#there is a whole part i left out of this post that i'm saving for another post so i can go into it a little more lol YELLS

[molagboop]

Examining Chozo Anatomy: Arms

Welcome to my deep-dive into Chozo anatomy. Today, I'll be discussing features present on the arms and hands of our feathery fellows.

This post exists simultaneously as a reference for artists and as a fascinating look into the world of Chozo anatomy for all audiences. Whether you're here for references showing how Chozo arms are built or you enjoy taking a peek at Metroid Dread's character models out of game, I've got you covered!

You'll find plenty of images and a full breakdown of the anatomical structure of Chozo arms beneath the cut.

First, a quick overview: from a musculoskeletal standpoint, Chozo arms are built exactly like human arms, diverging at the hands. Chozo hands look like bird feet that evolved in much the same way our hands did.

Part 1: Elbows

Dread Chozo have feathers protruding from their scaly elbows.

Underneath every fountain of large plumage is a soft bed of down. This manifests in patches of plush, miniscule feathers that are grouped together somewhat densely.

Our subjects appear to have primarily smooth skin occasionally interrupted by spots of down from which plumage arises, but I think Chozo that are feathery all over are neat. The concept art and 100% gallery rewards seem to paint a picture of softer Chozo with more feathers all over their bodies (save for their plated arms and hard beaks), but the in-game models appear smooth. We're all familiar with Raven Beak's bald head (which many of us have expressed a desire to slap), but perhaps that head is covered in a fine layer of velvety feathers?

I managed to remove Quiet Robe's left pauldron and embroidered sleeve, so I have a fuller view of his whole arm, including the base of his feathery neck.

Quiet Robe's shoulders are quite smooth. If you want to give peepaw Robe fuzzy shoulders, I certainly wouldn't complain: you don't need to remain 100% on-model, especially considering there's a gaping hole in his back underneath that miter, and the front of his robe hides the abyss instead of an old man's breast. Corners were cut to prevent obtrusive clipping in cutscenes, whose animation plays out in-engine through scripting while the game is running (this is how the game manages to transition seamlessly from a cutscene into a boss fight).

If you'll direct your attention back up towards our Zero Mission concept art, you'll see that the Chozo of yore had spiked forearms/elbows. Those structures may indeed be feathers (upon closer inspection, they do seem feather-shaped: all three characters appear to display different variations in feathering, particularly in the shape of the feathers and how densely clustered they are), but the older designs also appear to possess a carapace of sorts?

The segments between their limbs are more pronounced, sort of like a beetle's exoskeleton. I'm not sure whether to think older Chozo designs had harder skin with feathers situated in specific locations (notably around the face and shoulders), or if our good chums are just skin and bones. Maybe the discs defining their wrists, ankles and elbows are just particularly bony, and I'm misreading their forearm feathers as spined protrusions.

Whatever the case may be, the older designs are charming. I find myself drawn to them despite the focus on submersing my own Chozo in fleshy, feathery pseudo-realism.

Part 2: Forearms and Hands

Like the feet of real birds, the tops of Chozo forearms are lined with rows of hardened scutes. Quiet Robe has cracked, chunky, pronounced plating that seems to show a bit of wear: a hallmark of aging.

Chozo hands consist of three fingers and a thumb. Their digit count is consistent with the amount of toes that most real birds possess. Interestingly, Quiet Robe's knuckles are particularly pointed and pronounced, where Raven Beak X's aren't*. They remind me of jagged little spurs: useful in hand-to-hand combat.

RB-X may not have raised knuckles, but the real Raven Beak's power suit has white knuckle guards that indicate his own might not be so different from our gentle friend. They could also exist to give his armored fist some punching power despite a lack of biological spurs, but this is all speculation.

The palms of both Quiet Robe and RB-X's hands appear to match their inner elbow patches: Quiet Robe's palms are bathed in a violet hue, while Raven Beak X has pink flesh. This is more apparent on RB-X than on our Thoha chum, but that coloration appears to extend some ways down the underside of the forearm.

Part 3: Those Weird Patches of Skin on the Inner Elbow

One thing you'll notice is that Chozo have patches of flesh on their inner elbows, under their arms, and between their fingers.

This flesh tends to differ in color from the rest of the skin. Quiet Robe's are darker, with more saturated red-violet hues.

The patches under the arms run in tandem with the serratus, the muscle on the sides of the torso that reaches inward towards the abdominals.

I tried to take a less weird shot, but couldn't figure out how to position the bones in a way that would provide a decently lit angle without warping the model horribly.

RB-X's patches are stretched, perhaps a quirk relating to its size or an abridging of the feature via the X tampering with the related genes to suit its fancy. I've likened their appearance to the gliding membranes of animals like flying squirrels... not that these are likely to assist the creature in any gliding with how little surface area they inhabit, but their dimension and the way they resemble some sort of connective tissue spanning between the segments of each limb is certainly evocative. It's like having webbed feet, but instead of the webbing being between one's toes, it's situated between the bicep and the forearm.

I'm unsure of whether to write their appearance off as something only RB-X has, or to take them into consideration for Chozo morphology. I've entertained the thought that some Chozo's inner and under-arm patches do manifest more like this (flattening against the body when the arm is extended and stretching as above when the elbow is bent), and how one's flesh appears is a matter of genetics, or perhaps a feature of aging.

As humans get older, some sections of skin begin to loosen and sag. I don't imagine this is much different for Chozo: Old Bird and Grey Voice certainly have their fair share of wrinkles in the manga. At first, I thought the way RB-X's flesh stretched between its limbs looked somewhat taut and uncomfortable, but the more I think about this from the lens of aging, the more likely it seems that these sections could be spots of loose skin. Perhaps this isn't an X-borne bug, but a feature? Who knows.

It's a lot harder to see the patches between the fingers on Quiet Robe's model, but they're present with a great deal of clarity on Raven Beak X.

I think I mentioned this in my post about Quiet Robe's model, but these patches remind me of an anatomical feature seen in older official works (like the concept art for Metroid: Zero Mission). Older depictions of the Chozo had defined, segmented structures on the biceps and the underside of the forearms.

Also of note is the fact that these structures appear on the legs of older Chozo.

Now that we've covered in-game examples, I'd like to give more examples of this feature in concept. First off, you can see these patches in the gallery reward for 100%'ing Burenia in Dread. Upon closer observation, the prisoner on the left appears to display these patches.

The underarm patches are obscured, as their arms are resting pretty close to their torso, but you can barely see the pink patch of flesh running along the serratus and disappearing beneath the arm. The elbow patches are a little clearer.

It's very difficult to see, but I think the coloration around the prisoners' knees may also show some stray sections of pink, matching the leftmost prisoner's inner elbow. Dread's interpretation of the Chozo could possibly have similar patches behind their knees, but I don't see it. It's all up in the air: I say do as you please in that department.

Now for our last example of shirtless individuals in Dread's key art: this hunter** from Ghavoran's 100% completion reward. The inner elbow is a bit obscured, but the modified serratus is clear as day.

The odd patches on Chozo arms were an anatomical subject I wanted to present in-depth because they've changed over the course of two decades: they moved from the sides of the biceps and forearms to the inner elbows and under the arms. Dread does a few things differently from Prime and Zero Mission, which is not a bad thing!

When illustrating characters of a fictional species from existing media, I like to take different depictions across generations into account. Morrowind's Argonians are unlike those we see in Skyrim, and the differences are even more staggering between Arena and Daggerfall! The Chozo have also undergone a few design changes between installments, though admittedly, there's far less whiplash between the Chozo of Dread and Zero Mission than there is between the Argonians of Daggerfall and Arena.

In both cases, the older depictions of the species in question aren't rendered "obsolete" or "not canon" by the newer designs. I'm of the opinion that these discrepancies merely open up more opportunities for interesting and diverse characters. I love seeing Argonian characters with digitigrade legs as Morrowind NPCs had, but the plantigrade layout on characters from the rest of the series is just as fine.

You could give your Chozo the arm structure of older designs, adhere to the more recent arm flesh patch conventions, or toy with a mix of the two: the world is your oyster! You could opt to omit them entirely! Don't let the most recent iteration of the canon hold you back: it's always worth taking a hint from earlier designs when you're playing in a sandbox with decades-old franchises.

I'm not here to say "this is how Dread does Chozo: adhere to the most recent canon or perish": I'm here to show you what Dread does so you can take these design choices into consideration when drawing your own interpretation of this species. Take liberties, and take them often! If you want to remain on-model, that's also fine.

That wraps up our investigation of Chozo arms, but if you notice something I neglected to mention, feel free to point it out!

**Possibly Raven Beak? Who knows: he's old and grey, this one's grey. Maybe these soldiers are out on a hunting trip with the boss, or perhaps he's proving his worth as a warrior by slaying Corpius' uncle solo and cuirass-less. There's no way to say for certain who this is or what's going on: Mawkin culture isn't elaborated upon much in writing during Metroid Dread. I make up my own lore as I go.

*If RB-X's form is an accurate depiction of Raven Beak's pre-death arms. Who knows, maybe his physical form has crusty armored old man scutes like Quiet Robe when Samus piledrives him into the surface of the planet, and the arms we see in-game are the product of the X parasite choosing the more glamorous, younger Raven Beak's smooth baby arms from the pool of genetic material it extracted from his still-writhing form. We'll never know.

[haematoclan]

Leo's relationship with death

Leo really doesn't like to think about death.

I mean, we all saw how much impact Karai's death had on all of Mad Dogs but Leo was the only one that had to be dragged from her, yelling after her, he really, really didn't want to lose her.

And I think when he lost her it left a deep scar.

I saw posts talking how Leo wants for things to get back to normal and pretend nothing happened, which I completely agree with. I think it's in big part because of his fear of repeating losing a close one.

He REALLY doesn't want to even acknowledge death.

Here Raph seemed to be getting through to Leo-

-but the moment he mentions possibility of his family dying?

Nope, time to deflect, joke and feign ignorance.

Leo's aware that death is a big part of being a responsible hero and that's why he'd rather goof off with his brothers and not train.

Because obviously when you ignore something it just dissapears, right? So if they ignore severity of certain situations and possibility of dying it won't happen, right?

If they don't treat it seriously they'll be fine! Totally!

Then Raph shields Leo from the Krang and sends him away.

And it's as if Karai's death stared right in his eyes.

So Leo picks up the slack of leadership in order to save Raph. He behaves carelessly during this time but can you really blame him, he desperately wants to save his brother, to stop yet another family member from death that he is so scared of.

He still tries to be positive and nonchalant, that "pfff obvioulsy everything will turn out alright!" but at the end of the day, it's not that simple.

Casey's speech had hard time to really hit Leo, he's still avoiding confronting resposibility, literally and metaphorically turning away from it. But the moment Casey says Leo's whole family died?

Now that made an impact.

And every time his family is in terrible danger he looks absolutely terrified and basically every time Leo has to be dragged away to not just return and try to save them again.

And when there's nobody to drag him away?

First thing he does is sacrifice himself. Because I don't think Leo is scared of his own death, or at least he is not as scared of him dying as his family. He'd rather give away his life than live through another grief.

Obviously I'm not sayin that the rest of the fam isn't terrified of close ones dying. But while they seem less aware (Mikey) and/or more ready for the possibility (Raph)...

Leo's wholly aware but he'd rather not be and ignore his fears until he can't anymore.

[cryptidghostgirl]

Make You Wish Chapter Four -- Vox

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Warnings: I don't think there are any for this chapter? Correct me if I am wrong.

