone I know grows it,’ you say vaguely.

Joel hums doubtfully. ‘Ain’t seen any walnut trees in town.’

Biting your bottom lip, you can pinpoint the exact moment he figures it out, brows drawing together in a frown. ‘The only ones I’ve seen are outside the walls, ‘round the north side of the gates.’

Knowing for a fact that you’re a terrible liar, you don’t even try. You choose to ignore him, idly smoothing the frosting on top with a clean knife, trying not to flinch at the weight of his gaze on you.

‘Sweetheart, please tell me you didn’t go outside just to get walnuts for me.’

‘Not for you,’ you shoot back unconvincingly, flustered. ‘I made the cake for Tommy and Maria.’

Lies. You know it. He knows it.

His shoulders stiffen, the fabric of his shirt bunching with the movement. ‘You can’t just go outside like that, y’know, there could be infected ‘round -’

‘Joel, I’ve been living here for years, I know what I’m doing,’ you argue huffily, not expecting a lecture, of all things. ‘I’m not stupid.’

He shakes his head. ‘Ain’t what I’m sayin’, Pin -’

‘Just leave it, ok?’ you reply sharply and, signalling an end to the conversation, you slice into the cake with an aggressive stab - not noticing that it is hanging over the edge of the caddy below. 

You squeak when it flips unceremoniously, and on pure impulse, you pitch forward to stop its upward trajectory, meeting it mid-air with an ominous splat.

‘Fuck!’

To his credit, Joel barely skips a beat, quickly but calmly grabbing hold of the cake board and pulling it off you, setting it down on the counter, while you gape in dismay at the damage done. 

The side of the cake that made contact with you is smushed in, most of the thick frosting now painted all over your front, from your neck down to the lovely, thin cashmere top that Lucy picked out for you for the party.

You really hope there’s a big guy up there watching, because someone might as well enjoy this mortifying brand of comedy you keep dishing out around this man.

Two seconds more, and you’re pretty sure you would’ve burst into tears for lack of knowing what else to do - but without another word, Joel takes the lead, wrapping a firm hand around your wrist and pulling you out of the kitchen. 

You gratefully let him.

It’s none of your business really, but it comforts you that Joel’s obviously here often enough to know his way around the house.

You glance around the dimly lit room where he deposited you on the edge of a neatly made bed, water trickling in the adjoining ensuite. When he returns, he has a small, wet towel in his hands. Towering over you, the low lights don’t quite reach his face, but you can see the way his gaze slips downwards, carefully, as if he’s afraid to startle you.

But he doesn’t - not even when he slides the crook of his fingers under your chin, tilting your face up and opening up your throat.

His lips twitch wryly. ‘What a waste of perfectly good cream cheese.’

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you at the absurdity of the situation. ‘Must something always go wrong whenever we’re in the same room?’

The corner of his mouth teases a smile. ‘Never a dull moment with you, sweetheart.’

You smile back, but it falters when his eyes burn in a quiet but unmistakable smoulder. 

‘May I?’

You’re not even sure what he’s asking. But he can ask you anything in that raspy, low baritone, and there will always only be one answer.

At your nod, Joel drags the tip of his index finger down the column of your neck, and your lips part when it glides over your windpipe - pressing just hard enough for you to feel the pressure - collecting the velvety frosting as it goes. 

Then, holding your eyes, he sucks the cream cheese off his fingertip, a hum deep in his throat. ‘Delicious, sweetheart.’

You’re sitting down, but somehow, you still feel your knees give way at how he smacks his lips at the sugary aftertaste.

He looms closer, bending at the waist and for one moment of madness, you think he might lean down and lick your neck clean. 

At the prospect of those plush lips and the burn of his silvered, patchy beard on your skin, your head tilts further back invitingly. His pupils dilate and his nostrils flare, like he’s picking up on what you’re thinking, and his eyes dip to your mouth.

But he doesn’t.

You don’t even have time to be disappointed before Joel carefully gets down on one knee in front of you, one palm landing on the mattress next to your hip for balance. Knowing the state of his joints, you want to ask if he needs a pillow, but instead of your mouth, it’s your thighs that part to make room for him. His chest keeps them splayed open, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his ribcage with each breath through the denim. 

You try to focus on your own breathing as Joel presses the wet towel to your skin and mops up the sticky mess, his face set seriously as he cleans you up inch by inch. But all you can think about is how you can feel the imprint of his fingers through the thin fabric, and how the span of his hand can easily fit over the column of your throat -

You don’t realise you’re leaning into him until he draws back when he’s done, and you tip forward, chasing his touch. His knee groans as he stands up to his full height, and he nods towards the bathroom with a wait here in his eyes.

The water is scalding as Joel washes out the frosting from the towel, but he keeps his hands under the tap, longer than he needs to. Wringing it dry, he takes a moment, wet palms gripping the cold porcelain edge of the bathroom sink, shoulders hunched over as he tells himself to calm the fuck down.

Except, he is calm. He’s held back, even when you looked at him with such straightforward, honest want that has him grinding his teeth.

Thing is, he knows you would’ve let him nudge you backwards into the mattress and crowd you between his arms, switching places the two of you were in under your sewing desk in the workshop.

He knows you would’ve let him wrap your legs around his hips, sliding his palms up the back of your thighs in those skin tight jeans - the sight of which is enough to make his head spin - and he knows you would’ve let him nip, suck, lick the tangy buttercream off your very neck. 

Not only would you have let him - you would’ve trusted him to do all those things to you.

That last realisation awakens something he’s not so sure he has a handle on. But he knows for a fact that with the whole of Jackson milling about downstairs, in the middle of his brother’s baby shower, is neither the place nor the time.

You’re where he left you when he steps back into the bedroom, your palms planted on the bed, your shoulders relaxed. The neckline of your blouse gapes loosely, teasing the soft skin of your cleavage.

Joel breaks the loaded silence with a bit of common sense. ‘You best get that top off and soak it in the bath before the stains really set in, sweetheart.’

You bite your lip hesitantly. ‘I - I don’t have anything to change into.’

‘You can have my shirt,’ he offers.

You sit up, attention piqued, when his hands move to the top of his flannel, thick fingers sliding each button out of the holes one by one. You know he’s just taking off his shirt, but you can’t help the way your jaw goes slack, watching shamelessly, the comforter twisting in your grip as you scrabble for something to hold onto. 

Joel doesn’t understand why you’re looking at him like that, but it’s so flattering to watch you watch him, eyes hooded and your tongue darting out to wet your bottom lip, like he’s giving you a fucking strip tease or something. 

Goddamn if it doesn’t go straight to his head.

A white undervest comes into view, inch by inch, as the shirt falls open, the thin fabric pulled taut at the seams over the broad stretch of his chest. When the last button is undone, he shrugs the shirt off with a smooth roll of his arms, and your jaw drops.

The undervest barely contains the bulk of him, and you’ll be damned if you know where to look first - the lean, solid line of his arms, or the effortless ripple of muscle in his shoulders - but it’s lower where your attention makes landing, and it takes you a second to realise why.

He’s not sucking in his tummy.

The swell of his abdomen sits above the top of his jeans, where the vest is neatly tucked in. You remember too well the brush of that soft strip of skin against the back of your hands when you were on your knees, cutting him out of his jeans; and then beneath you, straddling him under the sewing table. 

While there’s an undercurrent of self-consciousness in the way he holds himself, conspicuously missing is the self-deprecation that drew your ire the day he walked into your shop with a broken zipper. A tentative confidence has taken its place, which is at the same time so endearingly vulnerable, as if your reaction to the little show he gave you just now isn’t enough to assure him of what you’re thinking.

Your fingers twitch, yearning to reach out and tug him in by the front of his jeans, to untuck that vest and push it up and off. You want to snake your hands around his waist, hold him to you by the small of his back, and starting with his tummy, kiss your way across the soft belly - maybe with a cheeky scrape of teeth - up to his firm chest, his strong neck and to his lips. 

Or maybe, the calling southwards will win out. You’ll push him back to make room for yourself at his feet, nudging your way down his front with your nose, breathe him in, your hands finding his belt buckle and tugging it out of the loops instead. Never mind you've lost count of how many years it's been since you've wanted to do that, or if you remember how at all -

‘Pin.’

Your whole body jolts backwards when his voice pierces through your addled haze, low and raspy, snapping out of your sordid stupor almost grumpily - how rude of him to interrupt? - only to find him peering down at you with a lopsided smile. 

‘Get changed, sweetheart. I’ll be right back.’

Leaving your top to soak in the sink, you pad back into the bedroom in just your bra, and you stare down at his shirt laid out neatly on top of the bed.

You press your palm over where his heart would be, the flannel still warm. For one indulgent moment, you pick up the shirt and hug it to you. It smells like him - the outdoors, a crisp spring day, with a whiff of the barbeque smoke from downstairs. You bury your nose into the soft fabric, eyes closed, imagining the weight and shape of him in it. 

Even as you put your arms through the sleeves to button it up, you already know it will be hard giving it back. You leave the last three buttons undone and you’ve just tied up the too-long ends in a double knot when there’s a polite but firm knock on the door. 

‘You decent?’

‘Yes.’

You hope your face doesn’t fall too obviously at the sight of Joel wearing a shirt again, probably one borrowed from Tommy. He leaves it unbuttoned though, which is small consolation. The air hums between you with stolen glances and words unsaid.

‘You wore those jeans for me,’ he says suddenly.

The for me rolls off his tongue coated in his delectable Southern drawl and a heady satisfaction.

You decide to be brave and shrug one shoulder in a show of attitude. ‘It was the only thing I didn’t have in the wash.’

His grin makes your heart swell. Stepping out of the open doorway, his eyes trailing heat where they linger over you, he says, ‘You look good in my shirt, sweetheart. Real good.’

You bite your lower lip at the compliment, replying shyly, ‘I like this look on you too.’

‘Used to be Tommy’s uniform during our contractor days,’ he reminiscences. ‘I’m just missing the utility belt.’

Oh. You actually find it offensive that the fleeting mention of something as banal as a utility belt should get you going like this. You try to palm off a non-committal hum, but your body betrays you with a strangled choking sound that gives you away.

Joel arches an eyebrow and closes the gap between you with three long, deliberate steps, one finger skimming where his shirt meets the waistband of your jeans. He teases with a smirk, ‘What’s that, sweetheart? This contractor look doin’ somethin’ for you?’

Your cheeks grow hot as both his palms latch boldly onto your hips, and you swear you can feel the burn of his fingertips through the denim, a moan gargling in your throat as your ability to form words abandons you.

‘That a yes?’ he prompts, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops in your jeans and tugging your body flush against his, his stubbled chin brushing the sensitive crook of your neck as he speaks into your ear.

‘Joel,’ you whine, which is the best you can do right now, grabbing onto the open flaps of his shirt just to stay upright.

You feel the rumble that goes through his chest under your palms when he purrs, smiling down at you, head cocked to one side with a playful condescension that’s going to be the end of you. ‘Yes, Pin?’

Your mouth opens, but you’ll never get to find out what you intended to say, because you hear it first - his right ear is to the door - the thunder of rubber soles on the stairs, and you're lucky you manage to stumble two steps back before a deafening (no pun intended), drawn-out call of his name follows.

‘JOOOOOOELLLL!’

Ellie crashes into the doorway with all the grace of a bull in a china shop, slightly out of breath like she’s been running all over the place searching for him, already in the middle of a sentence, as usual. 

‘- also Maria says they’re doing a speech now and you’re not getting out of -’ she breaks off abruptly when she spots you, eyes wide and brows - all one and a half of them - reaching for her hairline. ‘Oh shiiiiiit.’

Running a tired hand down his face, Joel’s sigh sounds a lot like surrender. ‘Ellie, this is Pin. Pin, I’m sorry.’

You bite your lip to hold back a laugh at the resignation in his tone as the teenager wrinkles her nose. ‘Pin? That’s a weird name.’

‘Ellie!’

You smile. ‘It’s ok. Pin's just my nickname. I’m a seamstress at the Main Street Outfitters.’

Her face lights up excitedly, an open book if you’ve ever seen one. ‘No shit! I’ve been bugging Joel for a leather jacket for ages. Can I get one?’

‘Please,’ he interjects.

Ellie tucks in her chin and juts out her bottom lip at you. ‘Please?’

You demur. ‘Well, it depends on what you can trade in for it.’

‘My boombox!’ she volunteers without skipping a beat. 

Joel scoffs. ‘Good to know those three weeks fixing that piece of junk for you was time well spent.'

‘Sorry, man, but I can’t wear a boombox can I?’ she argues.

Giving Joel an amused look, you come to his rescue. ‘I’m sorry, Ellie, but we only take clothes in exchange.’ At the way she deflates, you counteroffer, ‘Or, you can come work at the shop on Saturdays for the next couple of months. Lucy always needs help out front, and you get a staff discount.’

He turns to you, protesting, ‘That’s very kind, but it ain’t necessary -’

Ellie cuts in, rushing up to you to shake your hand before you can take it back. ‘Deal! When can I start?’

‘There’s no rush,’ you reply with a chuckle. ‘I’ll get back to you next week.’

Stepping back, Ellie winks, ‘So - let’s put a pin in it for now?’

Joel groans at the terrible pun. ‘Get outta here!’

She cackles, firing triumphant finger guns at you as she retreats. ‘What? Pin liked it, she laughed! You’re no fun old man!’ 

She then pauses by the door, her eyes narrowing as she zeroes in on something smeared on your jeans. ‘Wait - what’s that white stuff on your leg?’

‘It’s cream cheese, you little shit!’ Joel snaps as your ears burn in embarrassment. ‘Out!’

She scampers out of sight, but then reverses into view, sneakers squeaking. ‘ - Are you wearing Joel’s shirt?’

‘ELLIE!’

She throws her hands up. ‘Alright, I’m gone, I’m gone! See ya Pin!’

Joel is the very picture of an embarrassed dad, rubbing the back of his neck with a wince. ‘Sorry, she’s a handful.’

You grin, ‘She’s just a teenager.’

‘You can say that again.’

The quiet seems louder after Ellie, and you restlessly pick at the sleeves. Lifting your eyes shyly, it seems the moment has passed - but Joel has other ideas.

‘C’mere,’ he hums, drawing you close again with one hand on your waist, peering down at you through his lashes. ‘This ok?’

At your nod, he brushes his thumb on your bottom lip, catching the soft plump skin, and your tongue darts out to taste him, his eyes darkening.

‘Can I kiss you, sweetheart?’ he asks, voice hoarse.

It’s been years. Years since anyone has cared enough to kiss you, let alone cared enough to ask if they could. And it’s as if he knows - you don’t know if you’ve somehow given it away, or maybe it’s just him. 

‘Yes, Joel.’

He coaxes you closer so that you’re pressed along the whole length of him. His big palms are warm and solid on the small of your back, holding you to him like he intends for you to have trouble standing after he’s done with you. 

The tip of his nose bumps into your cheek, nudging its way across and down, and your eyes slide shut when his shaky exhale grazes your gently parted mouth. Your breath hitches at the sweet burn of his beard on your jaw, fingers grabbing onto the scruff of his neck when he finally, finally brushes his lips against yours.

For a man as hardened as Joel Miller, he sure kisses soft. He steals a whimper straight from your throat with nothing more than the clever angling of his lips, the slow drag of tongue on tongue, and a growl deep in his windpipe that you answer with your own moan.

You don’t even have the presence of mind to be embarrassed when your shins knock into his, breaking the kiss with a laugh as Joel hauls you up into his chest, looking very much pleased that he’s literally made your knees buckle.

‘Sorry,’ you squeak, beaming despite yourself.

‘You really know how to flatter a guy, sweetheart,’ he answers, his voice warming you like a smokey campfire, steadying by his hands on your hips.

‘We should probably go before Ellie comes back for us,’ you say reluctantly.

Joel huffs, ‘Ain’t gonna hear the end of it if she does.’

‘Something tells me you won’t be hearing the end of it tonight anyway,’ you tease.

He chucks you gently under the chin, his eyes soft. ‘Let’s go, sweetheart.’

‘You’ve made yourself scarce,’ remarks Lucy as she ambles up to you with a glass of wine running low. ‘Where you been, hon?’

‘Had some trouble with the cake,’ you answer vaguely.

‘Sure,’ she winks at you, unconvinced. ‘If we’re calling him that.’

Right on cue, Joel strides across the lawn with three plates to join you. ‘Thought you might want some of Pin’s carrot cake.’

‘Such a gentleman, Joel Miller,’ chirps Lucy, making what can only be described as a 'thirst face' at you when his back is turned to her.

‘Thanks, Joel,’ you smile at him, letting your fingers graze his deliberately when you take the plate from him.

Saluting you with a forkful of cake, he says, ‘Thank you for bakin’, sweetheart.’

You watch as his lips close around the fork, dragging the cake clean off the slots, cream cheese smearing the corner of his mouth. He frowns, as if in deep pain as he chews, Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows.

‘Okay?’ you ask nervously, your slice still untouched.

‘Perfect,’ he declares, already having a second, bigger bite. Knowing he doesn’t have a superfluous bone in his body, your chest warms at his words.

‘Wait a second,’ Lucy interrupts, bringing up her plate to inspect it closely. ‘Why does the cake look all wonky?’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, Luce,’ you answer coolly, taking a bite yourself.

Humming around a mouthful of moist crumb, the sweet carrot balanced out by the tangy frosting, you meet Joel’s eyes in the soft glow of fairy lights, and he flashes you a conspiratorial smile that makes you grin.

More notes: On Ellie - I was so so nervous about writing our resident teenage badass. I hope I've done her justice, I certainly had a lot of fun writing her introduction to Pin! If you're interested in a detailed deep dive into my process writing this chapter, I do recommend you read the Behind the Seams for this part ❤️

I also went back and forth on the tone and style of this chapter a lot. I wasn’t happy with the way it read, probably still not 100% happy. I like the way Seams and Threads were written better, but the fact is that this chapter is a very different setting and narrative compared to the first two, so I’m trying to be too hard on myself.

So, I have some ideas for where the story will go from here, but nothing concrete. As I've mentioned, I see this fic as more of a loose-fit series, so there's no overarching plot per se, but there's definitely a lot of room for future episodes of these two - I mean, they haven't even done the deed yet 😉

Comments, asks and reblogs are greatly appreciated as always! Thank you so much for reading, I'm so excited to hear what you guys thought of this chapter 😘

[perrywrites]

Guys who would love a dependent partner; 

TW for toxicity, mild yandere subtext

includes; Isagi, Hiori, Reo, Bachira

Isagi: he wouldn’t really ever admit this outloud, but on some level, he’s well aware of how much you needing him feeds his ego. It reassures him in a way nothing else can, the fact that you need him so vividly and desperately, how dependent you are on him. It’s the fact that you don’t want to leave him, that you can’t leave him; he doesn’t have to worry about you getting away from him - he can’t even fathom it, when you’re the one always worrying about him leaving you. Even though the mere idea of that is preposterous, impossible, heretical and beyond blasphemous. And when he shushes you, patiently, comforting you so sweetly of that truth, he finds some sick part of himself feeling happy about getting to do so, pride blooming at the fact that you need his arms around you to feel safe and reassured. He honestly doesn’t mind reassuring you, when it allows him his own reassurance, allows him to be even closer with you - it allows him to be codependent without having to be overt about it. He doesn’t have to seek out your reassurance, subtly, when you’re already giving it to him in such an ego-boasting form. Even better is how easily potential arguments get settled - he doesn’t have to be jealous of or worry about other guys, even subtly mentioning something to you works and you’re already getting rid of them or distancing yourself, babbling apologies and pleading as you latch onto an affectionate and ‘forgiving’ Yoichi. He essentially gets a free ticket to be as possessive as he wants to be without really worrying about it, not when you give in so easily, or not when you enjoy it so much either… After all, to you as well, there is no greater reassurance than the possessiveness he tries so hard to convince himself is normal. 

Hiori: although growing up Hiori came to the conclusion he wants a partnership where the two of you can give each other space, this quickly changes once he actually falls in love. The magic of having someone who actually sees him - sees Hiori Yo - and loves him wholeheartedly is beyond enthralling, and more than addictive. He has never experienced something like this in his life, unconditional love and being accepted for who he is - and the mere thought of losing it sends him spiralling internally. A strange new fear sets in - a fear that you’ll leave him, or that you’ll fall out of love with him. It’s persistent, a heinous plague on his heart, but as expected of you, you know how to heal him. You need him, you need him so much, so desperately, that those fears and anxieties settle the moment he is interacting with you, and eventually he starts accepting your complete dependence on him as a truth. The reality is that emotionally, you are completely reliant on him, your sense of safety depends on him loving you back - and the same is true for him. You need him as badly as he needs you, and that comforts him more than anything else. You can never leave him, you need him, without him you’re nothing, you’re doomed, and that is the ultimate assurance.

Reo: honestly the best thing he could ask for. He’ll never be satisfied, though, knowing that you’re just as obsessed with him as he is with you isn’t enough. It just isn’t enough. But it still soothes the ruthless burn of possessiveness in his throat, when you’re so eager to please him, not fighting back on issues and swiftly getting rid of all your male contacts. He has enough mercy to let you keep your family, and enough begrudging sense to let you keep your colleagues - but he will have all your passwords and check your messages regularly. Letting you message your male colleagues is temporary, though - very temporary. After all, why do you need to work when you have him as your partner? In fact, why do you need to work ever? You guys are going to get married, after all. Just let him take care of you - and in return, give up all of your autonomy to him. The best part? You’ll willingly throw away all of your autonomy just to belong to him. You’re the best wife he could ever ask for. 

Bachira: the thing is, he’s just as dependent on you, overtly so, and not subtly, so knowing that you’re this dependent on him as well is very comforting. To him, it shows that you love him when you’re as obsessed with him as he is with you - because when he falls in love, he falls in love hard - and only once. Bachira Meguru is incapable of falling in love twice, so knowing that you love him in the same emotionally unstable way makes him love you even more. You’re not bothered by his clinginess and near debilitating dependence on you, infact, you love it - because you’re the same as him. It even allows him some privileges - if it makes him anxious, you’re always willing to do anything to fix it. He would never ask you to cut someone off though, never, and nor does he need to, when you’re this terrified of losing him that you constantly make sure he’s fine with all aspects of your life. He trusts you more than anything, honestly, and he doesn’t think you’ll cheat or leave him for someone else, but he’s possessive. Far more possessive than is obvious from his cute pouts and grumpy behaviour when he wants to monopolise you - it’s good that you give in so quickly. He’s lucky you love him so much, right?

[ladyluscinia]

Ok, I think I might be exiting the "are you fucking kidding me?" period and ready to make a real argument, so lets talk about Three Act Structure!

Is OFMD S2 just the "Darkest Hour"?

A very common explanation I've been seeing for some of the... controversial... aspects of S2 is that it's meant to be that way. That the middle act is where the protagonists hit their lowest point. Where we get the big failure point. Where everything looks kind of shit.

S2 is supposedly just that point. It's The Empire Strikes Back. People have been making that comparison since before the first episodes even dropped, telling everyone to expect something that could be disappointing or unsatisfying - it's just a matter of needing to wait for S3 to pull it all together.

It's not a baseless framework to consider the show through - I'm pretty sure David Jenkins has mentioned it in interviews (or at least mentioned he planned for three acts / seasons) so it's certainly worth asking how he's doing at the 2/3rd mark.

So - quick summary of Three Act Structure:

Act 1 introduces our characters and world. It includes the inciting incident of the story and the first plot point, where a) the protagonist loses the ability to return to their normal life, and b) the story raises whatever dramatic question will drive the entire plot. Act 2 is rising action and usually most of the story. The protagonist tries to fix things and fucks them up worse, in the process learning new skills and character developing to overcome their flaws. Act 3 is the protagonist taking one more shot, but this time they are ready. We get the climax of the story, the dramatic question gets an answer, and then the story closes.

If you want examples, the Star Wars Original Trilogy is a very popular template. And, hell, he said it was a pirate story... the main Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy also does a solid job with their three acts.

Let's compare. (Spoiler: I'm not impressed 🤨)

---

First thing I need to establish... Wait. Two things. First is that Three Act Structure is flexible, so we can't really analyze success or failure by pulling up a list of necessary plot beats that should have been hit in X order. Second is that if you tell me you are writing a romance with a Three Act Structure - where "the relationship is the story" - the first thing I'm going to do is ask you how you are adapting it. Because while there's not necessarily anything preventing you from applying this to a character driven plot, most people are familiar with it as plot structure for externally driven conflict.

Unless there's a reason the status of the main relationship is intrinsically tied up in the current status of the war against the evil empire, a standard Three Act Structure is going to entail either an antagonistic force that absolutely wants your main couple apart being the main relationship obstacle OR the romance aspect being a subplot to the protagonist's narrative adventure. None of those sound like how the show has been described.

So how is OFMD adapting it?

---

Act 1

(Can't figure out how well Act 2 is doing if we don't start at setup.)

Right out the gate, OFMD breaks one of the main "rules" for a story where the Acts are delivered in three parts. Namely the one where the first Act is treated as an acceptable standalone story, with it's own satisfying yet open ended conclusion.

In Star Wars, A New Hope ends with the princess rescued, Luke finding the Force, Han finding his loyalty, and the Death Star destroyed. The Empire isn't defeated, the antagonists still live... the story is not over, but this one movie doesn't feel unfinished.

Similarly, Curse of the Black Pearl gives Jack his ship back, Elizabeth and Will get together, and Norrington has the English Navy let them all off the hook and give Jack and the pirates one day's head start.

OFMD's final beat of S1 being Kraken Arc starting is not that, even if Stede returning to sea is still a pretty hopeful note. Now... I don't necessarily think this was a bad call. At least, not if the story is the relationship. It's easy to close on a happy ending and then fuck it up next movie if the conflict is external and coming for them. Not so much if you're driving the story with your protagonists' flaws, in part because it should be really obvious at the end of setup that your main characters need development and can't run off together right now. I actually like that they were risk-takers and let S1 look at the situation clearly vs doing a fragile happy end, because it takes into account the difference between a character-driven and plot-driven narrative.

I think OFMD's Act 1 actually ends at maybe the Act of Grace? Well, there through the kiss on the beach, counting as our "first plot point" before everything goes wrong, basically.

At that point, they have setup the story and characters. We've been introduced to Edward and Stede's current issues. Signing the Act of Grace does make the intertwined arcs between them real - it's no longer a situation that either one of them could just walk away from like it was in 1x07 - and we narrow in on the (alleged) driving question of the show:

It's not about "Will Stede become a great pirate?" or "Will we develop a better kind of piracy for the crew?" - the show is the relationship and the big question is "What is Stede and Edward's happy ending?"

Act 1 ends on their first solution, being together and making each other happy and admitting it's more than just friendship. Act 2 starts, appropriately, by saying both of them are currently too flawed for that to go anywhere but crashing and burning.

Now... looking back, what does Act 1 do well vs poorly?

I think it's really strong on giving us the foundation for BlackBonnet's characters and flaws. We aren't surprised Stede goes home or Edward goes Kraken (or at least... we weren't supposed to be surprised. There are still a lot of holdouts blaming Izzy for interrupting Edward's "healing" despite how at this point in the story it doesn't make sense for Edward to have the skills to heal... but I digress). The relationship question is compelling at the end of S1, the cliffhanger hooks, and the fandom explosion of fics did not come from nowhere - the audience was invested.

I also think Act 1 does a great job of settling us in the universe. We understand the rules it abides by, from how gay pirates are just a fact of life to how there's no important organs on the left side of the body. Stede has a muppety force field. Rowboats have homing devices, and port is always as close as you want it to be. Scurvy is a joke. The overblown violence of pirate life is mostly a joke, but we are going to take the violence of childhood trauma seriously.

Lucius's fake-out death, while technically part of Act 2, works well because Act 1 did a good job of priming everyone to go "obviously this show wouldn't kill a crew member for shock value, and we're 100% supposed to suspend disbelief about how he could have survived getting flung into the sea in the middle of the night." And we do. And we get rewarded for it.

Regarding antagonists - a big focus of any setup - the show is deliberately weak. The one with the most screentime is Izzy, and he's purposefully ineffective at separating our main couple. Every antagonist is keyed to a particular character, and they function mostly to inform us of that character's flaws and development requirements. The Badmintons tell us about Stede's repression and feelings of inadequacy, and Izzy tells us about Edward's directionless discontent and tendency to avoid his problems. Effectively - the show is taking the stance this will be a character driven narrative where Stede and Edward's flaws are the source of problems and development the solution. No person or empire (or social homophobia) is separating them...

...which leads me to something not present - there nothing really about the struggle of piracy against the Empire. Looking at Curse of the Black Pearl... we see piracy is in danger. The Black Pearl itself is described as the last great pirate threat the British Navy needs to conquer. Hangings are omnipresent - Jack is sentenced to die by one almost as soon as he's introduced to the story, when his only act so far had been to wander around and save Elizabeth from drowning. OFMD tries to invoke this kind of struggle in 2x08, but there's no foundation. Our Navy antagonists are Stede's childhood bullies, and so focused on Stede the crew isn't even in danger when they get caught. The Republic of Pirates is getting jokes about being gentrified, not besieged.

Even the capture of Blackbeard by the Navy is treated as a feather in Wellington's cap but not a huge symbolic blow against piracy... because we just do not have that grand struggle woven into Act 1. You only know the "Golden Age of Piracy" is ending if you google it, or have watched a bunch of pirate shows.

Overall, a solid Act 1, well adapted to the kind of story they've said they were looking to tell - a romance in the (silly-fied) age of piracy, instead of a pirate adventure with a romantic subplot.

---

Now, Sidebar - Where is the story going?

The thing about the dramatic question - in OFMD's case: "What is Stede and Edward's happy ending?" - is that a) there's normally more than one question bundled up in that one + sideplots, and b) while you aren't supposed to have the answer yet, you can usually guess what needs to happen to give you the answer.

Back to our examples... Luke's driving question is "Will the Empire be defeated?" Simple. Straightforward. Also: "Will Luke become a Jedi?" The eventual climax of our story from there is pretty obvious... the story is over when Luke wins the war for the Rebellion in a Jedi way. That's the goal that they are working toward.

Pirates of the Caribbean is a bit more complicated. We're juggling more characters and have a less defined heroic journey, but there are driving questions like "Is Jack Sparrow a good man?" and "Is Will Turner a pirate / what does that mean?" and even "Will the British Navy defeat piracy?" They get basic answers in Curse of the Black Pearl, and far more defined ones in At World's End. Still, this is another plot-driven narrative. They've laid the foundations for the Pirates vs Empire struggle, and when that final battle turns into the trilogy climax then you know what's happening.

OFMD is not doing a plot-driven narrative. To judge how they are doing at their goals, we have to ask what they think a happy ending entails in a character sense.

Clearly it's not the classic romantic sideplot, where the climax is the first kiss / acknowledgement of feelings. They've teased a wedding in Word of God comments a lot, so that's probably our better endpoint. Specifically, though, a wedding where both of our protagonists aren't ready to flee from the altar (big ask) and where they've both grown enough that their flaws / mutual tendencies to run away from life problems won't tank the relationship.

In Stede's case it's still massive feelings of inadequacy and being too repressed to talk about his problems. Also he ran away from his family to chase a lifelong dream of being a pirate - "Is Stede going to find fulfillment in being a pirate captain, or will the real answer be love?" Edward meanwhile expresses a desire to quit piracy and retire Blackbeard, but we also find out he's struggling with massive self-loathing and guilt from killing his father - "Is retiring what Edward wants to do, or is he just running away?"

If they are going to get to a satisfying wedding beat at the climax of their story, what character beats do we need to hit in advance?

Off the top of my head - both characters need to self-realize their flaws (a pretty necessary demand of anyone who runs away from problems). They are set up to balance each other well, but also to miscommunicate easily. They have to tell each other about or verbally acknowledge that self-realization so it can be resolved. Stede has to decide how much being a pirate means to him. Edward has to decide if he's retiring and what he wants to do. They both need to show something to do with getting past their childhood traumas given all the flashbacks. Through all this, they also need to hit the normal romance beats that convince the audience they are romantically attracted to each other and like... want to get married.

Oh, and this is more of a genre-specific sideplot, but once they demonstrate a behavior that hurts the people who work for them, they need to then demonstrate later how it won't happen again. Proof of growth, which is kind of important in a comedy where a lot of the humor is based in them being massively self-centered assholes. Stede doesn't earn his acceptance in the community until he kicks Calico Jack off the ship, making up for causing the situation with Nigel in the first episode. A workplace comedy can get a lot of material from the boss as the worker's antagonist, but if you want the bosses to stay sympathetic you have got to throw them some opportunities to earn it.

All that sounds like a lot, but like - the relationship is the story, right? If we spend so much time on establishing flaws big enough to drive a story, we also have to spend time on fixing them. Which is where the turning point hits.

---

Act 2: How it Starts

This is where the full story reality-checks your protagonist. Glad you saved your boyfriend and embraced new love in Act 1, but his repressed guilt means he's about to completely ghost you, and your own abandonment issues and self-loathing are about to make his dick move into everyone else's problem.

Again, it's a non-conventional choice OFMD has this start at the very end of S1 rather than with a sudden dark turn in the S2 premiere, but it's still pretty clearly that point in the Three Act Structure.

In Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back opens with a timeskip to our Rebellion getting absolutely crushed and hiding on a miserable frozen planet. The Empire finds them as the plot is kicking off and they have to desperately flee. They get separated. Han and Leia try to go to an ally for help and end up in Vader's clutches. It's a sharp turn from the victorious note that A New Hope ended on.

Pirates of the Caribbean's Act 2 starts dark. Dead Man's Chest opens with our happy couple Will and Elizabeth getting arrested on their wedding day for the "happy end" escape of the last movie. Jack has not been having success since reclaiming his ship, and we'll soon find out he's being hunted by dark forces. As for the general state of piracy, we get a horrifying prison where pirates are being eaten alive by crows, and a new Lord Beckett making the dying state of piracy even more textual. "Jack Sparrow is a dying breed... The world is shrinking."

The key here is making a point that our heroes aren't ready. This is the struggles part - things they try? Fail. The odds do not look to be in their favor.