Word Count: 1,225

Previous Part: Chapter Three -- A Reunion

Master Lists 

Hazbin Hotel Master List 

Make You Wish Master List

A/N I wasn't planning on posting this until tomorrow, but it seems to have some rather excited fans so here is chapter four (and the fourth thing I'm publishing today. We're very done for the day. I am tried and have actual work to do.) Also guys, I'm screaming. I accidentally deleted the whole things right before I was gonna post it. Thankfully I had a draft from when it was almost done save but like, god that sucked.

On the screen was Vox, seated behind a desk.

"Top of the hour and we're discussing a certain has-been how has been spotted cavorting around town after a seven year absence." Vox was saying, a poorly drawn image of Alastor displayed on the screen to his left.

Y/n saw Alastor's ear twitch with irritation.

"Yeah." she sighed, folding her arms across her chest, "Vox has gone kinda crazy since you left. I told you, things got tough."

"Did anybody miss him? Did anybody notice? More on tonight's program." Vox said through the TV, shuffling a stack of papers.

Alastor changed the channel with another flick of his finger.

"Hun, don't worry yourself with it." Y/n advised, "He's still gonna be there tomorrow."

The new channel showed a talk-show set up, Vox-2-Nite, where Vox was both host and guest.

"So, the old Radio Demon is back in town." host Vox was saying to himself as guest.

"Why is he hanging around?" guest Vox asked, taking a sip from a mug that had 'fuck Alastor' written on the side.

"Al." Y/n warned, sensing her friends irritation growing.

"What does that mean for your family?" Host Vox asked before Alastor changed the channel again.

Vox was on the screen again, before a bright red curtain.

"Well, handily, I've got good news." he was saying theatrically, "He's a loser, a fossil, and I don't mean to sound hostel-"

Alastor changed the channel again. This time to one of Vox's mega church broadcasts. Vox stood in the center of the screen wearing a pope's hat with an inverted cross on it.

"But the demon is a coward!" he announced, his words matching the previous channels sentiments perfectly.

"Jesus, V." Y/n asked, eyes wide, "How many channels are you running this on?"

"You can take that as gospel. Pulling my viewers? Impossible. I'm visual, he's barely audible."

"Y/n." Alastor hummed, his eyes still fixed on the screen.

"Yeah?"

"You wont mind if I handle this quickly. We can have our little chat after, I promise. It wont take more than a moment."

"I don't know, Al..." Y/n sighed, crossing her arms and tapping her foot slightly, "This isn't good for you, letting him get under your skin like this."

Alastor changed the channel again. A cooking show appeared and Vox was standing before the oven, singing along to the music playing in the background.

"But he should've stayed away! While he hid in radio, we pivoted to video!"

Vox on screen turned to the oven as he sang, opening it and pulling out a deer's head on a plate. Y/n bristled at the site, her horns growing just the tiniest bit longer, her teeth just the smallest bit sharper.

"And now his medium is getting bloody rare!"

"Al?" Y/n asked sharply.

"Yes, darling?"

"I lied." Y/n turned to face him, "He took this shit musical. Rip him a new one."

"Oh!" Millie exclaimed, excitedly grabbing onto Moxxie's arm, "We're gonna get a show!"

Alastor's grin widened at Y/n's words, if that was even possible. He stuck his hand out to the side, his microphone materializing in his grasp.

"Lucky for me, I've got the best voice this side of the divide on my side." he noted, shooting Y/n a look.

Her eyes flashed red.

"You flatter me."

Alastor brought his microphone to his mouth, suddenly exceedingly calm. The imps present in the room watched in shock as his ears flattened along his head.

"Salutations, good to be back on the air!" he announced into the device, "Yes I know it's been a while since someone with style treated hell to a broadcast. Sinners rejoice!"

Vox's brow furrowed on the TV screen as he inched up close to the camera.

"What a dated voice." Vox shot back, clearly listening to Alastor's broadcast on the set of his cooking show.

"Instead of a clout chasing, mediocre, video podcast." Alastor continued, not showing any sign he had noticed the TV demon's insult, "Is Vox insecure, pursuing allure? Flitting between this fad and that, is nothing working?"

"Ignore his chirping!" Vox commanded from the TV.

Y/n laughed and, turning to face Alastor, realized the man held a hand out to her. With a smile, she took it and he spun her into his arms as he spoke. The music echoed through the office as Alastor raised the volume on the TV once again.

"Every day he's got a new format."

Alastor spun Y/n back out again as the pair began dancing.

"You're looking at the future!" Vox yelled back, "He's the shit that comes before that!"

As Alastor spun Y/n back into his arms, she laid one of her hands on top of his holding the microphone and pulled it closer to her face.

"Is Vox as strong as he purports, or is it based on his support?" she sang in a clear voice, Blitzo, Millie, and Moxxie's eyes widening with recognition at the sound, "He'd be powerless without the other Vees."

"That's true!" Alastor noted, pulling the microphone back to himself as Y/n let go of his hand and he spun her back out again.

"It can't be..." Moxxie muttered under his breath.

"Holy shit!" Millie cut him off, excitement creeping into her voice, "There's no way, Y/n is the guest star?"

"The fuck are you two talking about?" Blitzo asked, turning to Millie and Moxxie as they watched the couple continue to dance.

"Well, Sir," Moxxie began, fiddling with the cuffs of his jacket, "back before the Radio Demon went missing, he used to bring guests onto the show on occasion. There was one guest he never named during his broadcasts however. She mostly just sang songs and chatted with him but, she sounded an awful lot like Y/n did just now."

"You don't say." Blitzo hummed, his arms crossed as he turned back to Y/n and Alastor, "So much for little miss 'oh, my life has been so boring. You'd probably just fall asleep if I started talking about it!' She is so gonna get it later."

Alastor let go of Y/n's hand and leaned into the microphone, beginning to sing as well, using the music emanating from the TV as a base.

"And here's the sugar on the cream: he asked me to join his team!"

"Hold on!" Vox yelled.

"I said no and now he's pissy, that's the tea!" Alastor finished, ignoring the demon once again.

"You old timey prick!" Vox exclaimed, his face glitching slightly as Y/n wandered back over to Alastor.

She leaned an elbow on his shoulder, tilting her head to the side in amusement as they watched Vox struggle.

"I'll show you suffering!"

"Aww, the TV is buffering." Y/n said, leaning into the microphone, her voice dripping with sickly sweet pity.

"I'll destroy yoo-o-u-u" Vox exclaimed as his technical difficulties seemed to grow worse.

Alastor and Y/n exchanged a wicked pair of smiles as the TV flickered out. Shadows crept from the edges of the room, encircling their feet. Alastor held an arm out to Y/n once again which she took with a smile. In a flash of darkness, they were gone.

"What the fuck was that?" Loona asked, stalking into the room.

----

Next Part -> Chapter Five -- The Conversation

[woso-dreamzzz]

Firsts III

Hardersson x Child!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: You lose your first tooth

The day you lose your first tooth, is the day that Momma kicks you in the face with a ball.

It's still morning. You'd spent the first half of your day at school doing Maths and German before Morsa came to pick you up. She takes you home to have lunch because she and Momma have afternoon training today.

She's actually cooking for lunch today. When you spend the whole day at school, she gives you a packed lunch with all of your favourite snack foods and some things to swap with the kids at your school. At the weekends, you don't really eat a lot until dinner so having a cooked lunch is special.

You can see here through the kitchen window as Momma chips the ball over your head.

You huff. "Momma! Stop it! I can't get it if you do that!"

"You can't save every shot, princesse," Momma reminds you like she always does when she does something like this.

You roll your eyes. "I'm only little, Momma," You say," We're only practicing." You roll the ball back to her.

Momma smiles. "Sorry, princesse. I'll make sure you can get this one."

Usually, you would be able to get it. Pernille knows the moment her foot strikes it that she's hit it too hard, hit it hard like she's at practice and is actually shooting against a professional keeper.

It's fast too and smacks you in the face before you can raise your hands to catch it. The force of it tips you back and you land on the ground with a thud.

Immediately, you burst into tears.

Pernille tries to scoop you up but you squirm away from her even as she tries to dab the blood from your mouth.

You spit

A glob of blood appears in your hand along with a tooth.

You look at it in shock. You look at Momma.

"Morsa!" You yell, running inside.

Morsa's standing over the stove, stirring a pot of boiling water and pasta. "Hmm? What is it? Have you two broken the goalposts again?"

Your goal at home wasn't a proper goal. It was made of plastic tube things that had to be slotted together. Sometimes, when you dived for the ball, you hit the posts and they got loose.

You shake your head.

"Look!"

Morsa turns to look at you before her eyebrows shoot up in shock.

There's dirt on your face and your lips are red with a little bit of blood.

"What happened to you?!"

"Momma kicked the ball at me," You whine, stamping your feet," My tooth's gone!" You hold up the glob of blood to show your tooth but Morsa seems too preoccupied with looking at your gums.

One of your canines is missing and there's a bit more blood than there should be if the tooth had just fallen out naturally.

"That looks like it hurt," Morsa says.

You nod miserably.

"Let's get something cold on that."

When it's time to leave for training you're still a little tearful and you're mourning the loss of your tooth as you stick your tongue into the sensitive bit of gum it left.

Pernille feels horrible and you absolutely refuse to let her even touch you. You stick close to Magda, who shows you and your little mouth gap off to the rest of the Bayern girls.

"You don't look happy," Georgia says as she sits next to Pernille and laces up her boots," Aren't parents meant to be super happy after their kid's teeth fall out or something?"

"It didn't fall out by itself," Pernille admits," I kicked a football at her face."

"Seriously?"

"Yep."

"And it knocked it straight out?"

"She bled a lot," Pernille said," And it's a little achy. She's sad."

"Well, once the tooth fairy comes, she'll be happy again."

"What's the tooth fair?"

Georgia jumps when you suddenly appear in front of them. She can see the gap in your teeth as you talk and, as Pernille said, you do seem a little sad.

You're standing in front of them but give no indication that you even know Pernille's there.

"Well..." Georgia says," It's a little fairy that collects teeth?"

"But why?"

"Er...Because she likes them?"

Your brow furrows and you cover your mouth with your hand. "Is she going to take all of my teeth?"

"No, princesse," Pernille says. Your eyes flick to her for a moment before settling on the floor," You put the tooth you lost under your pillow and she'll take it while you're sleeping."

"She'll leave money too!" Georgia says helpfully and that makes you lift your gaze, to check with Pernille that what Georgia's saying is true.

She nods. She doesn't exactly want to agree with this but at this point, anything to get you to forget that she's the reason that you've lost your tooth in the first place.

"And I put my tooth under my pillow and she comes to get it?"

"Yes."

"And she gives me money?"

"Yes."

You think for a moment, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet before you reach out for Pernille's hand. You yawn.

"I'm tired, Momma," You say," Can we go home now?"

Momma laughs. "Nice try, Princesse but we've still got a few more hours of training left."

You whine and groan the entire training session and it's a struggle to stop you from putting yourself to bed as soon as you get home.

You still end up going to bed earlier than usual but Pernille waits hours until she knows you're actually asleep to slip in.

"Don't give her too much," Magda says as she sits up in bed and reads through her book.

"I won't," Pernille lies.

You look adorably sweet and soft when she slips into your bedroom. Your mouth is slightly open and your face is squished against girl-moose as you cradle girl-swan close to your chest.

Pernille swaps your tooth with some money.

"All done?" Magda asks.

Pernille nods.

Magda was in for a rude awakening when you came running in the next day at dawn.