Now, OFMD apparently decided to go all-in on flaw exploration, especially with Edward. The first 3 episodes of S2 are brutally efficient in outlining Edward's backslide. In S1 you could see he had issues with guilt and feeling like a bad person. S2 devolves that into a destructive, suicidal spiral where Edward forces his crew into three months of consecutive raids, repeats his shocking act of cruelty with Izzy's toe offscreen (more than once!), escalates it with his leg, and finally they state directly that Edward hates himself for killing his dad so much that he fears he's fundamentally unlovable and better off dead.

Stede's struggles are subtler, but most definitely still there. He's deliberately turning a blind eye to tales of Edward's rampage, half from simply being too self-centered to care about the harms Edward causes others, and half from being unable to face or fathom that he had the ability to hurt Edward that much. Upon reunion he wants to put the whole thing behind them, not addressing why he left in the first place. Very "love magically fixes everything" of him, except Stede is no golden merman.

Interestingly, here, BlackBonnet's relationship dysfunction has very clearly been having a negative impact on the surrounding characters we care about. Make sense, since it's the driving force of the story, but that also adds a lot more relationships we need to make right. Like... Edward is the villain to his crew. The show focuses on their trauma and poisoned relationships with him. And then draws our attention even more to Stede taking his side to overrule their objections to him.

For a story where the conflict and required resolutions are primarily character based, and the setup had already given the main couple a good amount to work with, dedicating a lot of S2 to adding more ground to cover was... a choice. Potentially very compelling on the character end, certainly challenging on the writing end... but not a complete break with the structure.

Bold, but not damning.

---

Act 2: How it Ends

Now it is true that Act 2 tends to end on a loss. Luke is defeated by Vader and loses his hand, and Han has been sent away in carbonite. Jack Sparrow for all his efforts cannot escape his fate, and he and the Pearl are dragged to the locker.

But the loss is not the point. The loss is incidental to the point.

Act 2 is about struggles and failure, but it's also about lessons learned. There's a change that occurs, and our cast - defeated but not broken - enters the final act with the essential skills, motivation, knowledge, etc. that they lacked in the beginning.

Luke Skywalker could not have defeated the Empire in Return of the Jedi until he'd learned the truth about his father and resisted the Dark Side in The Empire Strikes Back. (Ok, confession, I'm using Star Wars as an example because literally everyone is doing so, but frankly it's a better example of formulaic Three Act Structure repeating within each movie because on a trilogy level - relevant to this comparison - it is a super basic hero's journey in a very recognized outfit and as such the Act 2 relevance is also... super basic "the hero tries to fight the antagonist too early" beat where he learns humility. Not really a lot going on. So, for the better example...)

Dead Man's Chest has a downer ending with the closing moment of the survivors regaining hope and a plan against an enemy now on the verge of total victory - a classic Act 2. But in that first loss against Davy Jones we get Will's personal motivation and oath to stab the heart, Jack finally overcoming not knowing what he wanted and returning to save them from the Kraken (being a good man), Elizabeth betraying Jack (being a pirate), Barbossa's return, and Norrington's choice to bargain for his prior life back. The mission to retrieve Jack from the World's End is the final movie's plot, but things are already on track to turn the tables back around as we enter the finale.

Now, relevant sidenote - one major difference between Three Act Structure within a single work vs across three parts is that Act 2 continues into Part 3, and only tips over into Act 3 about midway through. This is because obviously your final movie or season cannot just be the climax. That's why both movie examples start with a rescue mission. They have to still be missing something so they can get the plot of their third part accelerating while they go get whatever that something is.

But if you wait until the 3rd movie / season to get the development going at all - you're fucked.

Jack's decision in the climax of At World's End to make Elizabeth into the Pirate King goes back to the development we saw in the Pearl vs Kraken fight in Dead Man's Chest. So does Elizabeth's leadership arc. Will's whole arc about becoming Captain of the Dutchman gets built upon in the third movie, but it starts in the second. Not just as an idle thought - he's actively pursuing it. Already consciously weighing saving his father vs getting back to Elizabeth as soon as he makes the oath. Everyone is moving forward in Act 2. Their remaining development might stumble for drama, or they might be a bit reluctant, but I know that they know better than to let it stick, because they already faced their true crisis points.

I'm not sure we can say the same about OFMD.

S2 does a good job of adding problems, yeah, but there's not really any movement on fixing them. Our main couple stagnates in some ways, and regresses in others.

Stede opened Act 2 by running away in the middle of the night back to his wife without telling Edward anything. We know he did it because of feeling guilty and his core childhood trauma of his dad calling him a weak and inadequate failure. Now in S1 he actually speedruns a realization of his shitty behavior with Mary, but what about S2? Well...

He continues to not talk to Edward about... pretty much anything. My guy practiced love confessions galore but Edward only finds out about going back to his wife via Anne, and it gets brushed aside with a love confession. He seems to think Edward wants him to be a dashing pirate, or maybe he just thinks he should be a dashing pirate. Idk, it doesn't get examined. Regarding his captaincy, they give him an episode plot about Izzy teaching him to respect the crew's beliefs, but this is sideplot to a larger arc of him completely overruling their traumas and concerns (and shushing their objections) to keep his boyfriend on the ship so. That.

Stede kills a man for reasons related to his issues, shoves that down inside and has sex with Edward instead of acknowledging any bad feelings. At least this time Edward was there and knows it happened? Neither Chauncey's death nor his dad have been mentioned to anyone. He gets a day of piracy fame that goes to his head, gets dumped, and ends on a complete beat down by Zheng where he learns... idk. Being a boor is bad? He's still wildly callous to her in the finale, and spends the whole time seeking validation of his pirate skills. He reunites with Edward, kisses, and quotes Han Solo.

Where S1 ended on a great fuckery, his S2 naval uniform plan after they regroup is ill defined except to call it a suicide mission - and we don't get to see what it would have been because it devolves into a very straightforward fight and flee. And gets Izzy killed. Quick cut funeral (no acknowledgement of his S2 bonding with Izzy), quick cut to wedding (foreshadowing), quick cut to... innkeeper retirement? Unclear when or even if BlackBonnet discussed Stede's whole driving dream to be a pirate and live a life at sea, but I guess that got a big priority downgrade. Despite the fact he was literally looking to Zheng for pirate-based compliments in the post-funeral scene.

I guess he's borderline-delusionally dogged in his pursuit of love now - so unlikely to bolt again - but he's also got at least a decade of experience mentally checking out in a state of repression when he's unhappy. And he's stopped being as supportive and caring toward the crew in that dogged pursuit, while arguably demonstrating a loss in leadership skills, so, um, good thing someone else is in charge?

And if Stede is a mess, Edward's arc is so much worse.

As established, they devote the Kraken to making Edward worse. He literally wants to kill himself and destroy everyone around him in the process because Stede left, and this is fixed by... Stede coming back. That's it. The crew tries to murder him and then exiles him from the ship (and Izzy takes the lead on both, indicating exactly how isolated Edward has become), but it's resolved in half a day by Stede just forcing them to put up with his boyfriend again. Like they think he murdered Buttons and still have to move him back in???

The show consistently depicts Kraken Era as a transgression against the crew, but they also avoid showing Edward acting with genuine contrition. He admits he historically doesn't apologize for anything, and then mostly still doesn't. It's a joke that he's approaching probation as a performance (CEO apology), and then the only person he genuinely talks to is Fang - the one guy cool with him - and the only person who gets a basic "sorry" is Izzy - the guy he really needs to be talking to. Edward's primary trauma is guilt, but apparently he only feels it abstractly after all that? He's only concerned with fixing things with Stede, despite Stede being about the only person around who hurt him instead of the reverse.

Speaking of primary traumas, Edward hating himself doesn't really go anywhere after the beat of self-realization. Apparently Stede still loving him is enough of a bandaid to end the suicide chasing, but he doesn't like. Acknowledge that. Edward is maybe sorta trying to go slow so he doesn't hang all his self-worth on Stede again (you can speculate), but they a) absolutely fail to go slow, and b) he doesn't make any attempt to develop himself or another support structure. Just basically... "let's be friends a bit before hooking back up." And then we get the whiplash that is Blackbeard and/or retirement.

Kraken Era is Blackbeard but way worse, like no one who has known Blackbeard has ever seen him. In the Gravy Basket Edward claims he might like being an innkeeper, before destroying his own fantasy by having the spectre of Hornigold confront him over killing his dad. The BlackBonnet to Anne & Mary parallel says running away to China / retiring makes you want to kill each other - burn it all down and go back to piracy. Stede rightfully points out prior retirement plans were whims. Edward gets sick of the penance sack after a day and puts his leathers back on to go try "poison into positivity". But also claims to be an innkeeper (look - two whole mentions!) when trying not to send children to be pirates after teaching them important knife skills.

Killing Ned Low is a serious, bad thing that prompts ill-advised sex and then going hardcore into retirement mode - leathers overboard, talk about mermaid fantasy, get retirement blessings from Izzy, end up dumping Stede for a fishing job instead of talking about how he's enjoying piracy. The fishing job, however, is also a bad thing and a stupid decision because Edward is a lazy freeloader fantasizing about being a better person. We have an uncomfortable, extended scene of "Pop-Pop" weirdly echoing his abusive dad and then sending Edward to go do what he's good at - disassociate, brutally murder two guys, fish up the leathers, rise as the Kraken from the sea. He continues with comically efficient murder but also he's reading Stede's love letters and seeking to reunite with him so... wait, is this a good thing? Post makeout / mass slaughter he's trading compliments on his kills with Zheng so. Yeah. Looks like it. Murder is fine.

Wait, no, skip ahead and Izzy is dying and Edward suddenly cares a whole lot as Izzy makes his death scene about freeing Edward from Blackbeard. Now being a pirate was "encouraging the darkness" because Izzy - a guy who had little to no influence over Edward's behavior - just couldn't let Blackbeard go. Murder is bad again, and he is freed. Minus the little detail that the murder he explicitly hates himself over was not related to Blackbeard or piracy whatsoever, so presumably haunts "just Ed" still. Anyway he's retiring to run an inn with Stede now, as the "loving family" Izzy comforted him with in his dying moments sails away from the couple that can best be described as the antagonists of their S2 arc. Also Edward implicitly wants to get married. It's been 3 days since making out was "too fast". He's still wearing the leathers.

So most of the way through Act 2 and Edward's barely on speaking terms with anyone but Stede, who he has once again hung his entire life on really fast? Crushing guilt leads to self-hatred leads to mass murder and suicide, but only if he's upset so just avoid that. He's still regularly idealizing Stede as a non-fucked up golden mermaid person (that maybe he personally ruined a bit) because he barely knows the guy. His only progress on his future is "pirate" crossed out / rewritten / crossed out again a few times, "fisherman" crossed out, and "innkeeper ?"

Just.

Where is the forward movement?

It's not just that the inn will undoubtedly fall apart - it's that the inn will fall apart for the near-exact same reasons that China was going to at the beginning of Act 2, and I can't point to anything they've learned in the time since that will help them. I guess Stede realized he loved Edward enough to chase after him, but that was in S1! They should be further than this by now. You can't cram another crisis backslide, all the Act 2 development, and the full Act 3 climax into one season. Certainly not without it feeling like the characters magically fix themselves.

If they just fail and keep blindly stumbling into the same issues because they don't change their behavior, then Act 2 doesn't work. You're just repeating the turning point between Act 1 & Act 2 on a loop.

---

Where Did They Fuck Up?

Actually... lets start on what they did right.

The one consistent aspect of S2 that I praised and still think was done well in a vacuum (despite being mostly left out of the finale) was the crew's union-building arc.

With only 8 episodes and more to do in them than S1, side characters were going to get pinched even if the main plot was absolutely flawless. That was unavoidable. With budget cuts / scheduling issues, we regularly have crew members simply vanish offscreen outside of one scene, meaning cohesive arcs for your faves was not likely. Not to say they couldn't have done better - my benefit of the doubt for the TealOranges breakup and Oluwande x Zheng dried up about when I realized he was literally just her Stede stand-in for the parallel - but something like Jim's revenge plot from S1 was realistically not on the table without, like, turning half the crew into seagulls to afford it.

The union building works around this constraint really well. They turn "the crew" into the side arc, and then weave Izzy's beats in so that they aren't just about Izzy. The breakup boat crew working together to comfort each other and protect him turns them into a unit, and Stede's crew taking it upon themselves to address the trauma vibes while the captains aren't in the way solidifies it across all our side characters. The crew goes to war with Stede's cursed coat and wins, they Calypso their boss to throw a party, and they capitalize on a chance to make bank with an efficiency Stede could only dream of.

We don't get specific arcs, but Frenchie, Jim, and Oluwande are defaulted to as leaders in just about every situation, and Roach is constantly shown sharing his inventions with different characters. Individuals can dip in and out without feeling like the sideplots stutter. Any sense of community in S2 is coming from this arc - even if there are cracks at the points where it joins to other storylines (Stede and Edward, Zheng, etc.)

So why does it work? Well, because it's a workplace comedy, and you can tell they are familiar with working on those. They know where the beats are. They know where to find the humor. They know how to build off of S1 because they made sure the bones were already there - an eclectic group of individuals that start as just coworkers, but bond over time in the face of their struggle against an inept boss who they grow to care for and support while maintaining an increasingly friendly antagonism because, you know, inept boss.

OFMD does its best work in S2 when it's being true to its original concept... and its worst work when it seemingly loses confidence in its own premise.

"The show is the relationship," right? It's a romance set in a workplace comedy. The setup of Act 1 was all about creating a character-driven narrative. So given that... where the hell are we getting the dying of piracy and a war against the English Navy?

That's not a character-driven romcom backdrop, it's an action-adventure plot from Pirates of the Caribbean or Black Sails. It's plot-driven, creating an antagonistic force that results in your characters' problems. Once the story is about the fight against the Empire, the dramatic question becomes the same as those adventure stories - "Will the British Navy defeat piracy, and will our protagonists come out the other side of the battle?"

Forget the wedding. The wedding is no longer the climax of the story, its back to the happy ending flash our romantic subplot gets after winning this fight.

Except, of course, trying to pivot your story to a contradictory dramatic question near the end of Act 2 can be nothing short of a disaster, because either you were writing the wrong story until now, or you've completely lost the plot of the real one. I shouldn't even be trying to figure out if they are doing this, because it should be so obvious that they wouldn't.

And yet.

What do the Zheng and Ricky plots add to the story if not this? Neither of these characters have anything emotionally to contribute to Stede and Edward - they truly are plot elements. It's a hard break from the S1 antagonist model, but it also takes up a lot of valuable screentime. This was considered important, but still Zheng's personality and motivation only gets explored so far as it's an Edward-Stede-Izzy parallel with Oluwande and Auntie, and they only need the parallel for Izzy's genre-jumping death scene. Which follows a thematically out-of-left-field speech about how piracy is about belonging to something good (workable) and how Ricky could never destroy their spirits (um...?). And then David Jenkins is pointing to it and saying things about "the symbolic death of piracy" and speculating S3 might be about the crew getting "payback"??? An idea floated by Zheng right before our temporary retirement, btw.

Fuck, the final episode of S2 didn't have time for our main couple to talk to each other because it was so busy dealing with the mass explosion of Zheng's fleet and Ricky's victory gloat. We get lethal violence associated with traumatic flashbacks until they need to cut down enemy mooks like it's nothing, at which point we get jokes with Zheng. The Republic of Pirates is destroyed outright, and it feels like they only did it because they got insecure about their "pirate story" not having the right kind of stakes. Don't even get me started on killing a major character because "Piracy’s a dangerous occupation, and some characters should die," as if suspending disbelief on this aspect makes the story somehow lesser, instead of just being a fairly standard genre convention in comedy. Nobody complains about Kermit the Frog having an improbably good survival record.

Did someone tell them that the heroes have to lose a battle near the end of Act 2, so they scrambled to give them one?

Just... compare the wholly plot-driven struggle in 2x08 to Stede and Edward's character-focused storylines in 1x10 and tell me how 2x08 is providing anything nearly as valuable to the story. Because I can't fucking find it.

At best they wasted a bunch of time on a poorly integrated adventure plot as, like, Zheng's backstory or something, and just fucked it up horribly by trying to "step up" the kind of plot they did for Jim. In which case the whole thing will be awkwardly dropped but damage is done. Otherwise, they actually thought they could just casually add a subplot like this because they've done something wildly stupid like think "pirate" is a genre on the same level as "workplace comedy" and can just trample in-universe coherency while you draw on other media to shore up their unsupported beats.

Bringing us to the most infuriating bit...

---

"...end the second season in a kinder spot."

If this was the goal, the entire season was written to work actively against it in way that is baffling and incompetent.

The really ironic thing is that the reason that the Act 2 part typically gets a downer ending is because of the evil empire that OFMD did not have to deal with until they pointlessly added it. A plot-driven story has an antagonistic force - a villain - that the heroes need to defeat. Something external working against them. The story ends when they beat the thing, and it's not much of a climax if they do most of the defeating before you get there. Ergo, they have to be outmatched up to the climax. Ergo, the second part cannot end on them feeling pretty comfortable and confident going into the third.

The same rules do not apply in the same way to a character-driven arc.