"Momma! Morsa! The tooth fairy left me ten euros!"

[burntchez]

(Possessive! Wriothesley x Male! Reader Smut)

Note: This is basically the 2nd part for my Possessive! Wriothesley x Reader fic I posted on Youtube but this time the 2nd part is for male readers! My apologies I couldn't make a female reader version or at least Gender Neutral. I'm (kind of) experienced in writing Male Reader content bc I'm a male myself.

(This contains: Smut (duh), Breeding, spanking, cuffs)

"Are we really doing it here..?" Asked the smaller male. The Duke's lips curled into a mischiveous smirk, his hands travelling the body of the man below him. Arms beneath the uniform, lips close to the delectable neck. "Why not here? This is my office, and I see no problem of doing such... Thing here. Besides, I know you've been wanting this." Wriothesley whispered to the boy beneath him, enjoying the sight of him being vulnerable. You couldn't respond due to the intimate sensation crawling up his sensitive skin, his mouth only letting out whines and whimpers. By now, he was impatient. He wanted to show you how bad he misses you. He wanted to mark you as his.

Screams and moans filled the room as the two of you carried onto your session. Sounds of skin slapping synchronized with the moans you let out. "If you don't want your voice to be heard from outside, then I suggest you bear with this and stay quiet while I..." He pauses and thrusts. "Enjoy this." Wriothesley whispered to him with a husky voice. "Besides, I know you also enjoy this. I know you've wanted this." He commented between pants. "Y-you wanted this! It was not my idea to be fucked!" You scolded. The Warden can only let out a low chuckle as he heard your words, "Oh yeah.". Suddenly, a hand came striking down to your ass, making a loud slap on contact and leaving red print of his hand. A loud moan escaped your lips, followed by whimpers. Wriothesley can only sadistically watch you be lost in painful pleasure with a cruel smile as he continued thrusting into you. His whole length buried to the hilt as he unsheathed and thrusted himself in. "You look so good when you're beneath me. Wrists cuffed, lying on my desk, legs spread, perfect for me. Not to mention your hole taking me in!" He growled, eyes gazing to the sweating skin of your body. Admiring how powerless you are beneath him. "Fuck, I want to see you completely ravaged, now." Wriothesley let his desires take over and increase his pace, his thrusts violating your ass like hammer striking an anvil. His hand gripped tightly on your wrists while the other played with your sensitive nipples, flicking and toying on the nubs. His eyes observed you, how your eyes rolled back and try to lower your cute sounds, how your ass takes him in easily, and your little cock that was left twitching and sobbing precum. It all fuel his desire for you, to own you, to make you his own man. "I don't care if the others knows about this. I need to mark this body of yours with my cum!" Wriothesley growled with a husky voice before attacking your neck, drawing another cute cry from your lips. You felt his teeth biting onto your neck and shoulder while also giving it kisses. Wriothesley's thrusts accelerated, plunging deeper into your wet hole, trying to milk his cock into filling you up with his warm cum.

"O-oh fuck! T-too fast!~ I-i'm gonna-" "Cum?" Wriothesley finished your sentence as he withdrew from your marked neck. He towered over your messy figure, proud of what he made of you. "Hold it in for a few more seconds boy, I'm close too." After his command, he increased the pace of his thrusts. His cock plunging into you at a restless place, eliciting a long messy moan from you. The way your head drew back and how your body responds to his thrusts, it all fueled him, he needed to make you his. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum. Take it all boy! I'll make you never forget who owns you and this ass!" With one fatal thrust, his cock thrusted into your insides and unleashed a massive load of cum that he saved up for your return. His climax hit him like a tidal wave, just like yours. Your cock spurted out white ropes of cum and came all over Wriothesley's abs and on your stomach.

As you two took gasps and breath after a rough sex, Wriothesley gave you a kiss on the lips, affectionate and desiring. After a few seconds of intimate kissing, you decided to break it and take another breather. Wriothesley watched your exhausted state with a satisfied smirk and embraced you with his cock still inside you, ensuring that no cum seeps out and preserving his mark inside you.

"How is that for a 'welcome back'?"

"I've been gone for 2 weeks!"

"I know, but I still miss you~"

[brainrockets]

The Tracker phone call is bothering me A LOT. And not just the asking permission to post about her new girlfriend part. Most people agree that part was shitty. What's really burning my biscuits is the hard truths part.

Especially folks reacting like "oh that needed to be said."

And I know part of my reaction is rooted in how much I can identify with Kristen and her situation.

And I also know that Tracker is also really young so like yanno she's not a bad person even of she's being shitty rn.

With ADHD a lot of times people who are perhaps well meaning (x.x) will do this thing where they explain to you the situation you are in in excruciating detail like you are unaware. And I think that they think that this is going to help. It does not help.

Tracker was there for Freshman and Sophmore Year. So she's aware that Kristen does not have very many people in her corner. In fact the only person she had to help, with religion in particular, WAS TRACKER. And Tracker LEFT! Which she is fully entitled to do! But who was meant to fill that gap of support?

Also, not for nothing but she's also had the benefits of:

An established religion

Executive function

An entire summer of darkness to build her goddess' brand since she wasn't the one saving the world

I definitely took issue with the whole "now that we are broken up I'll tell you the hard stuff". Like bish what? Why didn't you tell her these things you think are important when you could also comfort fuck about it after? Instead of piling on while she's already NOT OKAY!?

Kristen is well aware that she's not okay. She knows shit is fucked up. Tracker is just giving her more ammo for her self loathing. If Tracker wants to tell her how fucked she is without offering anything to help her get unfucked then she should just not do that. None of this needed to happen. They aren't dating.

Things that Tracker could have done to help:

Offered to do a social media collab between the two SISTER GODDESSES while the night was unending

Minded her own business

Remembered how hard she took it when her goddess turned out to be a bitch

Waited to call

When Kristen was like I'm not okay, ending the conversation

Idk. I wasn't expecting to be ready to fight everyone in the parking lot about this whole thing but I am just so heated about it.

Anyways shout out to all my executive dysfunction babes who know they need help to get their lives unfucked but all folks seem to do is remind them shit is fucked.

[holllandtrash]

6 to 1 lando and Charles finding each other after Charles took the grid penalty, awkwardly talking with y/n in the middle

bro this ended up being so much longer than i thought but i hope its okay also its not edited i just wrote it at work LOL

"Don't," you told Lando, hand going to his chest the second he stepped out of the car. His attention had already gone towards the entrance of the garage, but you were hoping your touch would remind him there were more important things at stake here.

"He ruined my lap!" Lando exclaimed after he pulled his helmet off."

"And now the FIA is investigating it so whatever you want to say, save it."

Lando didn't know that part. How could he when he had been in the car this whole time? Whereas you saw the incident when it occurred, Charles unintentionally getting in the way of Lando's flying lap. You understood why Lando was pissed, he had a right to be, but you both knew how important Monaco was for Charles.

He clenched his jaw, taking one more look at the pit lane, knowing Charles was somewhere down there. You trailed your hand upwards, pulling his face back to yours.

"Just go do media and if you're still angry after-"

"I'm not angry it's just annoying, is all," Lando scoffed. He pulled his face out of your grasp and you told yourself his actions weren't personal, he was just in a mood.

You could have let it go, had he not muttered one last thing under his breath.

"...thinks he can get away with this shit because he's from here, he's not the prince of motorsport-"

"Hey!" You snapped, your stare narrowing into an icy glare. Even a few McLaren mechanics turned to look at you with curiosity as you were never one to raise your voice at Lando, especially during a race weekend.

Lando's features only tightened more, it was clear he wasn't about to retract his statement, even if it was said in haste.

These types of moments during the races were rare. Usually, Lando and Charles got on pretty well. They respected each other and you split your time evenly between their garages. This weekend was the only time they argued over which garage you'd be in. In the end they agreed that Lando would have you for practices and Qualifying, but it was only right you were supporting Charles in the Ferrari garage at his home race.

Not like either of them asked for your opinion.

But this stupid tunnel incident was not one you had prepared for. In fact, you, along with many other people, were convinced that Lando wasn't going to get a lap in during Q3 after his brush with the barrier last session. His mechanics were magicians, apparently, and he managed to get out for a flying lap.

You texted Carlos' cousin when you heard about what happened in the tunnel, wanting to know if Ferrari was about to go up in flames. All he responses with was Xavi didn't tell Charles to move. The investigation notification came a minute later.

So yes, while Charles fucked up Lando's lap time, it wasn't his fault. And now there was a chance he was going to have to pay the price for it. The last thing you needed was your boyfriend making things worse.

Lando stood there, waiting for you to say something, waiting for you to tell him that you were on Charles' side but you just shook your head, warning him with your stare alone.

"Save. It." You repeated.

And then you left, knowing that Charles would appreciate your support much more than Lando would right now. You hung out in the Ferrari garage with Carlos for a bit when he returned from media before someone told you that Charles was chatting with Fred back in the motorhome, a closed door meeting presumably.

Clips of Lando's post-quali interview was circulating on twitter and you rolled his eyes at his suggestion to disqualify Charles. It was a joke, a painful one with maybe an ounce of truth behind it, but a joke nonetheless.

Which was a good sign. Maybe Lando had cooled off a bit. He must have if he was able to flash a faint smile for the cameras. You had seen the interviews after horrid sessions and this was not that.

An hour went by and still no one had heard anything. The two hour mark came and went and the only text you got was from Lando telling you he swiped some cheesecake from the hospitality lounge for you.

And then at the third hour, Charles stepped out of the office and came walking down the steps of the motorhome. The lines in his forehead and his lips pressed together tightly said it all.

"Three places," Charles sighed, he dropped to the couch across from you. At this point, most of the team had cleared out but you and Carlos had stayed. Charles dropped his elbows to his knees as his face fell to his hands. "Trois putains de lieux," Three fucking places.

"I'm so sorry," you said, because what else could you say? This was his home race and he qualified third. He still had a fighting chance being so close to the front but now it was ripped away.

"I just want to go home," Charles shook his head.

"Do you want me to call maman? I'm sure she's already made dinner-"

"Have you talked to Lando?" Charles cut you off, head snapping up.

Even Carlos looked at you. He too was curious, but didn't think to ask, assuming that it was probably the wrong time.

"Not since he got out of the car."

"He'll probably be celebrating in a minute," he muttered, staring past you and out the window towards the paddock. At the same time, your phone got the notification of F1's statement. Charles Leclerc takes 3-Place Grid Penalty.

"Your penalty doesn't help him at all," this was a thin line you walked on, playing devils advocate. "He's pissed yeah, but he's still stuck starting from tenth. And now you're starting sixth, no one wins."

"Max will," Carlos whispered, and then glanced between you and Charles, snapping his mouth shut. "I mean, he probably will. We all knew this."

Charles chose to ignore that comment, standing up and patting his teammate on the shoulder as he walked past, "Good luck tomorrow Carlos. I'm sure they'll give you the fighting chance strategy."

There was nothing you could do except follow him out in the paddock. He didn't want advice, he didn't want a pep talk, he wanted to go home and be angry about this because this situation had fallen so far out of his control.

The paddock had emptied for the most part at this point, a few stragglers here and there, but most drivers had gone into their debriefs and strategy planning meetings.

Most, not all.

Because just up ahead you spotted Lando walking in the same direction towards the gates. Charles shot you a look, silently telling you not to say anything or get his attention and you nodded, not wanting to stir the pot any more.

Lando probably would have just gone to his car and driven back to his flat.