We already established Edward and Stede declaring their love is not the end of the story. Nor, necessarily, is both of them confidently entering a relationship. Even once they've developed a bunch they will have to show that development by running into the kinds of problems that would have broken them up before and resolving them better.

David Jenkins keeps talking about this idea that S2 is getting a hopeful open ending and S3 will get into potential problems, and like... I don't see any reason why they couldn't have done that successfully. They didn't, but they could've.

If S2 grew them enough as characters and then had them agree to try again in the last minute of the finale, they absolutely could have had a kind and hopeful ending where you were confident they could do it. And then a potential S3 can show that. It's a bit rockier than they were counting on, but they have learned enough lessons to not break up. And then the overall plot can build to proposal (start of Act 3) and wedding (the romantic climax). It doesn't have to be a blow out fight to be emotionally cathartic.

(Hell, the main rockier bit that they overcome in the S3 Act 2 portions could be marriage baggage. I'm sure they both have some. It would work.)

In the same way focusing on our character's long term flaws and character-driven conflict makes an Act 1 "happy ending" more difficult, I suspect it makes an Act 2 "happy ending" easier.

Instead they wrote an Act 2 that failed to convincingly start development and got confused on its direction, and then presented a rushed finale ending in a copy of the predictable disaster from S1 as though it's a good thing. They yanked the story at least temporarily into an awkward place where a romcom is trying to sell me on a bunch of serious drama / adventure beats that it has not put the work into, and inviting comparisons to better versions of those same beats in other, more suited media that make it look worse. The need to portray everyone as reaching happy closure overrules sitting with a major character death and using it for any narrative significance, while still letting it overshadow those happy endings because a romcom just sloppily killed a major character with a wound they've literally looked into the camera and said was harmless.

If I'm being entirely honest, Dead Man's Chest ends effectively at Jack Sparrow's funeral and then cuts to the British Navy obtaining a weapon of mass destruction, and it still feels kinder and more hopeful just because I leave with more faith the characters are actively capable of and working toward solving their problems.

OFMD S2, in contrast, has half-convinced me our main couple would live in a mutually obsessed, miscommunication-ridden horror story until they die.

---

Additional Reading

Normally I link stuff like this in the post, but that requires more excitement than I'm feeling right now. Here's my alternative:

Where I thought they were going with Edward - really outlines the mountain of character development they still have unaddressed

Where I thought they were going with Izzy - touches on a lot of themes that might be dead in the water & also context that's still probably relevant to why Izzy got a lot of focus in S2

My scattershot 2x08 reactions

An ask where I sketched out the bones of this argument, and another where I was mostly venting about the fandom response

This one, this other one, and this last one (read the link in op's post too) about genre shifts and failure to pull them off

The trauma goes in the box but it never opens back up - the whole point of Act 2 is that they needed to start opening shit like that - and also they focus so much on needed character growth and so little on following through

They can't even carry through on character growth that we got last season???

Why Izzy's death feels like Bury Your Gays ran smack into shitty writing

EDIT: Oh and this post is REALLY good for outlining the lack of change in way less words than I did

[vividachromatic]

Meant To Stay The Worst - Pt. 3

Desc. : Reader meets Alastor’s mother for the first time!

Alastor x reader

Tags: ongoing, marriage, confessions / proposals, manipulation and toxic relationships, canon typical violence and language

((<- Pt. 2 - Pt. 4 ->))

*

To say you were nervous about meeting his mother would be an understatement. If she didn't like you, that would probably be THE dealbreaker, considering the way Alastor talks about her - like she is the most important person in his life.

Alastor found your uneasiness funny and just told you to relax. He told you his mother wasn't a scary person. And she has been looking forward to meeting you for a very long time; ever since Alastor mentioned he was seeing a girl he really liked she's been beyond excited and repeatedly asked him if he'd invite her over.

"That's not what I'm concerned about - I'm concerned about me! I know how to make a bad impression, not how to make a good one..." Not that you cared about the impression you made on other people most of the time. Most of the people you knew where snobs who just pretended to like you anyway.

"Darling. Don't worry about making a perfect impression, my mother is a kind person. She can even see inside people's souls~" He chuckled, "literally..."

"Yeah, I'm not so sure if that makes me feel so much better..."

Plus, the way Alastor seemed to enjoy your anxiousness didn't help either.

Anyway, there was no postponing this you suppose, so you got ready to walk to his mother's house. She seems to live nearby.

Alastor was satisfied with the whole situation right now. After he first decided he was going to confess his feelings to you he was scared of how everything would play out. He likes to be in control of any situation - and even though he tried his best to do that, he still couldn't predict the actual feelings part.

But your reaction to him killing someone was the most confusing thing for him.

You were clearly shocked and probably even traumatized by the event. But not even once did you seem scared of him.

It's more the opposite. Just like him, you were more of a classy person - never really seeking out other's people's touch too much. But after the incident this changed. Not only did you immideatly lean into him when when he tried to comfort you when you were crying, you also seeked out and accepted his touch warmly every single time after the incident.

This odd reaction to seeing someone murder someone else in cold-blood lead him to a specific conclusion: You didn't regard the situation that way. You actually saw it as him protecting you. And ever since that day, you've seen him as your protector. Which would mean that him trying to manipulate you into thinking exactly that actually worked.

But there is one problem with that: he thinks you are way too smart to just fall for his simple manipulation tactic like that. Which is why he at first considered the possibility that you were only pretending to be okay with it and would try to tell someone else as soon as he let you go. But you never did that. Which must mean that you are being willfully immoral.

So, you knew he was manipulating you and played along?

He thought - maybe you wanted to be protected? Wanted to be guided?

Maybe it was because you had a bad father figure in your life or maybe your mind was just a little more twisted than he originally thought?

In any case, this would work for him. You wanting to be guided - him wanting to guide you.

If he played this well - he could very quickly turn this into making you marry him, which could, if you ever changed your mind about him, trap you into the relationship anyway. Even if you would find out about his more sinister hobbies...

It would disappoint him to have that kind of relationship with you, yes, but it could also end with both of you having the ideal relationship - supporting even your most twisted desires while also having a loving husband and wife - later maybe even family.

The two of you approached the house of Alastor's mother now.

His two favorite people were about to meet, and if the meeting went well he was sure he would ask your father for your hand at his meeting with him.

Alastor quietly knocked on the door, while you were standing more behind him than next to him.

Then the door opened, revealing a petite, middle-aged woman with beautiful curly hair. Her face immideatly turned soft when she spotted her son. "Alastor, my dear..." she pulled him towards her into a warm embrace and he, too, had a genuine smile on his face as he leaned down to hug her.

You smiled watching the two of them. A genuine warm embrace between family members isn't something you got to see very often.

When Alastor pulled away from the hug, he pulled you to his side by your waist, so that you were now facing his mother.

...Wait, how should you greet her? Should you shake hands? Bow? ...

In the end you just awkwardly waved at her. The woman looked confused for a second, before she just pulled you into a hug as well. You were surprised, so you forgot reciprocating before she already stepped away from you.

Great, now you made an awkward fool of yourself.

She still held on to your arms, as she looked you up an down. "I, uh- I'm... Y/N?"

The woman let out a small laugh and petted you on the head. "Oh, I know that sweetie, what I didn't know is that you were such a timid one! Come on in, you two. Dinner is almost ready!"

You carefully stepped into the house looking back at Alastor, who just smiled at you and took off your coat to hang it on the wardrobe.

"I'm going to go to get something for a minute, if that's okay, darling? I'll be right back!" He declared and pushed you into the room his mother was in. Before you could protest, he was already gone.

Great. For someone who claims to like you, he seems to really enjoy putting you in uncomfortable situations.

His mother was currently finishing off some rice with different sorts of vegetables and seasonings... "Oh honey, could you please help and cut the rest of these onions for me? Only if it's okay!" She asked you with a warm smile.

Oh oh. Now your horrendous cooking skills would come to show. You were a downright horrible cook - everytime you touched a stove something or someone, would burn. And you never had to cook before... you were rich. Others just did that for you...

But... you were able to cut some onions at least right? Haha...

"Of course, ma'am..!" You smiled nervously. Hoping she wouldn't notice your concern as you picked up one of the knives...

"Oh no, dear! You can't take that knife to cut an onion!" She chuckled, taking the knife from you and handing you a different one.

Nice. Not embarrassing at all.

Now, while you were trying to complete the extremely challenging task of cutting this onion - his mother turned to the other side of the kitchen to finish preparing the rice again.

"You know, I was pretty excited when Al told me that he finally met a girl he liked. My little boy never brought home any girls in his life, so I thought he must either be lying or you're someone real special!" She explained while preparing the food.

You didn't know how to respond, but you were touched by her words. And she confirmed that Alastor really has never dated anyone before - not that you thought that he was lying. You were glad, since you were the same, though you wouldn't have minded either way.

"Look, girl..." The woman who was only a little shorter than you stepped next to you again and took the cutting board from you with a sigh, cutting the onion properly. "I think you're a really pretty girl and I am glad my Al has found someone he likes for once; but I just wanna make sure that you're the right one for my boy, you know? That you're serious about him."

You let out a shaky breath. You were embarrassed at your need of help for such a simple task. Now she probably hates you and-

...

But you were serious about Alastor at least. But how could you properly convey this to her?

"I- I'm sorry, I am really not good at this. But, I really like Alastor. I like him... more than I've liked anyone before-"

You weren't sure how else to put it and stopped yourself - trying to word it differently, but the woman interrupted you with a sudden and short hug.

"That's all I wanted to hear, honey." She smiled warmly at you as she pulled away again.

She took the cutting board with her to put the freshly cut onions inside the rice. "This is Al's favorite meal by the way! If you want to, I can teach you the recipe some day?"

Your eyes lit up in relief. Her wanting to teach you, probably meant she didn't want to never let you see her or her son again. You nodded enthusiastically and she laughed.

Later during the meal the three of you had a nice talk. The house was... warm. It looked smaller than you were used to and the furniture looked very different. But this home was warm, while yours seemed cold. You only had a single dinner with the two of them together, but it felt better than any you had with your own family, no matter how expensive the food may have been.

After leaving his mother's home for that day Alastor asked you if you wanted to stay at his house for the night. You agreed.

When you arrived at his house again you let out a quiet yawn and started taking off your coat. Again, Alastor took it from you to hang it on the wardrobe. Then he gestured for you to sit on a nearby chair.

Confused you wordlessly obliged at which he grinned. He then kneeled in front of you to take off your shoes for you.

You rolled your eyes at him with a chuckle, "Really? You don't have to do that now."

He gave you a wryly amused smile, "I know. I just want to spoil the woman I adore so much."

You let out an embarrassed huff as your face started reddening.

Alastor, perceptive as he is, noticed this of course and made it worse by taking your hand and planting a small kiss on its back.

When he got up again he extended his hand towards you to take and led you to sit on the couch with him.

"See? I told you my mother would like you. She has a knack for seeing who people really are..." Alastor grinned.

"Really?" You asked him.

You liked both of them. But if that was true wouldn't she see that her son is a killer? And that you liked it?

"My mother always said 'what you do for the people you love is more important than what the world wants you to do'." He quoted with a smirk like he read your mind.

Well, if you twisted these words a little the way he saw things could make sense.

You wondered; was the man he killed for you the first person he's killed? You weren't so sure. His movements seemed way too natural. Too calculated.

His behavior afterwards way too uncaring.

...The evil serial killer of Louisiana. His profile fitted Alastor's way too perfectly.

So far he has had four victims. You researched them for a bit. All of them were filthy, power-hungry and abusive men and one woman. The police suspected a vigilante.

Of course you weren't completely sure it was him. But Alastor's certainty that the killer would not go after you was still ringing in your head.

So what would someone who can actually see inside your soul actually think of you?

You didn't think of yourself as a normal person before this, but not as a bad one either. But now...

It wasn't the fact that you didn't care if he was a serial-killer or not that made you bad, it was more than that. It was that some fucked-up part inside of you liked it.

You wanted the man who was sitting next to you right now in every way possible.

You definitely were at least just as bad. It was probably just more in a passive and masochistic way, than his direct and sadistic one.

So, did you really want to settle for this?

...yes definitely.

You didn't care about that man dying that night.

And now you weren't even sure anymore if that's what you've always thought in the first place, or if this is just what you forced yourself to think, so you could get over it.

Regardless, you just felt cold towards that man. He was better of dead, just like all the other people Alastor probably killed.

Distancing yourself from other people's humanity was wrong and narcissistic. You knew that but still decided to go that path.

Decided to be with Alastor. And enjoy it.

"So? You're going to meet with my father tomorrow, right? Are you at least a little nervous?" You asked him after a small comfortable silence between the two of you.

"Hmm... I think nervous is the wrong word. But it would be bothersome, if your father dislikes me." Alastor answered.

"Even if my father doesn't approve of you, I'll still stick with you. You know that, right?" You asked him.

He raised his brow, giving you a half-grin, surprised by your earnesty. "You're such a sweetheart, you know that?" He asked, locking your head between his hands and lowering his face to yours until you were separated only by a few inches.

Your confidence immediately falters and you became putty in his hands again.

He chuckled against your face, seemingly enjoying the effect he had on you. "Y/N, can I ask you something?"

"...Of course."

"How much do you like me?" He whispered against your lips. Not only because he was sure he wanted to take this a step further with you now, but also because he wanted to be able to predict how exactly you'd answer if he'd ask you to be his forever.

Your breath hitched. You weren't sure how to answer.

If you were honest you would have to admit, that you were completely and utterly obsessed with him.

...You already met his mother today; he said he adores you...

It's okay to admit, that you like him, right?

God, how was he the one in control always? And why did you love it?

"I like you, Alastor. A lot." You whispered back. He smiled at that and finally kissed you.

You leaned back into the couch, just letting him kiss you. The kiss was nice. Every kiss with him was. And for the first time he deepened the kiss as it became more sensual.

You gasped into the kiss and he grinned, his tongue sliding over your own and you shuddered as he pulled you towards him to sit on his lap.

Just to catch air the two of you parted for a second, looking into each other's eyes. Both of you could see the desire for the other in them.

Alastor tenderly stroked your hair with one of his hands and cupped your cheek with the other.

You calmly closed your eyes, eventhough your heart was beating like crazy.

"I love you."

Your eyes opened and widened in surprise at his words. He, too, looked a little surprised by his own words when he looked up at you.

He wasn't surprised because he said it. He was surprised because he meant it.

Your gaze softened and you gave him a smile. The most loving smile you ever gave someone in your life probably.

"I love you too, Alastor."

He let out a small sigh in relief. Something he didn't do often.

So you really loved him? Did you mean that?

"I will kill for you, you know?"

He wasn't sure if he would make things bad between you two, if he outright said that, but he had the feeling he wouldn't. You were too perfect for him.

You paused for a second. Then you gave him a weird smile. "I know. And I would do the same."

-----------

Thank youuu for reading!

@cryptidghostgirl @adeadreader

[sloshr]

After watching through Side Order... I have a Few Thoughts.

[Spoilers ahead]

My Review of the Side Order DLC - Its little more than Gameplay.

Initial Opinion

- - - - - - - - - -

Overall; I like the gameplay mechanics initially, but the story absolutely feels lacking to me, imo. It feels like they were really banking on Side Order being Hard but... multiple of my friends finished it on their 2nd or 3rd run through the Spire.

That in itself isnt a problem! But... everyone felt sort of unsatisfied? There were no developments in the story, as we, Agent 8, were just assigned the task to Get to The Top of the Spire -> The Player Does That -> You beat a Boss -> Credits Roll (?)

On my watchthrough I literally said Please Say Sike 😭 because, dont take this poorly, but they were advertising Side Order as;

• Difficult (stated Multiple Times in basically every Trailer)

• Story Driven (You Uncover things as You Climb)

• Character and Lore Intensive (as shown by the trailers with all the concept art as well as promo art)

I dont feel like it was wrong to expect more based on how it was advertised.

But... if you complete the DLC in 1-2 runs, which is Very Much Possible, no buildup happens at all. The story was banking on the player struggling, and putting all the content behind repeat runs, which falls through and Doesnt really work/feel satisfying if the main goal is achieved in such a short time. I Feel like anyone who regularly plays Salmon Run will likely have a similar experience. And I feel kind of cheated? Because what we got was something that was Tell Not Show rather than the Show, Not Tell formula. And in my opinion, it really doesn't work as well at all. It puts all the major lore that the game has set up behind repetetive climbs (which never change btw, despite each climb being generated differently, its the same after a while) and you get about 1 Sentence of Exposition, with a Modlog from Marina if you are Lucky.

Side Order was (to me), after watching it all;

• Not Difficult, But Repetetive Gameplay (This easily runs people down, which would be fine if the tower had more than 1 setup or phase)

• Inital Story Setup with no complexities or stages. You climb the first Tower, Save Marina, Climb the Second Tower, Beat Order, and the credits Roll. In its most complex, you could fit what Side Order's Story is in 2-3 Sentences. Rather than Lore being revealed During the story, it feels Pushed to the Side as all of it is either in Text the player may never see (different climbs) or care to read (Marina's Mod Log)

• Use of Character Drops with no explaination / mention (The Agent 4 Boss, Anyone?) (This felt very Bait-y, with No Payoff)

Rating

- - - - -

If I had to give Side Order a Rating

4/10. At Best.