But you both watched as he raised his phone up to his ear and it was only seconds later when the phone in your hand started ringing. You didn't need to look at the screen to know Lando was trying to get a hold of you.

Hearing your ringtone, Lando stopped walking and turned around. Eyes darting back and forth between you and Charles as you both approached him.

You stood between them, you had to. You didn't know if they were blaming the other or if they were going to fight or if Lando was still angry or what. There were too many variables and for everyones sake, you made sure to stand between them.

Lando shrugged sympathetically, but his words were anything but, "You don't slow down in the tunnel, mate. Everyone knows this."

"I didn't know you were behind me," Charles retorted, keeping the tone respectful.

"There are mirrors on the car."

"But not headlights."

"You don't slow down in the tunnel," Lando repeated with a sigh.

You could hear it in his voice, Lando did feel bad for Charles after seeing the harsh penalty, but he still had a right to hold a bit of a grudge.

Charles nodded, "I am sorry, Lando."

Shocked, you stared up at your brother, wondering if you had in fact heard him correctly. Charles was apologizing? For something he had no control over? Something that screwed him over?

Even Lando was susprised to hear it, taking a second for himself before responding.

"Yeah I'm sorry too," Lando nodded, reaching forward and patting the driver on the arm. "Three places is harsh."

"They should have fined the team," Charles shrugged.

"It's the Monaco curse, I guess."

You slapped the back of your hand against Lando's abdomen and even Charles rolled his eyes, hearing nothing but curse this and curse that, especially from Arthur who was now convinced it was in fact real.

"Curse or not, we both have our work cut out for us tomorrow," Charles said and the three of you started off walking again, still with you in the middle.

You stayed quiet as the drivers talked amongst yourselves but when Lando reached for your hand you looked up at him and smiled. You could breathe a little easier tonight knowing they wouldn't hold this incident against each other.

You approached Charles' Ferrari first and he unlocked the doors, nodding his head at Lando, "Are you coming to dinner?"

Lando looked at you, unsure how to answer because this was the first he had heard about dinner, "I don't-"

"You didn't invite him?" Charles asked you, brows pinched together. Every year, you spent the evening after qualifying at your maman's place for a good luck dinner, even if good luck never followed. Charles was still intent on going tonight, and was surprised to hear you didn't extend the invitation to Lando.

"I didn't know I could," you answered honestly.

"Come for dinner," Charles told Lando, no longer phrasing it as a question. He reached for the handle of the drivers side door and then pointed a finger at the Brit, "But don't even think about mentioning the curse."

You leaned into Lando's side as Charles said he'd see you in a bit and you waited until he drove off before your tilting your face upwards.

"Thank you," you said to him.

Lando kissed the top of your head, "What for?"

For saving whatever bullshit comment he really wanted to make. For not starting a fight in the middle of the paddock. For putting his own annoyances aside and seeing Charles as someone was also struggling.

"Just, thank you," you repeated. Because truthfully, there were a lot of reasons. Too many to list.

But most importantly, you were thankful to not be forced into choosing a side.

[majornaxxx]

Avatar boys watching you Sunbathe ☀️🌊🔞

ღ Jake, Neteyam and Lo'ak x Metkayina Reader, Aonung x Omaticaya Sully reader. (READER IS ONLY A SULLY IN AONUNGS PART)

ღ Warnings: NSFW MINORS DNI🔞🔞, boys peeping without reader knowing, perverted little fucks, VERY naked reader

ღ A/n I haven't written in ages, and I'm so nervous to even post this 😭 I have plans for the account and I hope you enjoy! Writing pointers are appreciated! I got a bit lazy-

ღ Tewng- Loincloth

ღ Uturu- sanctuary

ღ Marui- Metkayina living spaces

Jake Sully

Jake didn't mean to peep. He only meant to go on a walk, clearing his thoughts after the long aggravating day he had endured. A failed hunt had left him tired and sore with nothing to show for it. Ronal patched his cuts and wounds, and after thanking her he snuck away from his duties, just for a bit.

Jake groaned, smoothing his hair back as he lamented over the day. He was annoyed. A breaking branch stopped him in his tracks, ears flicking against his head. Nobody was really supposed to be out here right now.. and it was far enough away from the village. He dropped down and began to look for the source of the noise, hearing yet another and peeking his head into a clearing.

Instead of finding anything threatening, he found you. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open slightly. You, looking so pretty perched up on a cluster of rocks, head thrown back, clothing beside you. Your tail swayed slightly as the sun warmed you up, a smile on your face. Jake was taken aback, expecting anything but this.

He was especially taken aback by the way his cock throbbed at the sight of you. Pretty and strong thighs on full display, the absence of your tewng making his mouth water. Your pretty tits were on full display without your annoying (but beautiful) necklaces to cover them up , and it took everything in him not to let his mouth water.

He willed himself to stay calm as to remain undetected. You suddenly shifted, turning around and laying on your stomach, your ass directly towards him. Jake could almost imagine grabbing those thighs and running his tongue up your pussy. He bet that was pretty too.

"Fuck.. He sighed as he undid his own tewng, his length slapping against his stomach embarrassingly loudly. He hissed, looking up at you to see if you noticed. You hadn't, being so lost in your relaxation. Breathing a sigh of relief, he looked down at his aching cock and wrapped a hand around it. He needed a release after the day he had.

Neteyam

Neteyam called your name as he walked the far parts of the beach, a harpoon slung over his shoulder with leather straps. You hadn't shown up for your shared hunting lesson today and he thought he'd go looking at where you liked to be alone. Out on the beach as a no go, as he didn't see you, so he began to look around in confusion. Where the hell could you be? The harpoon hit the sand with a clunk as he dropped it in defeat. No hunting lesson today.

He picked a couple shells out of the sand and rinsed them in the water, trying to occupy his time before he had to head back and find something to do. What a shame, Neteyam was looking forward to the lesson. Just as the boy turned to head back he caught the sound of humming. The sound was quiet and sweet, and it was coming from behind a giant rock.

Setting the harpoon back down, he began to creep towards the rock, climbing atop it and peeking over. The sight shocked him and he gasped, quickly covering his mouth and ducking down. After a moment, peeking once again. There you were, his hunting teacher, about ten feet away.

Top laying on the sand already, you were busy untying your tewng so you could lay down, eyes half lidded as you hummed the tune that had brought him over in the first place. His eyes widened as he watched you turn, the last of your layers dropping and your ass entirely exposed to him. "Eywa, save me.." He choked, his tail swaying behind him and his own tewng becoming suddenly too tight.

You were beautiful.. Your whole body exposed in the sun and glistening from the water you must have been in recently. His breath was caught in his throat, eyes wide, snagging his bottom lip in his teeth gently. He shouldn't be seeing this.. face burning red, he began to back up and flushed harder at the sight of how obvious his boner was. No way could he look you in the eye now, not after this.

But he couldn't help but peek again.

Lo'ak

Lo'ak couldn't find you anywhere. Asking Neteyam or Kiri got him nowhere, and Tuk wasn't any help either. As he hurried around across the sand he held a basket of fruit under his arms. They were your favorite, and he'd gone out of his way to pick a few.

Your Marui was empty, you weren't in the village seemingly at all. The boys ears pricked with a sudden sense of nervousness. Were you alright? Where had you gone? Then he suddenly remembered one place you went to feed the animals. A secluded place that not many Na'vi went due to the amount of rocks.

Lo'ak made his way over, setting the basket down nearby and peeking over the rocks and leaves that blocked his view. He called your name out quietly. No response. He crept in farther, stepping carefully as to not step on any sharp rocks.

Then he saw you. Standing on top of a large smooth rock, you were dropping your Tewng next to you on the ground. Your plush tits were on full display as you stood in the sun, smiling and turning to grab something. He gasped as you bent over, your pussy in full view for a millisecond.

He ducked out of view, panting, eyes wide. He was hard, painfully hard. He didn't know if he should bring you your fruit or just, leave. He slowly peeked out again, watching you sit down and begin to warm up in the sun.

He didn't have to leave.. But oh, this was wrong. You were his best friend, he shouldn't do this. Yet, all the same, he slipped his hand into his clothing and began to palm his cock, your name slipping from his lips in a quiet whimper.

Aonung

Aonung knew something was extremely wrong with him.

He walked down the beaches, his tail swishing behind him as he scowled, obviously in deep thought. He wanted his mind on something else, anything else. The thoughts he was having consumed his everyday and he hated it.

Ever since the Sully's had come to their village everything had been messed up. He had to teach their demon children, let them live among them. All of them gravely pissed him off.

Especially you.

He couldn't get you off his mind. Ever since you came seeking uturu you plagued every waking thought of his. He thought of you when he ate, when he hunted, when he swam, right before he slept. Even now, you were all he could think about. He huffed and kicked at the sand, becoming startled at the figure he spotted in the distance.

His eyes widened when he realized who it was. It was you. The very person who had been running his brain for the past weeks. There you were, basking in the sun. Naked. Completely bare with the light shining on your skin. He ducked into a spot where he wouldn't be seen and, oh, Eywa.

Your body was completely on display for him to see. His tail swished in excitement as he eyes at your long torso, plush breasts, long beautiful legs. Your thighs..

He spotted your clothing beside you. With a start he realized your tewng was gone too. The very thought made him realize how stiff his cock had gotten. He bit his lip, groaning in embarrassment as the thoughts grew overwhelming in his head. Aonung watched as you shifted, turning over so he got a view of your ass and by Eywa he wished he could see even more of you.

His hand grazed the top of his hard on before he pulled his hand back. He couldn't.. he shouldn't. Especially not to a sully. But he wasn't thinking with his head, and instead took his cock in his hands and began to slowly stroke it, a groan leaving his throat. He could deal with his feelings of shame later.

[hunterwritings]

undercover | miguel o'hara

summary: you go undercover to lure your target out of the public eye to take him out, and miguel isn't fond of how you go about it.

warnings: 18+, jealous!miguel, possessive!miguel, fem!reader, smartass!reader, biting, mention of blood, fingering, unprotected sex (p in v), cream pie

notes: inspired by seeing this dress // posting this very tired and late,lmk if there's any mistakes

taglist: @heythere525 @whimsiecat @skeletonfromthecloset

"Just remember what we are doing here, (Y/N.)"

Miguel's words rang in your ear as you rolled your eyes. "Yes I know, it's not like you've reminded me 10 times." You sarcastically reply and you could practically hear him roll his eyes through the discreet earpiece in your left ear.

You stood leaning against a white-clothed table, scanning the room around you with a glass of champagne in your hand, giving fake smiles to anyone who walked by you.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot you think I have a memory span of a goldfish." You responded with a witty smile.

"Don't be a smartass." He harshly responded, and you rolled your eyes once again at him.

"And stop rolling your eyes at me." He added.

"How did you see that?" You ask, looking around.

"I didn't, I just had a feeling you were rolling your eyes at me." He said, hiding a smirk on his lips.

"Heh, y'know for a guy with no spidey sense, you sure know when things are about to happen." You smile, taking another sip of your drink.

"Or maybe you're just predictable." He says. "Just stay focused, you remember who's our target right?" He asks as you scan your eyes around and lock onto the man you had to take in.

"Yes, sir." You jokingly reply, setting down your drink.

"You just have to lure him away from everyone and knock him out, it doesn't go further than that." Miguel puts his hands on his hips, watching your every move on the hologram in front of him.

"Aw, you scared I'm gonna get swept away by this guy?" You joke. He doesn't respond but you know he's brooding. "Don't worry big guy, you don't have a whole lot of competition here." You reassure him with a smile and he smirks.

"Okay he's alone, I'm moving." You say before downing the rest of your drink, setting it down and walking towards him.

As you made small talk with the target, Miguel wouldn't take his eyes off you, the way you smiled and laughed with him. He knew it was all an act but part of him was worried it wasn't, he was worried that your true feelings were shining through with this asshole. An inner resentment built up and he knew he had to let it go or else it would eat him up inside. You knew that he gets jealous easily and knew that you were no else's, only his. And when you got home, you were going to prove it to him.

"How about we take this somewhere more private?" You whispered into the target's ear, watching a wide smile plaster across his face. You grabbed a hold of his hand and lead him through the crowd of people until you finally made your way outside. He lead you into his car and immediately began his way home. While driving, he kept his hand on your upper thigh, getting dangerously close to your underwear. You kept a smile on your face, feeling disgust build up in your chest.

Once you both got out of the car, he immediately threw himself onto you, pressing his lips against your own as he pressed your body against his car. You kissed back, trying not to seem uninterested as he reached his hands down to grip your ass.

"Why don't we save that for the room, huh?" You smirk, pulling away from him. He smiles and grabs your hand tightly as he guides you to the front door. Once you get inside and into his bedroom, he slams the door shut and presses your body against the door, his lips against yours.

"Fuck, you're so hot." He breathes out. You knew Miguel was seething at this point.

His lips leave yours and make their way down to your neck. As he kissed your neck, your hand snakes down to a small vile of a sedative attached to your upper thigh. You quickly snap your hand up and stab the vile into his neck, watching the sedative inject into his neck. He stumbles back and pulls the vile out of his neck, looking confused before falling to the ground.

You sighed of relief, fixing your dress and setting your hands on your hips. Before you could even think, a portal opened up and Miguel sliced his way through the portal. His mask disappears and you see an irritated look on his face.

"What?" You breathe out, still catching your breath.

He didn't respond, just leaned down and picked up the body as if it weighed nothing to him.

"C'mon Miguel, don't act like that." You shake your head, following him through the portal back to his lab. He practically threw the man onto the floor as he pressed a button on his watch and he was tied up with nanotech.

"Miguel, I was just doing my job." You added on.

"I didn't say anything." He said, turning around to face you.

"You don't have to, I can see it all over you." You say. "I hated that guy, you know that. None of it was real." You try to reassure him, stepping closer to him. You saw his chest rise and fall as he looked down at you. "You're the only one for me." You softly add, placing your hands on his sides.

He exhales deeply before leaning down and pressing his lips against your own. His hands reach down and pull you closer to him, you feel the cold material of his gloves touch your back. You sigh of relief, feeling his muscles relax as you reach your hands up to roam his back.

"I didn't like the way he touched you." He breathes out, pulling away for a second before crashing his lips back down onto yours. His hands reach down under your thighs and pull you up and hold you in his arms. "I should kill him just for that, teach him some manners." He adds, breathing against your face.

"Yeah, maybe I'll just let you." You smirk and lean back into his lips. You reached your arms around his shoulders as your lips hummed against his, having your fingers get caught in his hair. He smiled against your lips before moving his hands to carry you bridal style. He walks to the edge of the platform and jumps down to the floor with you in his arms, causing you to squeal softly and laugh as you held your arms around him.

He walks past all his lab equipment to his bed, that he rarely used to sleep, and laid you down onto the bed in front of him. He leaned on top of you and pressed his lips on yours again as you hands roamed his suit, feeling all his muscles through the skin tight fabric. You reached to grab a hold of his watch and try to disable his suit, but he takes his arm away from you and pulls away from you.

"So eager." He breathes out. You lie back on your elbows and breath heavily as you look up at him. "That asshole get you riled up?" He asks, his hands reaching down to grab your waist tightly.

"No." You breathe out, only an inch from his lips. "But the thought of you fucking the life out of me did." You whisper against his lips.

Miguel felt shivers run down his spine and instinctively his claws come out, not enough to pierce your skin but enough to pinch your sides. You smile widely knowing that you've just given him the green light.

His lips crash onto yours, fangs out this time. He presses harshly onto you, pulling your body closer to his tightly. Without moving his lips from you, he reaches over and presses a button on his watch to disable his suit. The suit slowly disappears and he's now hovering above you with nothing left on. You groan in eagerness as you now feel his bare skin against your finger tips. His lips move from yours slowly down to your chin and down to the crook of your neck. One of his hands is pressed tightly against your stomach, holding you firmly down onto the bed. The other hand is rested on your inner thigh, slowly creeping it's way up until it's rested on your outer sex.

A soft whimper escapes your lips, your hand tightly gripping onto his hair as his lips continue to attack your neck. As he sucks harshly on your neck, he pulls away for a second as he scans your red neck.

"bite me, it's okay." You whisper as his eyes fly to your face for a second before returning to your neck. Then, he licks his lips before his fangs pop out and he sinks his teeth into your neck. You wince slightly, tightly wrapping your arms around his bare neck. He removes his teeth from your neck and sucks up a small bit of blood. He pulls away and sees two holes from where his teeth were, feeling slightly proud, knowing that people will know what he did.

"I'm not gonna become some crazy spider vampire, am I?" You joke, slightly out of breath.

"Shut up." He says before attacking your lips once again. One of his hands between your thighs reaches up and down your underwear. His middle finger and ring finger move softly against your folds. His fingers curl up as they plunge into you, soft moans leaving your lips as his other hand runs up your chest to grip onto your breast. His thumb pressed tightly against your clit as his middle and ring finger moved at a face pace inside your walls.

"Please." You breathe out as he pulls away from your lips.

"What? No more jokes?" He smirks. You grip his shoulders tightly as he increases the pace of his fingers.

You groan as he removes his fingers from your core and reaches down to pull down your soaked underwear and tosses them across the room. He pulls the dress up to reveal your naked core.

"God, you walking around in this slutty dress, letting everyone else get a good view of you?" He says, swiping up your wet folds painfully slow. You breathe out heavily, covering your eyes with your forearm and a smile across your face. "They don't to see this view of you though, do they?" He rhetorically asks, a smirk on his lips.

"Just fuck me already." You say in an annoyed tone. He raises an eyebrow at you, surprised by your assertiveness.

"Oh, you're making demands now?" He smirks, slapping your pussy causing a small squeal to escape your lips. "You walk around like that and don't think I'm gonna fuck your brains out?" He laughs, positioning himself between your legs.

"Maybe that was my plan the whole time." You smirk, looking up at him as he shakes his head.

"I don't think so." He adds, leaning down and giving you a deep kiss against your lips before pulling away and positioning his cock at your entrance. He slid he tip of his cock up and down your folds as he saw you buck your hips up against him. He smiled at how needy you were, feeling all his worries from before melt away.

He holds your abdomen down as he plunges fully into you, causing a loud moan escape your lips. He slowly began thrusting into you, tightly holding onto your thighs, hearing the wet sounds of skin clapping against each other. He increases his pace as one of his hands reaches down to massage your clit, soft moans leaving your mouth. You clenched around his cock as he thrusted in and out of you. "Fuck Miguel ― " You breathe out, feeling tears well up in your eyes. No matter how many times Miguel fucks you, the size of him always leaves you breathless.

"shit ― " He curses as he feels your walls tighten around him. He rolled his head back as he thrusted into you, feeling his release building up inside him. Your legs close tightly around him, also feeling your release building up as he slammed into you.

"Fuck — please Miguel!" You cried out. "Please, cum in me." You breathe out.

As soon as he hears your pleas and your whiny voice, he loses himself and bucks up into you and cums inside your womb, groaning heavily. You moaned out loudly as you released shortly after him. Whimpers leave your mouth as Miguel continues to rub against your clit with his thumb to help ride out your orgasm. You clench around his throbbing cock, squeezing out every drop of cum, causing him to let out a wavy moan.

He held himself inside you for a moment, the both of you catching your breath. He slowly pulls out of you, watching cum pool out of you.

"Heh, I should go on undercover missions more often." You joked, dried tear stains on your cheeks and still hardly catching your breath. All he did was smirk as he reached down and pressed a sweet kiss to your lips, not a hungry or starved kiss, a kiss full of love and reassurance.

"Let's go take a shower." You suggest. "Maybe go for a round two?" You joked as he picked you up in his arms once again.

"Don't get ahead of yourself." He smiled, knowing fully well that he would be knee deep between your thighs in a couple minutes.

[moshpitgamma]

😚Zoom Zoom Mama G has posted again!!!

HOPE YALL ENJOY THIS ONE AND I HOPE ITS NOT TO BAD….(You’re older than branch but younger than Floyd btw😌)

Family Reunion||Brozone x Sister Reader

Warning:Angst and Mild Cursing

Word Count:1.3k

Other:It’s kinda proof ridden😝✌️

====================

You knew JD wasn’t always the best brother, but you didn’t expect for it to go like this…

“It’s called BRO-ZONE meaning BROS not GALS” JD said angrily at the h/c haired troll. “So youre saying just because I'm a girl I can’t be in the band. I’m basically the damn melody John.” you loudly yelled at him clearly pissed at how your brother didn’t want you to ruin brozone. “It has to be perfect and the name is perfect for bros. MAYBE IF YOU WERE PERFECT IT COULD WORK, BUT YOU’RE JUST A FUCKING MISTAKE FOR THE BAND” he yelled at y/n tired of her shit. He didn’t mean to totally call her a mistake, but it was too late. She already ran to her room in the shared pod, crying her eyes out and muttering small complaints. All the brothers stood with their mouths agape from witnessing the scene. “John what the hell,” Bruce said, holding the blue decorated egg with blue hair sticking out. “You just called her a damn mistake” “Maybe she is and it would be best if she left….The band is almost there and she’ll just get in the way.” John said it as if he was hoping y/n would leave to save the band for the family harmony. After John said that all the brothers left the area with sour and disapproving faces. Ignoring him till later that night.

It was now 2:34am and fast paced footsteps were heard around the pod waking John up from his humble sleep. He groggily dragged himself out the bed and headed towards the noise and found his three brothers and branch’s egg sitting in the living area. “What’s going on and why are you guys up so early.” John said, kinda annoyed from losing his beauty sleep. “Y/n left” Clay said barely above a whisper. “Huh,” John asked again, not being able to hear Clay. “Y/N FUCKING LEFT” Clay bursted as his tears started pooling his eyes. “You drove our sister away because of your stupid and glorious dream. Now she’s out in the wilderness by herself and we don’t know if she’s alive or dead.” John felt his whole body freeze and run cold. Did he fuck up or was it just you overacting? Before Bruce could add in to the statement, John wasted no time in leaving to go put on his jacket and shoes ready to go find y/n. He left out the door after he finished getting dressed, without a word to his brothers.

________________

{Y/n’s POV}

I woke up in a cold sweat, absolutely drenched from the wrenched nightmare of your older brother. My mind has been messed up recently ever since my eventful trip to mount ragous.

FLASHBACK

“It’s some kind of love”

A voice rang through the area. It was so soft, but with a familiar melody.

“It’s some kind of fire”

It was my part? But sung by someone different. An angelic voice.

“I’m already up, but you lift me higher”

But that’s when it hit you..it was your brothers with a now full grown relationship saving Floyd.

TIME SKIP DONE

{2nd POV}

After your brothers and those two mystery girls brought Floyd back, you couldn’t help ,but feel nothing but relief and a little wave of nervousness. All five of your brothers were standing right there together but the time just didn’t feel right for you. You wanted to go hug and celebrate with them, but you just felt disappointed and angry at them for not trying to find you. Without a word you started walking away, but caught what now sounds like a grown man spruce saying “How about we all celebrate at Vacay island this weekend.” You then had an idea set up perfectly for this Family Reunion.