I am a bit disappointed with this as I feel like I was promised more, Storywise, and honestly a bit gameplay wise. I think it fails where other DLC has succeeded Due to being Built in such a way where anything engaging is stuck behind barely changing gameplay. It is not built in a way where the experience cant fail to show you whats important to the characters and the worldbuilding. It relies too much on telling you whats happening rather than the world showing you. Its too Simple, and It Doesnt Work, personally, in a series that contains Octo Expansion.

Which is Sad to me!! It had so much wasted potential and I really hope this isn't the last we're going to see of the concept, we get to see ideas actually built into the story, and... maybe find Agent 4.

Conclusion

- - - - - - - -

Tldr; Side Order had a good concept, but failed in execution for being simple and gameplay dependent, which was ultimately disappointing due to it being advertised as something more for all involved.

It was an alright attempt. The experience will just be known to me as... well. Baby's First Rouge-like. Nothing worldbreaking.

(PS, this isnt meant to be mean spirited or overly critical, I just love the Splatoon Series so I give it Tough Love. This is just my personal view on the DLC)

Thank you for Reading! Feel free to share or add any thoughts!

[pacificwaternymph]

Aaaaand everyone give it up for WASTED POTENTIAL

Season finale spoilers under the cut

Okay. I'll be honest. The finale was... not what I was hoping for.

I tried so hard to remain optimistic. I truly believed they could pull it all together and everything was going to have a satisfying conclusion. But I guess that's my fault. I set my expectations too high.

Is this about Tech? Primarily, yes. Yes it was. I am so disappointed. And you can make fun of me all you want but I genuinely believed, with all my heart, that CX-2 was Tech.

BECAUSE WHY THE FUCK ELSE WAS THERE SO MUCH EMPHASIS ON HIM

There was so much to suggest that CX-2 was somebody we knew. We spent so much time on him, suffered through so many completely unnecessary, in hindsight, close up shots and random pieces of episodes that focus on him, only for him to get javelined through the middle in the span of half a second.

It feels like the writers were just making fun of the viewers, at this point. Haha, can you believe they actually thought?

Yes, we did think! Did you?

Tech's death was so... unconvincing. They didn't even try. Not only was his life "cut short" in the midst of his character development, said death was caused by falling, without any other kind of injury, while we watch him disappear into the clouds. And then we see no body and only have his broken goggles as "evidence" of his death. What the hell else were we supposed to assume?

That's not even bringing up that Tech gets maybe three mentions all throughout the entire season. The show never touches on how the death of one of their squadmates, people they have known since birth, affects the batch. Not once do they ever say out loud that Tech is dead until the fucking finale.

This isn't just me reading too closely between the lines. This is genuinely bad writing. It's loading chekhov's gun and then refusing to shoot it.

Even if CX-2 wasn't Tech, or even somebody we knew, the way he is treated suggests that he was supposed to be important. He was supposed to be be relevant. And now, he's neither!

Furthermore, where fuck was everybody? Where was Rex with the reinforcements to storm the base? Where was Wolffe deciding he didn't want anything to do with the Empire anymore? Where was Cody? Where was Phee in all of this?

Where was Cid? So we're just... not going to get any kind of closure for that? She just betrays them and we never see her again? Even if they didn't redeem her, that feels like pretty damn bold move.

The Zillo beast does... barely anything. Really? It just breaks out and moves away from the biggest source of energy it will ever find after causing the slightest amount of property damage to two rooms, and storms off into the woods, and that's all we get? Seriously?

And then once we get to the time jump... Echo's gone. Again. Either still off with Rex, if he hasn't gone into hiding yet, or died off screen. Neither is a good nor satisfying ending for his character. But I guess shouldn't be surprised by that. When have the writers ever cared about Echo?

The biggest problem with the whole thing is that it didn't feel like a finale. It felt like a normal episode, just slightly longer. The Bad Batch returned to Pabu, because I guess there are no consequences from the Batch being discovered there before and the empire decided that they were just going to... leave it alone, and everything returns to the status quo. That's not what a finale does, Dave.

Maybe I'm being too harsh. There were parts that I enjoyed. I'm glad Hunter, Wrecker, and Crosshair got their happy endings. Seeing Omega all grown up really did something to my heart. But overall I am just so frustrated.

[eagleeyecherrypie]

Dickkory fans were robbed and malnourished: a rant

Being a fan of Richonne and watching how The Ones Who Live played out really makes me see how absolutely starved we were as Dickkory fans. I finished TOWL with mixed emotions. On the one hand I was over the moon with happiness. On the other, I was sad and jealous…of myself. What I mean is, the part of me that is a Dickkory fan was savagely jealous of the Richonne fan in me. One was over here fat and happy while the other was counting her ribs again. Both shows had the same potential with the chemistry between their two leads being off the charts. TOWL showed us what could have been while Titans left me wanting and there is no excuse for it.

Exhibit A:

I’ve lost count of how many times Rick declared his undying love for Michonne both in actions AND (very importantly) in words. I mean, I’m so full I’m about to pop.

It literally got to a point like “Dude we get it. She’s the air you breathe and you can’t imagine your life without her. Okay, okay.”

We. Were. FED!!

Exhibit B (or as a lesser man might say, Number 2):

Meanwhile Dickkory fans (me included) are/were over here living off crumbs and trying to find meaning in anything and everything. We all became experts in body language and read into everything we could just to add substance to their story:

“See, every time she touches him he short circuits. Dude is down bad”

Or “When he paused and sighed while mentioning her boyfriend that one time, that means he’s so in love with her that it pains him to imagine her with someone else”

Even the actual “love confession” was weak in my opinion. Far too passive.

I know Titans was not a love story but the man couldn’t have just said the words one time? Or at least used his actual words to discuss how he felt about seeing their baby from the future.

Don’t get me wrong, we got the occasional full bites instead of crumbs, but I would argue that this made the situation even worse. They got our hopes up. We got a glimpse of what could have been.

The show should have just kept all of that instead of teasing us with a love story so RICH with potential only to let us down again and again. They basically either completely ignored it or just keep dangling it in our faces until the final credits rolled. Not to mention the absolute travesty of the wasted chemistry between two actors. Brenton and Anna did the best they could with what they were given. I believe the few crumbs we got were mostly coming from them trying to drive the story along. We all loved the build up in season 1 (the GOAT) but they (the writers) completely lost momentum.

I could even forgive some of this if they just ran out of time to tell the story (again, I get it, Titans wasn’t a love story), but the truth is that they wasted so much time on unnecessary and frankly boring storylines:

🥱

🙄Why? What were the writers actually trying to accomplish here? Who or what was holding them back from greatness?

In conclusion:

Fan fiction is the only thing that got me through with Titans. (Shout out to the ones who held it down with those BTW. I’ve pretty much read them all.) Meanwhile, I personally haven’t read even one story about Rick and Michonne because there is zero need. I left fully satisfied with zero notes. Their story is complete.

Le sigh 😔

[joohanisms]

who in xh do you think has a corruption kink?

OMG ........... they got shorter towards the least likely members but i hope you enjoy either way!!!!

xdh + corruption kinks 💭💫

cw: corruption kink, mention of religion, caught watching porn, penetrative sex, possessive tones, loss of virginity, training (what is that even called???)

most likely

gunil

i have NEVER!!!!! seen a church guy without a corruption kink. sex before marriage and all that – as le sserafim said, i wish for what's forbidden <3

he wants to ruin you AND have you ruin him. LET'S SAY you're both virgins.

fine your first time would be sickly sweet, all 🥺 and 🥰, the softest most vanilla making love missionary sex you've ever seen

but the next time – after the guilt of ""betraying god"" goes away – he fucks you, legs in the air and all.

and he gets off sooooo much to the idea that both of you have become tainted; that both of you took that step together, that you'll be forever bonded by this. that somehow, you'll always belong to each other. your souls were painted red at the same time and that's not something you can just forget. you were the one to bring him down from heaven but also give heaven to him, and vice-versa.

this thought is always on the back of his mind whenever you have sex, and it always turns him on.

jiseok

tell me he wouldn't get SO HARD at the idea of introducing you to kinky shit.

you guys have been having vanilla sex – which isn't wrong or bad or boring at all – until you catch him jerking off to a video on his phone.

he's obviously burning red with shame, thinking you'll jump to conclusions and think he's jerking off to kinky videos on twitter because you haven't been satisfying him (which is a lie. you very much satisfy him. he just came across a hot video and got lost in the moment).

but the only thing you can think about is how the girl on his phone screen is doing the NASTIEST shit to her partner.

"jiseok, what are you watching?" you sit beside him, and he starts pulling his underwear up to stall.

"i can explain, baby. i just saw this on my–"

"what are you watching. explain it to me." it sounds more like an order, and his dick twitches in his boxers.

"it's just, um, a kinky video." reluctantly, he turns the screen towards you, watching your shiny eyes scan the video. you look up at him, with genuine innocence in your expression, and his cock twitches again.

"have you done this before?" he nods. "how does it feel?"

he's done for. he'll have to tell you, to show you, how good it is to explore, to figure out what you like.

don't be surprised if his way of introducing you to kink is by doing everything with you (consensually and with a safeword, of course). making you less innocent, corrupted, by the day.

seungmin

we all know seungmin is freaky.

and that extends to corruption kinks.

they're not his favorite, but he does really like to feel how you're slowly becoming as freaky as him.

every time you do something new, something different, he's reminded that he is the one to introduce you to it. he is making you freakier, dirtier, kinkier, and it's alllll his fault. he loves it.

if you were a virgin by the time you started dating him, he would get a little hard when he was reminded that you're pure and innocent and he's going to take it all away.

same as gunil, your first time would be softer – he doesn't want to hurt you or scare you away – but the next time you fuck (which could very easily be the morning after LMAO) he's going rough on you. fucking all that purity away.

you're not a good girl anymore, and it's his task to make you worse by the second ❤️

also, i'm a firm believer that he loves lingerie and other visual aspects of sex soooo if he comes home and you're sitting on the bed, on your knees, with a white lingerie set – something angel themed, even – you better be aware that not only it stays on during sex, he's also going to ruin the lace by cumming all over it.

jungsu

now, jungsu goes a little bit insane when you're having sex for the first time and you look up to him from between his legs and goes "it's not going to fit."

first of all, a delicious stroke to his ego

second of all, he knows you don't have much experience – you're not a virgin, but you're not the ceo of sex either. which means–

"i've never had anyone this big before."

fuck. he wants to rearrange your guts. fuck you so hard you think you'll split in half. fuck you so deep with his big cock your walls will remember its shape forever.

he settles on a "it will fit, baby. if you can't take it today, we'll try again some other time." with a caress to your hair.

(spoiler: it didn't actually fit. even after two orgasms his mouth generously gave you.)

and that's how training came up.

so jungsu is 1) too fucking big for your pussy 2) working you up to take his size and 3) being the one to stretch you out nice and loose.

you're so angelic, such a good girl – and here he is, making you bounce on a dildo that's slightly smaller than him, praising you for "how good you're taking it", "his cock will be next", and "you'll be able to take it in no time".

he's literally making your cunt loose and sloppy, only for him – and he's the only one who ever had to train you to take his cock.

it kinda goes away after that, though. he'll always feel a little hot when he's reminded of your training era but he doesn't care/doesn't have much interest in any other aspect of the corruption kink

jooyeon

he doesn't mind it, most of the time. it doesn't do much for him, but if you get off to it he'll make an effort to whisper some nasty shit in your ear while you take him missionary style

(which is a surprising position; he ALWAYS favors having you on top)

"not as much of a good girl anymore, yeah? couldn't resist me?"

"it's okay. your innocence was never going to last anyway. i was always meant to take it away."

"this white lingerie makes you look so dainty, so pretty. innocent. too bad you can't be that as long as i'm with you."

hyeongjun

look, it's not that he Doesn't like it. he's more about the marking aspect, the possessive aspect.

he's not corrupting you. he's making you His.

in a way, you were already corrupted when you started dating him – he's just staking his claim.

something along the lines of "from now on, i'm the only one who's taking advantage of your corrupted state", if that even makes sense.

least likely

[seeds-and-sins]

Light My Fire - Part Two

Pairing: Ben "Soldier Boy" x F!Reader

Rating: M (Sexual themes, Crude language, Curse words; WARNING!! Mentions of Death/Desire to Die)

Description: Soldier Boy and you don't always get along, but that doesn't mean there isn't something going on. Ben isn't very good at hiding his feelings for you. He isn't good at showing them either.

Part One

"Where the hell is Phoenix?" Soldier Boy finally noticed why there was a gaping hole in the meeting room's atmosphere. With his feet propped up on the edge of the table, he inspected the entirety of his team and found that one member was missing. Stan Edgar straightened with a sigh, an almost performance worthy somberness to his expression as he shrugged.

"Sadly, Phoenix has fallen ill." Soldier Boy gritted his teeth, the anxious energy tripled as he glared around at his team mates, whom were all unable to make eye contact with him.

"Ill?" Soldier Boy spat, "That's impossible. The bitch has an immune system akin to the Berlin Wall."

"That's what we had assumed for many years, but Phoenix is currently bed ridden with a small cold, proving us wrong." Edgar redirected the conversation then, immediately, "She will not be joining us on this mission, but hopefully she will have recovered by the time we get back."

"Bullshit." Ben wasn't falling for it. Phoenix was a goddamned firecracker-You were a firecracker. Although he had never seen it, he was certain that not even the sniffles would keep you from putting on that suit and fighting. Edgar made it seem like it was so normal, nothing to be alarmed over, but Phoenix was in her early fifties and you never got sick. Something wasn't right here. "Has anyone seen her?" He peered around the table, the awkward silence giving him his answer. "Well, that's settled then. Vought sent her on a fuckin' secret mission, and now they're trying to cover it up." He was satisfied with that conclusion, until Edgar cocked his head stoically at him, and said:

"Interesting theory, Soldier Boy, but Phoenix is actually here in the tower right this very moment. Resting. You are welcome to go see for yourself, no secret mission whatsoever." Soldier Boy, as stubborn as he was, went to stand. "I would insist though, that you go find her after the meeting. This is just a small briefing before our trip to Nicaragua." Soldier Boy's jaw tightened and he reluctantly sat back down, kicking his feet back up once more.

For the rest of the meeting, Soldier Boy remained surprisingly quiet, adrift so to speak, attention completely lost to all things around him. Usually, he had a habit of complaining and making quick insults at his teammates, but this time something more intriguing had taken up space in his thoughts. You.

Was he actually worried? He never worried about anything, he was Soldier Boy. But you were not unlike him when it came to your super abilities and the idea that you were sick didn't sit right with him.

Neither of you ever really got along: not having you around for a mission should have made him happy, but it didn't. He appreciated your grit, something that was in short supply these days. He always had appreciated your grit. You were the only idiot on the team stupid enough to call him out and he loved every second of it. You were fierce and compassionate and you were a damn good hero. If anyone asked the right question, he would very openly admit that you were the only other competent little shit in all of Payback-aside from himself, that was. And his countless attempts at getting into your pants? Well, it was sort of a coverup. Because he did like you so much that it almost hurt sometimes not being near you. You turned him down every time, forever and always was your modo, but it didn't put him off in the slightest. He loved it more than he should have.

Not having you around. Impossible. Not happening. He wouldn't allow it. He was the leader of Payback and if he said you were coming, you were coming.

When the meeting finished-small, my ass-he ordered one of the interns to go fetch him a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a bottle of brandy. He chuckled to himself as he watched them sprint away to go complete his order, knowing that if they made him wait any longer than was necessary he would not be pleased.

"You're going to go see her, aren't you?" Crimson Countess popped out from behind him, leaning against the wall beside the meeting room's double doors. Soldier Boy put on his flirtiest expression, propping an arm up beside Countess' head before grinning.

"Why? Are you jealous?" He teased, thinking it would curl those beautiful painted lips of hers. Instead, she rolled her eyes.

"What's the point even?" His eyes narrowed on her.

"What do you mean, sweetcheeks?" He wasn't going to feed any assumptions, if he didn't understand said assumptions to begin with. "You're just being paranoid. You know there is only one girl for me." He winked, caressing her porcelain cheek with the crook of his finger.

"Don't even." She shoved his hand away and he visibly frowned. "You fucked me once and that was it for you. Then you moved on to all these other girls and that's fine. But you don't want to fuck Phoenix, do you?" Her features drawn down in a sullen glare, "You want to be with her." Soldier Boy gulped, cracking his neck and then standing back from his lean on the wall to adjust his vest.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure, I don't."

"Here!" The breathless intern returned, Soldier Boy faced him with a raised brow.

"What the fuck? That was like five seconds, kid." The intern was bent over, struggling to catch their breath. They held out an open bottle of whiskey and a container of a sloshy, mushy liquid. "Are you shittin' me?" Soldier Boy snatched the container from the intern's hand. "What the fuck is this?"

"My lunch, Sir. Chicken Noodle Soup that my mother made..." He held up the liquor, Soldier Boy winced in disgust at the half empty bottle. "And this, I stole it from the Legend's office." Soldier Boy lifted his chin in thought, his features loosened for a moment and he swayed his head from side to side in consideration.