{Y/N POV}

I sighed heavily as I parked my motor beetle in front of this big resort looking restaurant. “I hope they aren’t too mad to see me” I told myself, trying to hype myself up from all the nerves. As I step foot into the resort I see this tall yellowish woman at the bar, so I head over to ask her where the boys may be. “Umm excuse me…can you help me” I asked her in my nice bright tone. “Of course hun! What can I help you with and by the way you can call me Brandi” she exclaimed, clearly being an extroverted person. “Well you see I’m here looking for my brothers and i’m kinda here to reunite with them after basically being away for 22+ years” I say not trying to sound crazy or out of the ordinary. “Ok well what are their names?”Brandi asked me as she took out a notepad ready to write them down, assuming that it was more than one. “Well to start off it’s John Dory for the first one and Bru-” “Is that them?” she pointed to a corner before quickly apologizing for cutting me off. I was literally stunned when I saw all of them bonding and getting along like we were little kids again. I guess Brandi picked up on my distressed and nervous face that she offered and said” If it makes you any better I can go with you for emotional support” She says tucking a burgundy loc behind her head. “I would like that very much”I say releasing some pent up air that I didn’t know I had.

As Me and Brandi walked to the corner it felt like time was slowing down and my breaths were getting shorter by the second. I was trying to calm myself down in my mind, but I was brought out by Brandi speaking. “Um hi y'all sorry to interrupt, but you guys had a little surprise that decided to drop in today.” As on cue I stepped from behind Brandi with nothing but hope and fear in my chest.

“Who’s that?” Bruce said as he looked at the familiar troll. “If you wanted an autograph you could’ve asked us” John laughed as he pulled out a notepad and passed it around to each of the brothers to sign. “Are you guys kidding me?” I exclaimed, wondering if they were joking or not. Every single last one of them looked at you with a dumbfounded expression. “After leaving, you guys clearly forgot me” I said with tears in my eyes as i couldn't believe that they forgot me. “It’s me Y/n…. but I guess you guys didn’t care” I bitterly laugh as I see the visible expression changes on them except Branch. Guess John got what the fuck he wanted” I said getting ready to leave, but felt a hand gently catch mines, stopping me from leaving in the progress. Before I could turn around, I was pulled into a hug by a pink and white haired troll. “We could never forget you n/n” Floyd said genuinely. Slowly one by one the others hugged me except JD and branch.

Me and JD stared at each other as if we were to look away, we would die. Jd cleared his throat before saying “Umm are you good” while giving you that charming smirk. If looks could kill, JD would be dead right now. “That’s all? No sorry or are you ok sis.” I say starting to get angry. “Just be glad I'm happy to see you.” “Or what Jd” I said, letting a few tears fall. “You wanna know how tired I am from fighting with you. I bet Branch didn't even know he had a sister till now.” I advertise my hand to point at a shocked Branch. “But when I want my older brother to show me affection and let me be apart of the group it’s a fucking problem.” I say getting tired of his mess. “I don’t care no more JD. I will really walk out of this resort and leave again if that’s what you want.”I said, grabbing my helmet from the nicely made table. When Jd just stared at me I knew he meant it. So therefore without any words I got out of there and left. But before I did I said….

“So much for a Family Reunion….Hope we meet again, but on better conditions.”

IF YOU WANT A PT.2 WITH FLUFF LMKKKKKK!!!!!

[cosmicluvcore]

To be human part 2

Rottmnt Leo x reader, gender neutral, friends to lovers, himbo Leo (?), one sided pining

Part 1 here

Summary: Leo has the biggest crush on you but he's afraid that you'd never date a mutant, so with the help of a clooking broach he plans to become your perfect human boyfriend!

☆

Idk if you can tell but this is kinda Aladdin inspired

Also I wasn't sure abt posting this since it has no Y/N interactions umm so sorry if you're dissapointed

I promise the next one will have fluffy moments between Y/N and Leo!! Sorry this is short

Tag list!!

@lunaflyer @wings-of-sapphire @ssak-i @nessarolla-in-constant-flux @envyjmoney

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"¿Qué hice para merecer esto?" Is what the disgruntled Señor Hueso muttered under his breath, as he watched Leo come crashing into his restaurant.

Of all the times that mutant decides to show up, it had to be on a good day. A loud sigh left the skeleton's mouth as he watched the turtle bump into one of his waiters, knocking all the dishes out of her hand.

"Señor! Señor!" Leo called out eagerly as he approached, "I have a really, really important request and you have to-"

He was interrupted by Hueso placing his hand up, narrowing his eyes in annoyance.

"Instead of disturbing my guests, Pepino, let's talk in the staff room."

~

Leo was still wiping spilled spaghetti off himself as he spoke. Amazingly, that didn't stop his excited flow.

"Señor, bone head, buddy! Long time no see, right?" Leo asked in an overly friendly manner, offering Hueso a hand.

Hueso glanced at his hand, which had marinara sauce on it, before glancing back at Leo with an unimpressed expression.

"Uf hijo, did you just come here to cause trouble?" He asked rather bluntly.

Leo chuckled to himself, "Of course not! I just came here for a little... help."

"Help?" Hueso repeated, tilting his head as he watched Leo's over excited behavior.

"Yeah, I was wondering if you could help me get my hands on a cloaking brooch." He explained briefly while wiping away the bit of sauce that was on his shoulder.

"A cloaking brooch?" Hueso repeated raising his brow, "Why would you need one of those? I've seen you walk among humans like it's nothing."

"It's not for that."

Leo bit his lip unsure whether he should let the truth spill, no one knew of his little crush and he was afriad if he started talking about them he wouldn't know when to stop. So he took the easier route.

"It's for uh- You know... science." He lied, smiling awkwardly as if that made his reply more believable.

Señor Hueso simply shot him an unconvinced expression.

"Este idiota..." The skeleton muttered under his breath, "Why don't you just say why you really want it? It would save you from the embarrassment of lying to my face."

Yeah, Hueso wasn't buying it. Figures.

"Okay okay, I'll admit that wasn't my best performance," Leo said with a grin, although his trade mark smirk faded into a small frown as Hueso stared back at him with narrowed eyes.

"Truth is I'm trying to impress someone..." He admitted quietly, his gaze darting to the ground, while he fidgeted with his hands sheepishly.

Hueso blinked in surprise at the turtles sudden shyness, "Trying to impress someone?" He repeated curiously, looking back to the blushing turtle for futher confimration.

Leo bit his lip, his heart fluttering at the thought of them, "A human." He confessed softly.

"I've never felt this way about anyone before, they're just perfect in every way!" He explained brightly, though his happy expression faultered, "But, I don't think they'd be interested in, this whole situation." He frowned, gesturing to himself.

Hueso nodded slowly as he listened, "I see," He hummed in reply, looking thoughtful as he considered Leo's situation for a moment, "So you want to pretend to be human and lie to them?"

Leo frowned at the skeletons blutness, "It's not a lie! I'm just... bending... the truth," He said, his brow furrowing as he spoke.

Even he didn't believe himself this time.

"Alright it's kinda a lie, but what other chance do I have?"

"I don't know, tell them the truth?" Hueso retorted, Leo couldn't help but roll his eyes as he was lectured on the obvious answer, "If you really think this person is worth it, then you should be honest with them."

"The last thing I need to be is honest." The turtle insisted stubbornly, his expression souring at the idea of even attemping to tell his crush how he felt.

Leo hated to picture it, he hated that he knew his voice would tremble as he would try his best to convey to them how deeply he felt.

He hated how he knew he would stammer over his words as he scrambled to find the best way to express his feelings.

And then he would have to wait impatiently for their reply, fearing the worst, after this new discovery.

Not like he could blame Y/N.

Who wouldn't turn down a nervous idiot? And why would anyone ever be interested in someone who looks like him?

"I don't want to risk losing them." Leo finally said, sighing before meeting Hueso gaze again with a serious expression.

"Look, all I need is a brooch. I just want a chance to be with them and make them happy. Please, Señor?"

As Hueso watched Leo's sad expression he was still unsure how to reply, he knew this was an awful idea yet Leo seemed so attached to it. The puppy dog eyes that the blue masked turtle was giving him eventually casused a defeated sigh escape Hueso's mouth.

"Fine, I have a spare somewhere around here," Hueso muttered reluctantly, too tired to keep pushing, turning to his desk and opening a drawer, "Just don't blame me when things go terribly wrong."

Leo's expression immediately brightened.

"Really?!" He leaned over Señor Hueso's shoulder, eagerly watching as the skeleton searched.

Eventually, Hueso found it, a gold gemstone-adorned brooch.

As Leo looked at the badazzled brooch, excitement began to bubble in his chest, the glamorous item really did make this whole situation seem a lot cooler. This was his key to being Y/N's perfect romantic partner, something he'd dreamed of for far too long that was now finally a possibility. His heart soared at the thought.

"Here," Hueso said, handing him the brooch, "Try not to get spaghetti on it, Pepino."

Leo was practically vibrating with excitement as the brooch was placed into his hands. He nodded at Hueso's words despite not really hearing them.

"Thanks Señor! I can keep this right?" He asked.

"Just don't damage it." Hueso warned in reply, "If you do, it could stop-"

But before he got the chance to finish his words, Leo had disappeared into another blue portal.

"-working..."

[dreamcubed]

call it what you want | draco malfoy x reader

song; call it what you want [taylor swift] pairing; draco malfoy x fem!muggle!reader genre; fluff, angst, forbidden love, s2l word count; 4,3k timeline; post-second wizarding war warnings; draco's daddy issues, low-key y/n's daddy issues, references to the second wizarding war (and draco's part in it), discrimination (of muggleborns) summary; his entire life, draco had it drilled into him that anything to do with muggles was bad- impure, even. but after his father is imprisoned for life, he decides to venture into the muggle world- just as a temporary thing, of course

suggested by @tendous-pretty-hair !!

masterlist

"my baby's fly like a jet stream, high above the whole scene, loves me like i'm brand new."

also i have fucking eras tour tickets!!!

—————————————————

Draco had found himself at an emotional stand-still ever since the Second Wizarding War - more specifically the events of the Battle of Hogwarts. After he had regrettably joined Voldemort's side in the mass fallout, only for him to lose anyway. He wasn't sentenced to any time in Azkaban, since it was deemed that he had been coerced into the situation, as backed up by his mother, who had been pardoned due to saving Harry Potter's life in the final moments. His father, however, would never feel the light of happiness again, caged away in the breeding ground of fear.

It wasn't that Draco missed Lucius all that much, in fact, quite the opposite. The time away from him had allowed him and Narcissa to grow closer, and also given him the opportunity to properly question and break down the beliefs that had been hammered into his head since infancy.

Eventually, he decided to step foot into unknown territory: muggle London. He had only ever been to the magic side of it before, but he had come to the realisation that living such a sheltered life was the reason he wound up another of Voldemort's slaves. That lifestyle would be no more.

He found himself stood outside of a small music store, displayed to have vinyls, CDs and cassette tapes inside - whatever they were. Draco did know what music was, however, and wanted to understand the way that muggles experienced it. So, he stepped foot into the shop with the tinkling of a tiny silver bell above him alerting whoever was working behind the tall overflowing shelves.

There were more people perusing the shelves than he had anticipated, so he ducked his head down and headed to an emptier area of the shop. As he began scanning the labels on the shelves, his confusion grew as he realised that he recognised none of the names.

"You don't look like a death metal fan," a voice to his left caught him by surprise, making him jump.

He turned around to have his eyes meet the gaze of a woman wearing an amused smile. You couldn't help but laugh slightly at his skittishness.

"Forgive me, but it's not everyday we have a man dressed in a perfectly ironed suit come and check out the works of Morbid Angel."

After his brain caught up to him, he said, "You work here?"

You nodded, "Family business - me and my mum."

Draco didn't reply to your statement, turning back to the shelves.

"You seem a little lost, first time in a music shop?"

"Uh- yeah," he said, "My family never played music growing up." That was a lie - the Malfoys had held many a musical event, however, they took the form of private orchestral bands.

"You're joking," your expression was that of shock, "How have you lived such a musicless life?"

He shrugged.

"God, I was practically raised on music- I mean, obviously," you gestured around you, "It's everything to me."

"My father was a very strict man," he said simply, making you hum.

"I see. God, I just can't believe you've hardly listened to music - we have to change that," you said, "Do you have any idea what sort of sounds you like?"

"I think I like classical music," it was all he had ever really known.

You grinned, "Yeah, that definitely suits the way you're dressed more than death metal. Come on, I'll set you up with some stuff. Vinyls, CDs or tapes?"

From what he could gather, vinyls were the larger circles, and he was pretty sure that Malfoy Manor had a phonograph with the large brass tube attached for the purpose of playing them. Like the one he saw at the Yule Ball all those years ago. "Uh, vinyl? The big black disc?"

You bobbed your head, "They're becoming less popular these days - people mostly want CDs," you then paused for a moment, "Although my mum said they'll probably have a resurgence in another twenty years. Making an aesthetic of past trends and all that."

Draco listened curiously as you babbled on about different musicians, bands, and albums, finding himself enraptured by the way you carried yourself. Salazar, his father would throw a fit if he found out that he was willingly talking to a muggle.

But his father wasn't there.

"So, do any of these interest you?" you finished, smiling at the ever stoic man before you.

"Uh, yes- all of them," he wasn't sure if he liked the music genre you suggested or the way you talked so passionately.

"All of them?" you tilted your head, "That's- like- hundreds of pounds."

He began digging around in his pockets for the money he had exchanged earlier before coming, and your eyes widened at the sight of all the twenty pound notes.

"Right," you said in a state of shock, "I'll... ring these up for you."

As you totalled up the price and packaged the vinyls into a bag over at the till, the man watched you, as if he was meticulously detailing your every move. Weirdly, it didn't feel creepy.

"Okay that will be... £404.39," you said, in awe of the fact he seemed unfazed by the number.

He began counting out the notes, before handing them over to you: £420 worth of twenty pound notes in your hand. You counted the change out and handed it back to him, placing the receipt in the bag.

"Thank you for shopping here, come again..." you trailed off, realising you didn't know his name.

"Draco," he said, stopping himself before saying his last name. Although he knew that you wouldn't recognise it anyway.

You couldn't help but think that he had a peculiar name; regardless, you smiled, and said, "Y/N. Please come again."

He nodded, taking the bag and leaving the shop swiftly without so much as looking back once.

***

A week passed by and Draco found himself stood outside of the record shop, unsure of why he had returned. During his last visit he had purchased months worth of music, so really he had no need to be back.

Except, he did.

His social circle had been non-existent ever since the Battle of Hogwarts, not because Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott no longer wanted to be friends with him, but because he had isolated himself in Malfoy Manor with his mother. Draco was nearing being ready to owl them again, but reconnecting with them meant inevitably having to unpack the events of the war.

With a muggle stranger like you, however, there was no unpacking to do.

"Draco, you're back," you grinned, coming out from behind the till, "I was hoping you would."

"Why?"

His abrupt question caught you off guard, "Well, I- I don't know. You're an interesting character," that and you thought he was cute.

Draco stared blankly at you, making you shift uncomfortably on your feet. Eventually, you decided to change the subject.

"Here for more music?"

"Oh, uh- yes."

"Well, what were your favourites from last week's purchases?"

After he told you which ones he had enjoyed the most, you were able to develop some kind of idea as to specific kinds of music to indulge him into. Of course, you had a question burning at the back of your mind that you simply had to ask.

"If you don't mind me asking, what do you do for a living?"

He looked up at you with slightly furrowed eyebrows.

"It's just- vinyls aren't cheap, especially not in as large a quantity as you get them," you elaborated, "I assume you have a well paying job."

Draco sighed, shaking his head, "Family money."

"You mean old money?" you couldn't help but clarify.

He reluctantly nodded, "Yes, old money." He used to be so boastful and prideful of the Malfoy family legacy, but in that moment, despite you having no idea who he was, he could only feel shame when he thought of it.

"Okay, Mr. Fancy," you chuckled, "Let's continue your musical adventure."

Even as you proceeded to serve him with a chipper attitude, you couldn't help but be saddened by learning that he was old money. There was no way that you stood a chance, since old money families liked to marry each other and not someone who was simply the daughter of a small record shop.

At least you learned that piece of information about him early on, you reasoned.

***

"Back? Again?" you questioned incredulously, spying Draco stood in the doorway of your shop, "Hate to turn you away, but we're about to close."

"I know."

You paused, frowning slightly as you grasped hold of the door, "Uh, okay, then... bye?" You began slowly shutting the door.

"Wait."

Again, you paused.

"I need help."

Opening the door fully again, you placed a hand on your hip as you said, "With regards to what?"

You didn't know what to think when he presented a small battered flip phone to you on his milky white palm.

"A phone?"

"I found it. On the floor."

"Musta fell outta someone's pocket," you shrugged, "Happens - why do you need help?"

"Well, don't we need to do something about it?"

All you could do was look at him curiously.

"Is that not- is that not what you do?" maybe he was overcompensating for his past by trying desperately to do one small good deed, or maybe he was trying to prove to you that he was a good person even though you had no reason to believe otherwise. Either way, he wanted to return the muggle contraption to its rightful owner.

"I mean- I guess? If you're feeling nice," you said simply, "Can't lie, I'd probably leave it for someone else to deal with."

"How do I return it?"

You sighed, "Just call the last person they called."

"Right, okay."

Much to your confusion, Draco stared at the device as if he was trying to will it into doing what he wanted.

"You do know how to call someone, yes?" you asked, your arms now folded across your chest.

With a sigh of defeat, he shook his head.

You rolled your eyes, stepping aside, "Come in."

Once Draco was inside your shop, you shut the door and flipped the sign from 'open' to 'closed'.

"Give it," you made a grabbing motion with your fingers, and the man before you immediately handed over the device, "It's really easy-" he watched in amazement as you flipped open the phone, "-just use the arrow buttons here to go to call history- and, oh, look! Last person they called was their mum- press the green call button and bam."

You presented the now dialling phone to him.

"They have been notified now?"

"Well, her phone will be ringing- hopefully she'll pick up."

"Pick up?"

"Hello?" a voice from the phone announced, "Cadie?"

"Hello, ma'am, your daughter dropped her phone and we found it."

"Oh, I see. Thank you- I'll let her know so she can pick it up. Where's a good place?"

As you told the concerned mother the address of your record shop, you watched Draco's intrigued expression.

You hung up, placing the phone on a nearby surface and beginning to walk to the back room, "Would you like some tea?" you asked.

He stared blankly at you for a few moments, before nodding, "Please."

"How do you take it?"

"No milk, one sugar."

You chuckled to yourself at his strange way of having tea.

***

Draco watched you as you chatted mindlessly while sipping your tea, almost entirely forgetting that he had his own cup sat to his side. Your topics were classically boring - yet so interesting to him. He was enthralled to learn about the different characters in your family, and the trials and tribulations of your school years. He hadn't even realised how little he had said until you pointed it out.

"What about you?"

"Hm?" he went, snapping out of his daze.

"I feel like I've just been talking about myself this entire time. Where did you go to school?"

"Oh- uh-" he desperately pulled together all his thoughts, "A private boarding school in Scotland."

Your mouth dropped open, "Wow, that's cool."

He shrugged.

"Did you miss your family while you were away all year?"

Again, he shrugged, "My mother, yes- my father... not so much."

"I don't see my father at all," you added, to make him feel more comfortable about sharing details of his own father, "I used to... but I realised it was always me reaching out and not him so I stopped. Haven't heard from him since."

Draco nodded, "My father is in prison."

He didn't know why he told you, only realising what he had just said when you froze for a few seconds with widened eyes.

"Can I ask what for?" you asked in a squeaky voice.

"Uh... terrorism, murder... that sort of thing," he had no clue why he was being so honest. Had you put veritaserum in the tea?

You cleared your throat, wanting to delicately change the subject but lacking a way on how to do it naturally. Draco observed you, and opened his mouth to say something more when a knock sounded on the door.

"That's- uh- that's probably the phone owner," you said quickly, rushing to your feet to run out of the back room and let them in.

You opened the door to be faced with a short brunette woman.

"Cadie?" you questioned.

She nodded, "You have my phone?"

"Yes, come in."

"Thank you so much- I really can't afford a new one right now," she sighed, "I'm always losing things."

You chuckled, "I know how you feel- I'm always breaking things."

Draco appeared in the doorway to the back and picked up the phone from the counter.

Cadie sighed happily, accepting the phone and thanking the both of you profusely.

"Seriously, you have no idea how appreciative I am."

"It's no trouble, Cadie, really," you assured her.

She paused for a moment, looking around. "Is this your shop?"

You bobbed your head, "Yes, it's family-owned."

"Oh, that's so cool," she looked towards Draco, "So this is your husband?"

You were so taken aback you couldn't even form a response. Before either of you could reply, the phone began ringing.

"It's my boss! I have to take this," she said, "Thank you so much again. You two are a cute couple." And with that final comment, she departed, leaving you and Draco in an awkward silence.

"I-" you began, but you were quickly interrupted.

"Go on a date with me," Draco hurriedly said, realising he had said it like an order rather than an innocent question. He was still in some ways his old bossy teenage self, socialised in a slightly abnormal way.

You took it in good humour, however, and smiled, "I would love to."

***

The following six months were filled with the fanciest and most luxurious dates that you could ever have possibly imagined: five star restaurants, weekends in Paris, and expensive gifts. It was heaven in all ways but one - Draco always had an excuse for you not meeting his family and friends.

For a while, you had ignored the itching feeling that he was ashamed of you and so kept you a secret, but your suspicions grew until you couldn't keep it in anymore. You had to confront him about it.

"...and I was thinking, we should go out for dinner with your mother," you said, flicking through a magazine as Draco sat on the sofa in your small but homely flat.

"When?" he asked.

"Whenever's good for her."

You heard Draco's breath hitch.

"What? Can't come up with an excuse to get out of this one?" your tone held evident bite.

Draco turned around to face you, but his expression was unreadable.

"Are you ashamed of me, Draco?"

His eyes widened.

"I know I'm not rich, let alone old money, but I'd like to think that I'm a likeable person."

He shook his head, "It's not that-"

"Then what is it, Draco?" you snapped, feeling tears fill up your eyes, "You won't even introduce me to your friends! How am I supposed to feel?"

He stood up and began shifting on his feet and fidgeting with his hands, "It's more complicated than that."

"What? You're engaged to someone else?"

Again, he shook his head, "No, nothing like that."

"Then what?" you waved your hands about, "Because I can't date someone who treats me like a secret."

"You wouldn't believe me!" he yelled, clearly unintentionally.