"Points for effort, fuck nut..." He snatched up the bottle of booze and then lifted his boot, using a small fraction of his strength to tip the intern over to the ground. "But the soup is cold, so you're still pathetic." He shot a look back at a discarded Countess and then carelessly began down the hallway, leaving the Intern groaning and laying flat on the floor.

He had been in Phoenix's penthouse many times, a majority of the time he was uninvited. You had to have your door replaced at least seven times in the past year because he had a penchant for breaking and entering, especially if you weren't alone. He just couldn't help himself. The idea of you being with someone else, when he was more than capable of stopping it, it itched at his skin. He sometimes would stand outside your door for hours, contemplating whether or not to knock. And obviously, why would he knock? He was Soldier Boy. He didn't knock for anyone.

But god, what a stubborn bitch you were...

This time he would knock.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He heard some shuffling on the other end, a TV being paused, followed by footsteps.

"Yes?" A nasally voice sounded=, he almost couldn't believe that it belonged to you.

"Police. Open up." He smirked, tilting his head as he listened for your response. There was a brief silence, and then:

"Fuck off, Ben."

"Think again, cupcake, I brought you the goods." Another moment of silence, he waited, and then he was done waiting. He dug his shoulder into the edge of the doorframe, his cheek close to it as if he was listening. "God, you must love me breaking down your door."

"Urgh, stop!" You hit the door and he bounced back with a hearty chuckle. "GO. AWAY."

"Do you think that's going to work?" You unlocked the door and swung it open, Soldier Boy instantly recoiled at the sight of you. You were wearing at least three layers of sweatshirts, comically making you look thicker, sweatpants and a pair of fluffy slippers. Your hair was disheveled, dark circles under your eyes, and your skin was sickly looking. His eyebrows furrowed and a certain strictness overtook him.

"What the fuck do you want?"

"Jesus Christ," He hid his concern as quickly as it had dawned on him. "Please tell me you're dying." You slumped into the door, tiredly fluttering your eyes before sniffling.

"You'll be dead in a few seconds if you don't fuck off." There it was, that fire that he loved oh so much.

"Hear me out-"

"I hate hearing you out."

"I know, but this time..." He held up the soup and the bottle. "You might give me a chance."

"Really?" You snorted, crossing your arms as a horrible shiver wracked your body. "This is what you bothered me for."

"Considering that no one else on the team has stopped by, I'd say beggars can't be choosers."

"I didn't beg to be bothered by you, asshole."

"But you thought it, didn't you?" He held the items up again, puckering his lips in an amusing pose. "Come on~" He chirped, "Let me bother you."

"I'll accept the offering, you can leave now." You reached out for them, just to shut him up, except that wasn't enough. He swiped the items back to his chest and feigned an appalled look.

"Oh, please, honey, we're a package deal." You stared at him blankly, before stepping back, about to shut the door. "You close that door, next time I'll break it down." The shift in his tone, from playful to terse, sent a bout of irritation through you. You cracked it back a little, closing your eyes and then with an exhausted exhale, you creaked it open just enough. "Yahtzee." He cheered in a sing song voice, entering your penthouse and then booking it for the couch. You slammed the door and rushed to beat him to it.

"No. Don't you dare. No. No! FUCK!" He splayed himself across the couch, blankets and all, destroying the little nest you had made for yourself. You kicked the edge of the couch, it shifted from your strength and Soldier Boy laughed.

"Ooo, what are we watching?" He sat upright, allowing some space for you to occupy. He placed the bottle and the soup on the coffee table, squinting in thought at the giant Panasonic screen ahead of him. "A porno?" You bonked him on the head as you passed in front of him to curl into the corner of the couch.

"No, dipshit, it's Footloose. VHS." He unlatched his helmet and proceeded to remove it, dropping it alongside the other items on the coffee table.

"Ahhh, who's the guy in that-uh-" He snapped his fingers aggressively, closing in his eyes to scour the farthest reaches of his being. "Steak-Sausage-He's named after some kind of meat, I know it-"

"Bacon..." You couldn't help but laugh. "Kevin Bacon." Soldier Boy smiled boyishly at you, weaving his fingers through his hair and pulling back the bangs that dropped before his eyes.

"Yeah, that Bacon guy. Not bad, I guess. Shitty movie though." You hit his arm with what strength you had.

"Don't fuck this up for me. I've never seen it before."

"Neither have I..." He snorted, "I was too busy getting a blow job in the back row. Ya'know back in my time-"

"Our time." Oh yeah, sometimes he forgot that they were almost the same age. "Back in our time." You shivered again, snatching the blanket that Soldier Boy had pinned to the couch with his ass. He showed you mercy and sat up for you, so that you could bring the fabric up and around your body. His eyes focused on you for a split second before he shook his head away.

"Back in our time, we had good actors. They'd sing and dance and do all sorts of shit. Heck, did I ever tell you about that time I-"

"Ate Audrey Hepburn out in a bathroom stall at the Academy Awards?" You finished dully, Soldier Boy chewed the inside of his cheek.

"What about when I-"

"Fucked Marilyn Monroe in the ass, in the Oval Office?"

"Okay, now-"

"When you jerked off on Lucille Ball?" He clicked his tongue and snapped at you this time:

"You made that last one up."

"Sounds about right though, you mostly only ever contribute your sexual exploits to ninety percent of our conversations, so..." You sniffled, lifting the remote from the end table and shrugging. "Unless you have a legitimate explanation, I don't want to hear it."

"Fuckin' bitch." He muttered under his breath as you pressed play on the remote, rolling the movie. It was silent for a few minutes, nothing but the music and conversation from the big screen, and then you shivered again, your teeth rattling as your body tensed. You cursed under your breath, a wave of annoyance washing over you. "Vogelbaum see you, yet?" Soldier Boy asked, from the corner of your eyes you saw his head tilt toward you. "You don't look so good."

"Why do you care?" You spat at him, shifting to stare in his direction.

"Because you're a member of my team..." You rolled your eyes back to the movie, choosing to ignore what sounded like genuine care in his words. "I mean, if I am allowing you to stay here-"

"Allowing me?" You forced out a boisterous laugh, from the pit of your belly, that slightly hurt. "What are you gonna' do? Force me to go throw myself limply at Marxist Sandanistas?"

"You still got some strength in you, kid. Squeeze my pinky." He followed this by actually holding his pinky out. You rolled your eyes, but proceeded to wrap your pinky around his and squeeze. Strong, but not that strong.

"Ben, I can hardly lift myself up from the ground, it hurts to breath, and this morning I struggled to bring my tea to a steady boil." He flicked his pinky from yours, your hand limply falling to your lap. His eyes scanned you, chest rising and falling with a heavy breath.

"You afraid?"

"No." You confessed, although you continued with, "Heck, the sooner I die, the less I have to look at your ugly mug."

"That's a brat move." He smiled at you, you couldn't help but return it. There was almost an odd way about this moment, as if you were secretly comforting each other, while trying not to comfort each other, while also trying to hate each other. Or at least, this was a much more comfortable moment compared to the usual. "Seriously. Did you get Vogelbaum in here?"

"He came and checked me out, said I was fine."

"That sit right with you?"

"Not, really, but I don't care." You bit your bottom lip, refusing to look at him.

"Why, not?" The music in the background was no longer soothing as it was needling every nerve in Soldier Boy's patience. "(Y/N)?" It was the only warning you were going to get before he destroyed the TV, he decided.

"We don't age." You clicked the button on the remote, the screen zapping into an abyssal black. You propped your head under your fist on the armrest and gazed at Soldier Boy. You hadn't slept for days and your superhuman energy could only run for so long. You were on backup at this point.

"So what..." He crossed his arms, a stern curve to his brow. "I thought woman liked that shit. No wrinkles, or whatever."

"Ben, I'm being serious."

"Me too."

"You're sixty-five years old..."

"Thanks for stating the obvious."

"And you don't look a day over thirty." He breathed, pretending not to understand the implications of what you were suggesting. He knew it already. The both of you did. You weren't the only two heroes that never aged, but it was a given that you didn't age ever and that your kind of hero was few and far between. "I'm fifty-four and look just as young as I did when I was twenty-two, getting that first injection of V."

"What are you even going on about, honey? I think you need some weed, calm ya' down, want me to-"

"Please listen to me for once." Were you crying? Oh boy, Ben thought. He cleared his throat and then sat up taller against the backrest of the couch, directing his eyes to the ceiling. "I don't want to live forever. Time gives life meaning, ya'know? And when you can't feel pain, or you're too strong to give someone normal a really good hug, it starts to get to you." You palmed at your face, willing the tears away. "I want to get married one day, I want to have kids and grow old with someone."

"Pfft, Marriage." Ben mockingly echoed, but he was silenced by your tear stained expression. He had never seen you so broken before.

"I can't believe I'm even talking to you about this..." Your breath wavered with a snicker. "You're the biggest asshole I've ever met. You don't care."

"I've thought about it..." He needed to busy himself with something, so he settled on the whiskey. He tucked in a reach for the bottle, yanking the cork out and going for a chug. The liquid left a pleasant burn behind on his throat and he winced. "Settling down with someone..." He feigned a cough into his fist. "That I care about. That I-" His head tilted back and forth. "That I might even love."

"Countess..." Hearing you say her name made his skin crawl, his fist clenched and he shut his eyes. No. Not Countess, Phoenix. "She loves you."

"She hates me." He plopped back, placing the bottle in between his legs on his crotch. "Only puts up with me because of the money, because of the fame."

"Maybe if you showed some loyalty to her, she wouldn't." His tongue slung around teeth, collecting the residue of the hardy liquid. With his head laid on the puffy pillow of the backrest, he turned it to you.

"I'm a real fuck up, I know it. My father seemed to know it too..." He fiddled with the neck of the bottle. "But I'm still afraid of failing the people I really do care about." You eyed him, not particularly sure what to do with this soft and open moment. "And Countess isn't one of them."

So you push people away.

Your breath hitched, you buried the bottom half of your face under the covers for a brief recoup in your feelings. Your face was still wet and you hate how absolutely freezing it was.

"I don't want you to die..." The admission was heaved out, shaky and choppy and all sort of scrambled, but your entire body tingled at it. "If that wasn't obvious enough." You pulled the blanket over your head, like that was going to help you.

"I don't think it was, Ben. You just told me you wished I was dying, not even a few minutes ago."

"I was joking, come on. Can't take a fuckin' joke?" He yanked at the edge of the blanket, but not hard enough to tug it from you. "What's the problem, anyways? You've got the sniffles, big whoop."

"I'm cold." You lowered the blanket to gaze at him. "I'm never cold."

"Well, you're a naturally hot person. No shame in that." He grinned, winking at you. When you didn't immediately react, as far as he could see-the blanket hiding your smile-he stretched his arm across the couch again. "I know something that can warm you up."

"I'm not going to have sex with you."

"Damn, I like the way you think." He purred, you pretended to gag at him as you settled the blanket in your lap. "But no, just come jump in my furnace for a little bit. I won't touch you." After his offer, he followed with an assertive wave of the hand that was stretch out along the back rest toward you.

"Ben-"

"I've seen you butt naked, get your ass over here." You sighed, knowing he wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, he never did. You weakly shuffled across the couch and when you were close enough he dropped his arm, trapping you in his embrace. Your body melted against his and you were instantly incapacitated at the heat that drew from in thick waves. You couldn't help the moan that exited your parted lips. "Careful, you might just tempt me, honey."

"I'll-" Your eyes slid shut as you dropped your cheek to his chest. "I'll burn your dick off if you try anything." His laughter rumbled up through his chest and you felt it with a fond smile. You wished you could smell too, because you were certain he smelled amazing.

"We going to turn the TV back on, or..."

"Why don't we just..." You smacked your lips, bringing a leg over his thigh so that you perfectly curled up to his side. "Let's just stay here for a bit." He didn't promise not to touch you, his palm held the base of your skull and his other hand guided yours to rest flat on his chest.

"I'm okay with that." He allowed his own eyes to slid shut as he took a deep breath. He tucked his nose into your scalp and inhaled, you were too sleepy to stop him. "If you aren't better by the time I get back, I'm going to toss you off the top of the tower."

"Why would you do that?" You snorted, confused more than annoyed by it. You knew how he could be.

"Call it, Soldier Boy's in-home flight training experience." You smiled goofily, thankful that he couldn't see it.

"Oh yeah? Well, if I'm going down, you're going down with me."

"You won't go down though..." There was a lilt of a growl to his words. "Because you'll be brand new by then, right?"

"I hope." You didn't expect him to squeeze you even tighter.

"You will. Promise." You turned your face, your lips to his chest plate as you then looked up into his eyes.

"I promise." He wanted to kiss you so badly then, but he couldn't. He couldn't kiss you. He thought about your conversation, about how you both opened up to each other. He thought about what his father said to him all those years ago... And he didn't want to hurt you. Instead, he cupped your cheek and stared back.

Return to Master list

[blighted-lights]

okay so i know i literally just posted this page section two days ago, but i think the wording here is subtle but sooo interesting. the fact that ravage immediately assumes the offer megatron gives to him has malicious intent is very telling towards the fractured trust ravage now has with him, and i REALLY wish this new strained dynamic was expanded upon more in canon.

i think those first two lines are the only part of this interaction that i actually like and want to see more of (as the rest feels genuinely silly- the idea that ravage has never seen the "dark side of the decepticon cause" before this exact moment is both an embarassing writing choice and insulting to ravage's competence and intellegence). it is ravage telling megatron, in less exact words, "i don't trust you and i don't think you trust me, either."

i dunno. i just wish we got to see more of the low parts of their dynamic in mtmte rather than the immediate bond they seem to have directly after this scene.

like these panels are from the same arc!!

this anger they have at each other, the tension between them- it never has a conclusion that feels satisfying to me. ravage joins the lost light and never brings up anything from this conversation again throughout mtmte. he doesn't mention the decepticons, doesn't mention galvatron, and his anger towards megatron abandoning them completely disappears. he becomes a support character for megatron and that is all their dynamic is from that point on. and it's so unfortunate, because it could of been so interesting!

[gffa]

I was wondering if you could share your thoughts and feelings on Felonys takes over the years overall? I know a lot of people see him as this grand savior of star wars without much more to it so I wanted to hear your take on how he handles the pre-established world he writes for and the dissonance with what George Lucas established/said before

Honestly, I think a lot of Felony's appeal is that he writes a very polished story and that's appealing to audiences (no shade, I'm part of that audience!) and that he has at least given some thought to what the Force means. There are a lot of takes he has that I agree with, I still quote what he says about the characters at times, but I think he has a big central problem and that's characterization drift-slash-the inability to let go. Well, two big central problems: He also can't write/finish a narrative arc to a satisfying conclusion. I have such a hard time getting into the Mandalorian storyline because it's been told in snippets for like 10+ years now and it's never really coherently come together, it still has huge gaps in it, it doesn't have a strong narrative central theme that he sticks to, but instead told through cameos and mini-arcs in separate shows. And when you examine a lot of his work, it often doesn't hold up to scrutiny because I'm not sure he has a solid thematic throughline that's driving him--like, some of the choices he made in season 7 of TCW are baffling--Ahsoka walks right by people who need her help, then says, "In my life, when someone needs help, I help them."??? When she wants the Jedi to help Mandalore instead of Coruscant, she says the Jedi aren't helping the people who really need them, despite that Coruscant is under attack and that's where Trace and Rafa are, the characters we just spent an entire arc on?? Ahsoka and Bo-Katan want the Republic to literally invade Mandalore, this is brought up in the arc itself, and then never mentioned again because it's inconvenient and the author doesn't want to deal with the established worldbuilding?? I also don't think he knows how to end a story, like I love Ahsoka as a character, but he very much does favor her and a lot of her appearances are starting to feel like she's only there because Filoni can't resist. She just never ends, there's no conclusion to her, what's even her character arc over the course of her life after the Jedi genocide? She's obviously dealing with trauma about it and now she's looking for Ezra to find him again, but what's the character arc on a personal level? Is she still dealing with letting go of Anakin, ~30 years after it happened? Did she not put that to rest in Rebels finally? @david-talks-sw has a great post about the differences between George Lucas and Dave Filoni here, illustrating that I do think Dave misses some really key points about characters that he has personal biases against. And, you know, I'm not getting after him for that, I disagree with him and I think he's wrong about a lot of stuff that Lucas directly established, but I also think a lot of people dismiss criticism of him because, oh, he worked with George and therefore he's an extension of George! No, he's a different writer with his own strengths and weaknesses, one I think who makes very popular (often for a reason) Star Wars, but I think misses the heart a lot of times. But I also often think of that he doesn't try to see himself as the grand lord of Star Wars, either, even he himself says:

He's not the ultimate authority on Star Wars, he's just as fallible as anyone else is, and always should be. I think he made Star Wars shows that a lot of people loved, he has a very polished style, and he has given thought to the characters he loves. He just also has biases and directly conflicts with George Lucas' established story and I think that's fair to point out. Maybe you like those better, I'm not trying to talk anyone out of that, but it's still fair game for me to point out that I think he's wrong about Star Wars just as often as he's right. (And that, as time goes on and The Mandalorian and The Book of Boba Fett became more and more of a hot mess, I grew less charitable. This is a major overview, I don't want to get too into the weeds on this, I've gone over a lot it in past meta, and it would be exhausting to dig it all up again, but basically this is why I'm on the fence about Felony. He has a lot of weaknesses as a writer and I don't find I like his strengths more than I dislike his weaknesses sometimes.)

[failedaethercore]

Frustration

You've got feelings for someone and you have no idea how to process them, let alone deal with them.

Angsty fluff and smutty frustration turn into a satisfying conclusion.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

Rafayel x reader/MC, use of y/n, mention of Xavier and Zayne, masturbation, cussing, smut, smutty smut smut, praise kink, light master play, a little begging, fluff, angsty, unrequited feelings, doubt, cute stuff too

If you are under 18, please refrain from reading this. You have been warned, continuing to read this means you have ignored my warning.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

It had been a long succession of weeks. Too long. If it wasn’t missions, it was training. If it wasn’t those, it was mountains of paperwork. You had barely gotten any downtime lately, and you were fraying at the seams. It kept you busy, at least.

But when Captain Jenna offered you some downtime, you silently fought it. It would be only two days off, but it meant you would be alone with yourself. With your thoughts. So only to keep from being put on suspension, you took it. You figured you could do some self care, an errand or two, some tv…it won’t be that bad, right?

The first day was going fine, you had a long hot bath, soaking away your worries. You even slept in a bit, and you had plans to get food delivered as well. You were gonna pamper yourself and take good care of yourself this weekend. You swore that was the goal.

You had been avoiding this much time off from Hunting because you were avoiding a much bigger issue. One you were far from ready to admit to yourself, let alone anyone else...

This was especially because you had been feeling…frustrated lately. You kept stealing glances at your attractive friend Zayne, who was also your doctor. And your coworker Xavier was not ignored, either. But when you got anywhere near your second boss, Rafayel, you would freeze up and just shut down.

You hadn’t even been with anyone in years, and even then it had been a tame relationship that only lasted a couple months, at most.

So…you were just a little pent up.

You got out your secret stash of toys, just a couple vibrators, a dildo, some lube, the usual suspects. You had been itching for some pleasure down there, and to be honest, you had almost wanted to call someone over to help…

See but, you knew full well it would likely be taking advantage…you knew you could ask Xavier to do almost anything. But in knowing that, the guilt that tugged at your gut made you rethink it every time.

And Zayne would just go along with things to help you, not that he would complain. But he only saw you as a little sister, if anything. So you felt guilt, there, too…

And the only other viable option, well…you were avoiding that altogether. Forever. Buried. Banned. No more.

But no matter, you knew all your own buttons, you wouldn’t have a difficult time of this, even if it had been a while…this’d be a nice time to reconnect with yourself, right?

…

That was THREE HOURS AGO…

You were panting, flushed and frustrated, fingers aching, lips dry, sweat covering your body…and it was like you weren’t able to dip your toe into the water, let alone take that dive into the pool.

You were so frustrated, you started to cry. You were nearly sobbing, your nerves were officially wrecked, and you were ready to just get up and drink all the liquor you kept in your kitchen. At least that way you could relax.

So when your phone rang, you just dejectecly picked it up without a thought. Your voice was hoarse and came out shaky from the attempted masturbation, and the sobs that kept jumping up your throat like frogs from not getting anywhere…among other feelings that kept wrenching your thoughts away from your pleasure.

“…Hello?”

“Y/n! I’m so glad to finally hear from you…you’ve been avoiding me lately, I was getting depressed, you know. It’s not nice to avoid someone so handsome…”

Oh no…not him.

“…Rafayel…what do you want?” Your voice was shaky and hoarse, but cold.

“Wow, do you think so little of me? I just wanted to check up on you on your day off, since we haven’t had a chance to talk in forever…I don’t want a thing. Scout’s honor.” You could almost see him making the gesture of raising his hand as if he were a junior scout in your head. You tried not to smirk at how dumb it looked.

“…Wait, how did you know it was my day off??” You turned to look at your phone, as if to make sure you hadn’t turned on a video call.

“Well a little fishie told me, of course! But that’s besides the point, y/n… you sound bad, did you catch something?” Concern could be heard in his tone, and you almost wanted to scream from frustration, because your patience with him was beyond thin right now.

“I’m. Fine. Just trying to relax, Rafayel.” Anger tinged your response as you still lay, naked, sweaty and annoyed, in your stuffy room. But your voice was getting worse from all the talking, so he just heard you denying you were sick.

If he dared to suggest- “I’m coming over. You sound awful, I’ll make sure to take care of you, Miss Bodyguard.”

“No! Rafayel don’t you da-“ click…

“…Fuck. I am so screwed.” You wonder if you can relocate your entire apartment in a matter of minutes. But then you sit up and reality splashes cold water on that dream, too.

You know Xavier is busy taking over missions while you have the two days off, and apparently Zayne is out of town at some conference of some kind. You have no backup. You have no one to step in if things turn south. You quickly dial Thomas before your mind has time to catch up.

“…Hello? Y/n? Is everything alright?”

“Thomas you have to help. Stop him, he’s headed for my apartment as we speak.”

Thomas could read the situation like he was breathing. He was used to you calling and begging him to stop Rafayel from doing who-knows-what.

“Your voice sounds bad, y/n, you should probably be resting if you’re sick…plus, you know Rafayel, he’ll most likely just order in some takeaway and leave once you pass out. He’s not good at taking care of anyone.”

Yes. You knew this. But right now you were anything but tired, let alone sick. If he caught on to what you had been up to to cause your voice to go like this…fuck. You had to hurry. Your bed was covered in toys and damp from the sweat and lube. “Okay Thomas I gotta go bye!”

You gave him no chance to speak and hung up on him. You rushed to put on clothes, shoved your sweaty sheets in your laundry hamper, and struggled to put fresh ones on. You had moments, maybe. If Rafayel drove like he normally does, then you were almost out of time.

That’s when you noticed them again. The toys. You didn’t have time to clean them, so you couldn’t put them away. That’s when you heard the first knock. Fuck.

You shoved them under your bed in a rush and made sure your pajamas didn’t smell too bad…you hadn’t had a chance to get laundry done, yet…which was tomorrow’s main attraction, unfortunately.

Thankfully, they smelled of detergent still, if only faintly. So you should be good.

You start padding over to the door, as more knocks begin to sound. “I’m coming, I’m coming! Gods, Rafayel, calm down…” You open the door to find the man smirking confidently down at you, a bag in hand, and one of his classic outfits with his chest somewhat exposed greeting you.

Normally, the sight would make you snort. But your nerves were still heightened, so you only managed a slight blush instead. “Y/n, you look like you have a fever, here…let me help, okay?”

Your irritation seems to know no limits today, as you try to slam the door in his face, but with no real power behind it, he catches the door and lets himself in, chuckling a little. “I see you’re in good spirits, then.”

You glare at him as he sets the small bag on the counter in your kitchen, and then goes to your side to place his hand against your forehead.

For some reason you don’t flinch like you normally would, which tips him off that something’s up. Instead you blush a little more, looking away. “…I’m fine, Raf.” The abbreviation to his name is to infer annoyance, distance. But he takes a small step closer instead.

“You feel warm…and sweaty, you could have a virus, y/n.” He turns his gaze from you to glance around. “Where do you keep your thermometer?” You grumble at him a quiet “don’t have one.” Which you know Zayne would lose his mind over. But that’s future you’s problem, if it ever gets out.

“Hmmm…guess we’ll just have to do this, then.” He leans down and presses his forehead to yours. “Ah! Rafayel, what are you doing?!” You back up defensively.

“Just making sure. Yeah, you’re hot. Let’s get something to cool you down... ice cream? No, you don’t eat that when you’re sick… I’ll order some porridge. You like abalone, right?” “…No, not really…” he looks at you in shock, as if you had just insulted his entire species.

“Well you’re going to learn to like it. And I’ll get some tea started. I brought some, and a few other things.” He waves his hand as if to shoo you to the living room area. You glower at him in a way that would make plants die.

He ignores you, starting the electric kettle and pulling out a canister from the small bag he brought. You were curious what else was in there, to be honest...

You slumped on the sofa and fumed a little, but by the time Rafayel brought you some tea, you wandered into daydreams instead.

Mostly ones involving Xavier or Zayne. Not this annoying little fish who clung to you like bad luck.

He set the tea on the coffee table in front of you before snapping his fingers in your face. You hated when people did that. You looked up at him slowly, the lewd thoughts that had made you blush to yourself now fading, along with the color in your cheeks.

Your eyes settled into a glare and you quickly grabbed his hand and yanked him down to sit next to you. “Don’t. Ever. Do that. Again.” With every word you pinched his arm. Hard.

He yelped at the first one, then just pouted as he rubbed the spots you had attacked. “I was calling your name for a while…I wanted to know if you had any honey.” For a moment your mind flashes to a lewd thought again, someone drizzling honey on your naked body and licking it all off.

You blushed and looked away. “Top cupboard near the fridge. …Green lid.” He sighs and gets up to bring it to you, and you felt a pang of guilt for that. He didn’t deserve so much of your ire, after all, it wasn’t his fault…

He serves you the tea carefully, after adding a spoonful of honey to the cup. The steam fills your senses, the smell is floral, like jasmine, but with citrus and a deeper, unknown scent. Then something that smells like the ocean fills you with a contentment for a moment, before you realize it’s most likely his scent you’re swooning over. Shit.

You take the cup and carefully sip the tea, staying silent. The awkward chill in the room fills you with dread. This is when you make bad choices, usually. That or when there’s…wait, is there alcohol in this?!

“Rafayel, did you put booze in this??” You look at him with incredulity before he gives you a slight grin. “It’ll help your fever. I saw you had some whiskey on the counter and figured it might be a good idea. Don’t worry, it’s not a lot.” He takes the cup from you to set it down.

You feel like a serious talk is about to happen, and you’re not ready to deal with some sort of awkward conversation with your…boss. You stand up abruptly. “I’ll be right back, just need to use the restroom.” You excuse yourself and rush to shut the door behind you. You let out a sigh of relief.

The alcohol is already affecting you, you forgot to eat today, and with all the energy you burned through earlier trying to get yourself off, your body was already starting to feel loose and a little swimmy. Not good.

You had to splash some cold water on your face several times, and silently talk yourself down from a ledge you were dangerously close to jumping off of at full throttle.

He may be a nuisance and frustrating and capricious and downright annoying with how he knew he affected women…but he was a man. A man here. Now. In your moment of need.

No! No y/n! You will not give in to temptation! He would never let you live it down after he rejects you! He would make you suffer for ever even thinking such things!

More splashing from the sink could be heard from the other side of the door. Rafayel was bored, so he started poking his nose where it wasn’t supposed to be. Starting with your room. Because he’s naughty like that.

Hmmm. She has a lot of stuffed animals for such a tough girl. And she doesn’t know how to make her bed, apparently. Oh look, she has photos on her desk of her frie-

Rafayel stops short at a recent photo of you and Xavier, both of you smiling with his arm around your shoulders casually. You were both at the arcade, and he had just won you the special edition plushie that was now sitting next to it on your desk.

He sulkily turns to leave the room before he sees anything else that will sour his mood. But before he gets too far, he sees a bright blue vibrator that had carelessly rolled out from under your bed in your rush earlier.

“Oho…what’s this?” He picks it up, and it’s covered in lube, still. He smirks as it all starts to click. Your irritation, your voice…your scent. He had been wondering why you smelled so amazing today…now he knew. And he was going to tease the life out of you for being so cold to him earlier.

He settles back down on the sofa before you can catch him sneaking around, and he puts on his most casual and bored of expressions.

You emerge from the bathroom ready to send him home, when he looks up from his phone and gives you one of his heartstopping smiles. You still don’t entirely know why, but it had always managed to make you pause, if not blush.

And right now all your efforts to calm yourself down were in vain. He glanced back down at his phone and tapped something. “The food’ll be here soon, is there anything you’d like to do while we wait? I also ordered myself something, since I figure I should stay until you’re feeling a little better.” He smirked at his phone as you stared.

“Rafayel, you can go home, I’m fine.” “Nope, you clearly have a fever. You were just trying to cool down in there, were you not? And your voice is still hoarse. I’m not going anywhere.” He looked up at you and smirked more. You stomped over and tried to grab his arm to pull him off your sofa, but he was too quick for you, and simply pulled you onto his lap.

“Don’t worry about getting me sick, I’m perfectly healthy.” He brushes some wet strands of hair out of your face as you blush and glare at him. “Just leave, Raf. I’m fine, I just…uh…was out all last night singing karaoke. So I sound like this.” You prayed he bought it.

Not a chance.

He wrapped an arm around you idly as he kept doing something on his phone. You were growing impatient with him. The alcohol was making your need only grow stronger, warming your insides and making your decision making skills less than ideal right now.

You weren’t drunk, but you were definitely slightly impaired. So when you finally noticed his fingers softly rubbing circles into your hip while you sat on his lap, you suddenly shot up and put some distance between the both of you.

“Hmm? Is something wrong?” He looks up as if he hadn’t just been touching you intimately. Not even Zayne was that daring. This fish was trouble…

“I need you to go, Raf. I’ve got a lot of chores to do around here, and you’re in the way.” Your tone is cold, and you try to stand firm, despite your slight tremor from your nerves. He only grins in response.

“Let me know and I’ll do them for you while you rest. Just go in your room and lay down for a bit, I can manage.” He gives you a softer smile now, and some part of your heart of steel starts to warm.

But you shake your head to get those fuzzy thoughts out of your mind. He was annoying, remember? All that charm was an act. He was a renowned lady killer, he was just trying to put the moves on you.

“I want you to please leave.” You put your hands on your hips and you stand firm against his persuasion.

That’s when he brings in the big guns. He stands up, almost slowly, deliberate with each step as he approaches you, forcing you to look up into his eyes to try and stare him down.

He places a hand on your cheek and gives you a sad smile. “…You really hate me that much?”

It’s super effective.

Your heart bobs in a dark storm of doubt and guilt, as you try to right yourself in these dangerous waters you’ve found yourself in. You stare up at him, and suddenly a blush blooms on your cheeks.

“…I don’t hate you.” You look away from him, too embarrassed to maintain eye contact now. And, after a long, intense pause…

“…It’s okay... you can stay.”

His heart actually flutters at that. He lifts your chin to look at him again, and he places the softest kiss to your cheek. But you don’t flinch or pull away. You just let it happen.

You almost want to see what he’ll try to do, since he’s clearly up to something…

Rafayel is suddenly drawn to his phone again, a gentle ding notification alerting him to the food now outside your door. He lets his hand slip away from you and goes to retrieve it.

The tension is still there, even after he brings in the food. He’s silent as he sets the bag down on your dining table, and then he looks at you. “…You’re watching me.” His tone is of curiosity, not accusation.

You blush and quickly look away. Before you can summon your barriers around your heart once more, Rafayel slips next to you, silence and stealth being all the easier with you like this. He places a hand on the small of your back to guide you to the table.

“Come, eat it before it gets cold…” your shoulders stiffened at his touch, and you tried to sus out what was going on. You could sense something, but your mind couldn’t figure out what, precisely…

You let him guide you to the table, as he gets out some dishes to serve you some porridge. “They were all out of abalone, so I ordered oyster and scallop. But I’m guessing you’ll prefer it.” He chuckles a little as he sets a full bowl in front of you.

“Why oysters…why not just... chicken?” You look a little bewildered, but take a bite anyways. It’s good, the porridge tastes refreshingly savory and faintly sweet, with a salty oceanic taste you could never mistake. It’s honestly amazing, as you had been meaning to eat earlier…

Rafayel smiles with his boyish charm, sitting down beside you at the square table, serving himself some as well. “It smells so good, I can save the noodles for later. I’ll have some, too.”

He lets out a low, deep moan as he takes the first bite. As if it was the most delicious food he had ever eaten. “C-c’mon Raf, it’s not that good…” you blush and try to secretly adjust yourself in your chair as you’re already struggling to keep from dampening your shorts further.

But he sees all of it. And he gives you a grin. “Maybe, but I haven’t eaten all day, so this is soooo good…” he makes another moan as he takes another bite. This causes your insides to twitch with want. You’re going to kill him.

This has to be deliberate.

And it is.

Before you finish your bowl, Raf has already finished his. He notices your slowed eating, and swiftly steals away your spoon. “You’re eating so slow…it’s not that bad, here I’ll feed you.” You blush immediately. “Rafayel don’t you da-“ a spoonful of porridge is put in your mouth in response.

You slowly chew and swallow, and without a word, another porridge-laden spoon is waiting for you. “Eat up…Miss Bodyguard.” He smirks at you while you silently eat.

After the last bite, he stands to start tidying the dishes and such. You’re still trying to figure out what he’s up to, as he starts to clean. He hums at first, then pauses.

“Y’know…oysters and scallops are sometimes considered an aphrodisiac...”

Oh. Fuck.

“W-what??” You start to sweat a little, as you stare at his back. He finishes washing and turns to smirk at you. Oh shit…he knows.

You start to panic, standing carefully and slowly backing away from him. “You really should clean up your toys when you’re done playing, y/n…” it takes him no time at all to catch you, grabbing your hand as you reflexively put it up to catch any incoming attacks.

His voice is low and his eyes that were once sparkling with concern and caring, are now dark with desire and want. You struggle a little before standing straight and glaring at him. “L-let me go, Rafayel. Just because I ate that doesn’t mean I’m going to do anything with you.”

“Not because you ate it, no…” his voice is husky and he leans down to whisper in your ear. “…But you’re already giving off even stronger pheromones than usual, and you’ve yet to actually stop me…miss Hunter.” he pauses to bring your attention to the fact that his other hand is now resting on your ass. It's true, if you really wanted, you could break his arm in three places and grab your gun while he reels...

“You’re horrible, Rafayel.” He smirks. “But you love me anyways.” His confidence is infuriating.

“I don’t love you.” “But you don’t hate me, either.” “Just because I don’t hate you doesn’t mea-get your hand off my ass, Rafayel!” Your voice rises and he gently slides his hand up to your waist, lifting your pajama shirt slightly in the process.

“Y/n, I know you think I’m annoying sometimes…but I’m not just reading into things that are illusions.” He looks into your eyes, dark and sensual, but also filled with a deep longing. “I’m not the only one here who sees this. You’re just always making excuses to avoid me lately…”

You look away at that, guilt and embarrassment all over your face. “…And I know it has nothing to do with your work, at least…not in the way you say it does. You’re dancing around the issue... Do you not see me as a potential partner?” He gently takes your cheek and turns you to face him again.

His eyes are filled with sadness, even the lust is a distant memory in those beautiful orbs now. “Do you truly only see me as a nuisance?” You try to look away, you don’t want to admit it. Not out loud. But his hand holds you firm, keeping you looking at him as he silently pleads for your answer.

“…I refuse to be another notch on your bedpost, Rafayel.” You shiver from the cold in your own voice, as you look down, your face pale. You admitted it, after all this time.

He paused for a long time, before he suddenly burst into a smile and held you against him. “Whatever made you think I was that kind of man, y/n?” You immediately blush at the embrace, confusion written all over your expression.

“W-what do you mean? All those parties…and those women…the magazines…” “Lies. All of it. And those women?” He leans in close and takes both your hands in his, before whispering in a husky voice. “…they only want what they can’t have.”

Your blush deepens at his confession, and you can’t look away anymore. “Y/n…I’m going to kiss you now. And if you don’t want that…I will respect your decision.” He pauses for a long time, both your faces are only centimeters apart.

But before he can move, after giving you plenty of time to process, you stand on tiptoe and give him a kiss first.

This fully grown man, this confident beacon of swagger…blushes deep red, to the point that his ears become pink.

“I…see.” He grins like a madman before grabbing hold of you and peppering kisses on anything he possibly can. Your cheek? Yes. Your lips? Absolutely. Your forehead? Do you even need to ask?

You start to giggle at him, and he stops after a few minutes to simply inhale your scent and hold you. “I will never give you reason to doubt me, y/n. I promise.” He looks into your eyes with his beautiful twilit-colored ones, and he smiles as if he had just won everything he had ever wanted.

Before you can say anything, he holds out his hand. “I swear to you, I will always love you, y/n…” he makes his hand into a tight fist for a moment, a silent prayer in his mind before he opens it, to reveal a small, blue fish swimming in front of you. You gasp and look at it in awe. “It is my heart. Take it, it’s yours.”

You carefully put out your hand, and when it swims onto your palm, it dissolves into a soft glow that lingers on your skin. “The ocean says that it is true…my promise will never be broken.” You look up at him and blush. “I…don’t have anything that special for you, Rafayel.” You look a little sad, as you say it.

He holds out his pinkie. It’s so childish…but so like him. You twine your pinkie with his and smile. “Don’t ever break this promise, then. I’ll be watching.” He says and gives you a little smirk. You nod seriously, but then can’t help but let the giddiness in your heart overwhelm you.

The months of fighting with your innermost thoughts might not be over, but you were no longer alone. If you had reason to fear, you knew, deep down, he would tell you the truth. He wasn’t a player, he wouldn’t betray you. He wouldn’t do something like that just for a one night fling.

After all that, you’re finally relaxed. You let him lead you to the sofa and sit down to let him kiss you more, and you return the affection in kind.

The kisses are soft, loving. He kisses your eyes, your nose, your chin. He kisses the top of your head, your hands, anything you’ll give him. You kiss his knuckles, then his lips, and his cheek. He bends down closer to let you kiss his forehead, then you start to trail down and before you know it he’s stolen your lips for a deep kiss.

His hand finds its way into your hair as you slowly climb onto his lap. The kiss deepens and his tongue is now exploring your mouth as you let out a soft moan. This. This is what you’ve been craving. You just wanted to hide somewhere safe from this, because even now, it feels dangerous…like a burning inside you that will never extinguish. It’s scary, but exhilirating.

When his other hand grabs hold of your ass again, you gasp and pull back to look into his eyes. “…Do you... want this? I can stop…” he blushes as he looks away. You can tell it would be a huge undertaking for him to stop now, but he would. For you.

So when you pull him by the back of his neck in for another deep, searing kiss, he knows. His hands no longer hesitate, as he fervently grabs hold of you and forces you to straddle his lap, then going under your shirt to play with your bare breasts.

You let out a moan into the kiss as you grind against him, already back on the edge, your want and lust taking over reason as your hands wrap around his biceps to steady yourself as you purposefully grind against his ever-hardening member, as it strains against his slacks.

He groans and pulls away from the kiss to gasp for air. He sucks in a sharp breath when you lean down to start licking his exposed collarbone. “Y/n…” he starts to buck his hips up against your dampened crotch, your pajama shorts soaked now as you are completely unwound from your inhibitions now.

The alcohol has mostly worn off, and all that remains is a hunger and longing that won’t be saited by just one round. You stop to look at his eyes. Yours narrow against his wide and curious ones, as you suddenly grind down and gasp. “I’m going to-ahhh…ride you for the rest of the day, Raf…are you ready?”

He lets out a loud groan and holds your hips still against him. “Nnnnnooot if you keep going at this pace, my love….” Your heart flutters at the pet name and you chuckle. “Then do you want to take the lead…my love?” He smirks and turns a bit so he can push you down onto the sofa.

You blush and quietly look up at him, as he hovers over you. “You know…the last few times I’ve seen you…it’s been driving me crazy. Your smell…your eyes…everything has become even more beautiful…” You try not to chuckle, but a little giggle escapes anyways. “Rafayel…there’ll be plenty of time for romance later…right now…” Your eyes darken and you fix him with a stare that could make a saint go into heat. “…I need you to fuck me.”

He lets out a growl as he buries his face into your neck, inhaling your wanton scent as he starts pulling your shorts to discover no panties. He pauses to smirk and dips a finger into your slit to feel how wet you are. “Could this…all be for me?” His breath still tickling your neck as you gasp.

“M-maybe…” your blush reaches your neck as he finishes tugging your shorts off, exposing your slick folds to the cold air of your living room, the light of the setting sun filling it with radiance, and delivering a halo around the both of you.

You let out a moan when he slips his fingers inside to make sure you’re loose enough for him, as he props his other elbow on the back of the sofa. He looks down at you as you writhe and make beautiful, sensual sounds under his diligent ministrations.

He can’t be bothered to smirk or feign confidence, as he slips his fingers out to lick the juices off them. “Good girl…so wet for me…so ready for my hard cock…” Once he finishes sucking his fingers clean, he moves to remove his pants, the large tent strains against the expensive fabric as he lets out a sigh of relief upon release.

When he slips out of all his clothes, just tossing his shirt on the floor with his pants and boxers, he sees you’ve followed suit with your shirt. His cock is a beast, which you would have never suspected with your curious glances in the past. Your blush reaching the tops of your breasts as he stares for a moment in the dazzling sunset pouring in.

The pause breaks the spell for a moment, and you tilt your head. “…Rafayel?” He snaps back and immediately pulls you by your thighs to him. “I swear I’ll eat your sweet cunt out many, many times tonight…but first…” He slides the head of his cock against your folds. “My master made a request of me…”

“M-master?” You gasp and let out a moan, but the word still feels slightly foreign. But he groans as he presses into you slowly before he can answer the unspoken meaning. “Y-yes…R-raf…” “Fffffuck y/n, you’re…s-so tight…”

He takes his time to settle inside, every inch of him buried within as he pants, all his focus is on making sure he doesn’t cum right that moment. It felt like it had been centuries, and he was like a teenager with his first time again.

So when you shift to get comfortable suddenly, he groans loudly, and you gasp as he holds your hips down to still you. His hands are firm, strong, as he starts to slowly move. Setting an agonizingly slow pace, as he’s filled you to near bursting with his throbbing heat.

You’re suddenly so close after only a few minutes of this slow pace, every full stroke brushing your sensitive nub, the sounds of your slick cunt sucking him in or reluctantly releasing him again and again turning you on so much. Your hands find their way to his forearms, gripping them urgently. “R-raf…s-so close…”

He hears your words through the deep haze of his concentration, and he decides to give you your dearly needed release finally. He stays seated fully inside, as he releases one of your hips to start rubbing your already tingling clit.

You try to bite onto your fist to hold back a scream as your orgasm finally hits you, but he grabs your hand before you can cover your mouth. You can’t muffle enough of it, as his name falls from your mouth again and again, gasping, screaming, shuddering, as your back arcs and he starts to thrust into you, helping you to ride out this elusive high.

“Fuck y/n, you’re taking me so good…you’re so beautiful, f-fuck I wanna make you cum so much…” he keeps thrusting, lost in the sight of you coming undone on his cock in the waning light. His thrusts get more intense as he gets close, his moans and whimpers fill the room as yours finally die down, your walls twitching and sticky around him as he increases the tempo.

“Raaaaffff…” his name a happy sigh as your high leaves you in the decadent afterglow of your first time with the one you’d longed for. So when he starts to cuss and say your name over and over again, like a chanted prayer, you’re overcome with a swelling feeling of affection in your heart.

This man is coming undone because of you, this man who so many wish they could possess, is giving himself to you and you alone.

“Fuck y/n…c-can’t…s-stop!!” His pace becomes erratic as his hips shiver, and he starts to chant your name under his panting breath in earnest, as he stares at you with his fucking gorgeous eyes, the last rays of sunset catching in them and entrancing you as he finally hits his limit.

“C-can…I cum…m-master…” his eyes are dark and pleading as he begs, his hips still thrusting into you as you let out little gasps and moans from the intensity. Without hesitation, you clearly say. “Cum for me, my pet.” He groans loudly as that releases him, he slumps a little to thrust finally in and out, as you feel his warmth spread inside. “F-fuck…y/n…” he finally finishes after the sunlight fades to darkness, and he falls forward to collapse on top of you.

You gently run your fingers through his beautiful purple hair, the darkness not changing how much you adored the color, as both of you let your breaths steady again. “…Good boy…” You gently stroke his cheek as you stare up at the dark ceiling, the streetlights barely adding any light to the room from below.

His hand grasps yours as he pulls it to him to kiss your palm, inhaling deeply. He was still drunk on your scent, your taste, your everything.

“Rafayel…is it too soon to say that... I love you?” Your voice sounds small and meek in the void that surrounds you both, lovers entwined. “…’Bout damned time, y/n.” His voice is hoarse now, a soft mumble against your breast, as he nuzzles it idly.

You both spend the night going through phases of deep romance, to wanton passion. Neither of you wanting to stop, even when dawn began to break and flood the window of your bedroom with a warm glow.

Instead you revelled in the sight of him haloed by the sun as he fucked you again, after having lost count. And he said a silent thanks to the Gods for blessing him with the sight of you beneath him, your body covered in his love bites, his kisses, and your face showing so much love and lust all at once.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

a/n: this is the longest fic I've ever written, and it wasn't nearly as kinky as I had planned initially...(I swear there was supposed to be a lot more praise and master play originally)

I hope you enjoyed it, and if you have any requests, feel free to drop me an ask!

[razberrypuck]

do you have any predictions for the next adventure time eps? they will kill us all for sure, any thoughts on how exactly that could happen?

I'm gonna be so forreal I have no idea what they could possibly throw at us,,, they could do ANYTHING and 99% of the options would be horribly angsty. I don't have any specific theories/predictions so have an assortment of random thoughts instead

I will say that I don't think simon is gonna die. aside from betty's wish being for the power to keep him safe and him literally being in her presence, I don't think it'd be a satisfying conclusion to his arc. like,, every universe he's been to has repeatedly screamed the words "YOU, SIMON PETRIKOV, ARE IMPORTANT AND LOVED AND YOUR LIFE HAS VALUE" in his face, he learns nothing, and then dies. yeah it'd be sad, but from a story standpoint it's just not it for me. there are much worse things than death that he could experience.

I would like betty and simon to have an actual serious talk about the issues in their relationship but I doubt either of them have thought about it much jsjfjej with one refusing to grieve his fiancée and try to move forward and the other literally being an incomprehensible eldritch deity of chaos. even so I hope simon still calls her all the pet names he had and I hope how lovey-dovey this guy is with golbetty freaks the scarab out.

SPEAKING OF SCRABBY I've been thinking about it and I don't think golb is The Boss in question, bc it seems like The Boss sent the scarab directly to simon -- so unless golbetty completely misjudged how murder-y the scarab was, it probably isn't her. besides, why would the embodiment of chaos be in charge of the people keeping the multiverse in order? either way I want scrabby to be stupid afraid of golbetty. I think it would be Funny.

I've mentioned this before but I hope the b-plot is about our ooo, and how simon just Went Missing. I also kinda hope episodes 9 and 10 are structured the way 1 and 2 were, in the way that one episode is solely about fionna and cake, and the other is solely about simon. I think it would be a nice way to come full circle.

also I would like to see prismo again please release him from The Cube my man is INNOCENT

back to simon and betty. I want golbetty to tell simon to give her the crown and I want him to refuse, at least for a little bit. I want him to say he needs it, to save fionna and cake's universe. I want him to admit that he doesn't WANT to become the ice king again, that he never did, that he still despises every second he spent as that crazy old wizard, but people liked him more anyway and I'm helping people by doing this and that makes it worth it.

end of thoughts I might rb this and add more later but!!!!!! there's so much they can do and I'm afraid of All Of It I just hope simon doesn't get a horrific ending. ALSO feel free to add on your own thoughts/theories/predictions/etc (this goes for everyone :]) I want to see them!!!!!!!

[astrum-aetherium]

What do you think Henry whispered in Camilla's ear at the end? It's a moment that really stuck with me somehow and I love hearing theories about it

what can possibly be more personal, more ponderous and intimate than i love you?

i'm sure this is something everyone who has read TSH has previously wondered about. i know i have. what i also know is that the most common theory is "live forever", and yes — it would make sense, given that henry is undeniably a devoted little teacher's pet to julian, but it does seem a little melodramatic to me (specifically because julian did abandon them all in the end as well, lol). henry going out with a bang (literally) wouldn't be defined by something as simple as that, however much meaning is attached to it in theory. besides, we've all heard that theory a million times over. i'll offer a new one.

he's goddamn pretentious. to the bone. he refused to take his SATs and thereby consciously denied himself the opportunity to attend any prestigious schools (which he would've certainly gotten into and dominated) for singularly aesthetic reasons. you simply can't get more pretentious than that. i always say that he's too intelligent for his own good — to the point it no longer benefits him at times. just too smart to possess any ability to reflect on himself. almost amusing in that way.

therefore, i believe it was something along the lines of a riddle — something that would keep camilla puzzling over it for a long time succeeding his death. and yes, you can say that his suicide was an impulsive decision and all that, but he had been (even verbally) entertaining suicidal ideology way before he actually went through with it. plus, he just seems like someone who would have something like that — his last words — memorized and ready to go at all times, specifically at a time as dangerous as toying with the possibility of being detained and thrown in jail for murder. just a thought.

i'm almost 100% sure it was also in any language other than english, according to his customs. i've already elaborated on how pretentious he is. he wouldn't make it easy for anyone to figure him out that quickly, not even camilla. the i love you was just a premise, nearly nothing compared to the whisper. and if it's not english, then it must be one of the languages that he does know. assuming that it's either latin or ancient greek, he would go out of his merry way to make it as complex and hardly translatable as he can. he would apply the most archaic of archaic versions of those languages, even with one simple phrase. as i said, he would've planned it out beforehand deliberately. it makes perfect sense.

what it would be, however, is a whole other conversation of its own. maybe that very "i love you" or previously mentioned "live forever", just in a different language. that is the simplest answer i can offer. i like to dig deeper when it comes to mysteries such as this one, though, so i've been gathering my thoughts all day today in order to predominantly satisfy myself with an obnoxiously pretentious answer. how about: "to the stars" (kitsch but fitting, obviously convoluted, and in a different language) or a translated version of "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" — just to deride religion and tradition one last time. or, perhaps, "permanence". something that perpetuates his convicted disbelief in vanitas. "never gone"; "the conclusion". and i know, all of these sound dumb as hell in english, but do remember — they would be uttered in a different language, and in a complex way, too. to be mulled over; wondered about for a long time, even as a scholar.

someone needs to hook me up with ms tartt's phone number so we can settle this once and for all, lol. but then again, i don't want to know. i don't want a simple answer to such a mystifying, ponderous question. i'm fine with eternally musing over it — it certainly keeps me entertained.