You were shocked: you had never heard him yell before. "Try me," you said, your voice low.

He sighed, moving around helplessly for a few moments before striding over to his bag by your front door. He reached his hand in - what appeared to be deeper than the bag's actual depth, but you dismissed it due to your blurred vision - and pulled out a blank piece of paper, tinged brown.

He came over to you and placed it on the kitchen island you were stood behind, and pointed at the bottom of the page. "Sign here."

"It's blank," you thought he was insane.

"Just trust me. Please."

You gave him a skeptical look, but wiped your eyes and picked up a pen nonetheless, writing your signature in the area he pointed to. To your amazement, the second you finished the last letter of your name, writing appeared on the paper. As you scanned it, you were increasingly confused.

- By signing this non-disclosure agreement, you agree that as a muggle you shall not disclose the existence of wizardry and witchcraft to anyone not already in knowledge of it. You understand that by doing so, you would be breaking the law and could face potential criminalisation. The wizard or witch of whom has vouched for your approval to know of magic shall also face potential criminalisation in such a situation.

It will no longer be a criminal offence for wizards and witches to perform magic with you as a witness unless there are unapproved muggles also present.

You will be granted access to wizard-only areas including but not limited to Diagon Alley and Platfrom Nine and Three Quarters at King's Cross provided that you are accompanied by a wizard or witch. Please be aware that these permissions may vary in other countries depending on their laws surrounding muggle knowledge of magic and also their acceptance of the British Muggle Non-Disclosure Agreement.

Please sign your name below. -

"What is this?" you asked, your eyebrows furrowed.

"An NDA."

"Yes, I- I gathered that- but- what does it mean?"

"It means... that I'm a wizard."

Part of you wanted to burst out laughing at Draco's insane words, but the way he said it held so much depth that you couldn't help but take it seriously.

"Prove it."

You didn't know what you had expected, but you certainly didn't anticipate your boyfriend pulling out a wand and muttering what sounded like Latin under his breath.

The pen on the table before you morphed into a feather.

There were really no words to describe how you felt in that moment. You asked him to do it again - he turned the feather into a sharpener. You asked him to do it one more time - he turned the sharpener into a fork.

"Oh my God," you said at the volume of a whisper, stepping back and falling against the counter behind you, "What the actual fuck."

"I know this may come as a shock to you..."

"Really?" you said, "No, actually. Not freaking out at all. Not even a little."

He pursed his lips, "My family is what is known as pure-bloods. We haven't mixed with muggles when it comes to reproduction at any point in our bloodline - allegedly."

You stared at him.

"Sometimes, a witch or wizard can be born of muggle parents - we call them muggle-borns. Half-bloods make up the most of wizarding society - their ancestors are a mix of muggle, muggle-born, pure-blood and half-blood."

At your lack of speech, he continued.

"There is a culture of supremacy among pure-blood families - choosing to reproduce only with other pure-bloods to ensure the pure-blooded line continues as they believe themselves to be the only true witches and wizards."

"You're pure-blood," you mumbled.

Draco nodded, "I used to think like that. Used to bully muggle-borns in school - the school I went to being specifically for witches and wizards."

"You don't think like that anymore?"

"No," he quickly said, "I've had a lot of time to question everything I was taught to believe - but, I- there's something really bad I have to tell you. It may change your opinion of me forever and it's the reason why I have kept you away from my family and friends."

You nodded, mentally preparing yourself for what he was about to tell you.

"Years ago, there was a war in the wizarding world..." he began.

***

You had never seen Draco in tears before, but when he reached the details of the final showdown between Harry Potter (a heroic celebrity in the wizarding world) and Lord Voldemort (a wizard terrorist), he broke down in sobs as he recalled him walking over to the latter's side. Tears were falling down your cheeks soon too, and you quickly brought Draco into your arms and felt him collapse into you.

"I regret it every single day," he said through sobs, "Why didn't I have more of a backbone?"

"You were just a boy, Draco," you soothed him, "You didn't want your family to be killed."

He cried harder.

"My opinion of you is not changed - by the sounds of it you never actually killed anyone yourself," you thought back to the Professor Dumbledore section of the story, "In fact, it sounds like you couldn't bring yourself to."

"I can never make up for my past, Y/N."

You stroked his hair, "You dating a muggle is pretty solid evidence you're trying to."

"I'm not dating you because you're muggle," he pulled back from you and looked you in the eyes.

You chuckled slightly, wiping the tears off his cheeks with your thumbs, "That's not what I was saying. Young you would have never even considered entering the muggle world, and yet here adult you is."

He gave you a small smile, "I love you."

You beamed, but teardrops were still cascading down your cheeks, "I love you too."

"Let's have dinner with my mother on Sunday."

***

"Mr Malfoy, you may see your father now," the Azkaban worker said, who Draco couldn't help but think reminded him strongly of Filch. An old miserable man with long scraggly hair, an unmissable limp, and filthy dark-coloured robes. Then again, at least this worker had a reason to be miserable all the time: working in the breeding ground of fear and desolation. Filch was by all means in a much more cheerful environment.

Draco nodded at him, and followed his lead down shadowed narrow corridors, caked in dirt and dust. They turned a few corners and went up a few sets of dangerously steep stairs before reaching a cell block with moans and whines coming from every cell - except one.

In all honesty, Draco hadn't known what to expect when he came to see his father: he hadn't visited once since his arrest. But Lucius looked quite different than the proud man he once was, with his once well-kept long blond hair being knotty and entwined with filth, and his once healthy (albeit pale) complexion being overly skinny with sallow sunken features. He looked up at his son, still being able to produce a slight scowl.

"So, you finally decided to visit," he drawled, but his voice was too broken to hold the same threat it used to.

"Yes, father, I have some things I need to say to you," despite Lucius' weakened state, Draco still held some lifelong fear of the man, but he had to remain strong in front of him.

"And what would that be?"

"I have a girlfriend, and I plan to propose to her."

Lucius raised an eyebrow, "Your mother has not mentioned this," Narcissa frequently visited her husband.

"She didn't find out until last week."

After some seconds of silence, Lucius slowly rose to his feet and stood face-to-face with Draco at the cell gate. "What is her name?"

"Y/N L/N."

"L/N does not ring a bell. Which bloodline is she from?"

Draco felt intimidated by his father's close proximity, but still managed a smirk, "She isn't of pure blood, Father."

Lucius' eyes widened, "You don't mean to say she's- half blood? Or worse- a- a mudblood?"

"Worse," his smirk grew, "She's muggle."

The ghostly shock that flooded over Lucius' face made Draco feel a triumph over his father he had never felt before, and gave him the confidence to feel as though he had the upper hand in their interaction. He stepped closer to the cell and lowered his voice.

"And I'm going to marry her, and have children with her, and you will have to spend the rest of your life rotting in this cell knowing that the Malfoy pure blood line has been permanently tainted."

"You can't do this," Lucius said through gritted teeth, "After everything we fought for."

Draco hummed, "See, I thought it was time for me to finally fight for something good."

————————————————

masterlist

written; 02/06/2023 —> 17/07/2023 published; 17/07/2023 edited; —/—/——

taglist ; @workinatdapyramid @iluvweasleys

[farfromstrange]

Weed Cookies | Matt Murdock x F!Reader

PART 3 of The Vault

See this post for more information on my Valentine's Day Special & Follower Celebration, but these fics can be read separately!

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: Karen receives a box of cookies from one of their clients. Foggy and Matt take a bite. Even with his heightened senses though, Matt doesn't realize what's wrong with the cookies before he's absolutely wasted, and you have to babysit him. Yes, they were edibles.

Warnings: Fluff, faint hints at S3 depressed!Matt and suicidal ideations, attempt at humor, crack fic, accidental drug use, for the sake of this fic we are going to pretend that the edibles were made well enough for Mister I-Know-Everything to miss it

Word Count: 3.4k

A/n: I wrote this after watching the episode of Grey's Anatomy with the Weed Cookies. I took some behaviorisms from my own experiences and exaggerated them a little to fit the vibe of this fic. I scraped parts of this and once again adjusted them because this was even more poorly written before than it is now, and I added the Nelson, Murdock & Page Season 3 narrative again because that's now the running theme of this event. Anyway, if you choose to consume edibles, stay safe! (Also, I'm just copying and pasting my usual tag lists. if anyone wants to be added for this event, do let me know)

“We just got cookies from Ms. Lebowsky next door,” Karen announces happily when she enters the office, balancing the transparent Tupperware in one hand and her handbag in the other. 

“She told me to thank you for helping her get out of that hellhole,” she says. Her eyes crinkle in the corners as a mischievous grin takes over her face. “There’s plenty for all four of us. Although she did mention Matt a few more times.”

“Ms. Lebowsky?” Foggy asks. He stands in the doorway of his office, holding a freshly brewed coffee. “Isn’t she the elderly lady we helped last week?”

“Yeah, that’s her. I think she has a crush on Matt.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Of course, she does. Who doesn’t? Not that I do, but—well, you get the gist.” The blood rushes to his cheeks, and Karen giggles in response.

From the office on the left, Matt’s voice rings out, “We just did our jobs,” he says. “She made us cookies, dude!” Foggy inspects the box on Karen’s desk. “They’re chocolate chip cookies. Our favorite. See what good looks can buy you?”

Matt chuckles, his fingers tracing the Braille indentations in the documents that are starting to form a mountain before him. “I think we got them because we’re good lawyers, Foggy.”

“Yeah, right. No way! That woman was smitten the second she came in. I really gotta get that blind thing going. I mean, she’s way too old for you, but come on! You’re in a serious committed relationship, and women still come piling at your door. It’s not fair.”

The way he whines like a little kid who has just been denied his favorite candy makes Karen laugh at his antics, and even Matt can’t help but join in. No matter how stressed he is, and how badly he wants to focus, Foggy never fails to lighten the mood.

Ever since moving offices, things have been going well for the trio. 

When Matt met you, he was at his lowest. You helped him climb out of a dark hole that was threatening to swallow him whole after losing Elektra and almost losing everything he worked so hard for to Wilson Fisk. Thanks to you, he found the will to fight again. You brought him back to life.

He wanted to die. He hated himself for the longest time after the building collapsed and forever took the first woman he ever loved down with its ruins, but then you came into his life, and you didn’t care about his baggage. You were far too good for him, but that didn’t matter to you. 

He fell for you hard and fast, and maybe the timing was a little off because what he needed was therapy and not someone new to get attached to. Still, if you hadn’t pulled him back to his feet and encouraged him to fight back against Fisk, saving his friendship with the people he cares most about in the process, he would have never made it far enough to get therapy.

Matt trusts you with his life because he feels like he owes it to you, but he also loves you more than anything. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to him. You’re his soulmate, and he couldn’t be happier.

Nelson & Murdock added Karen to their permanent repertoire. With her, things are flowing much more smoothly, and they’re actually making money now. They’re expensive, as Foggy likes to say it. Matt’s friends are just as happy as he is, giving him hope for the future.

“Hey,” Foggy snaps him out of his trance, “Earth to Murdock.”

Matt blinks behind his glasses, his fingers halting their frantic movements along the paper. “While I don’t disagree with what you’re saying,” he says, “please don’t let my girlfriend hear you say that women are piling at my door.”

Karen snorts. “Trust me, Matt. She knows,” she says.

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t remind her of that.”

“My lips are sealed. Foggy?”

He sighs, once again dramatically. “As long as you don’t sleep with them, you have nothing to fear, my friend.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” says Matt. “The one I’m sleeping with is incomparable.”

Foggy grimaces. “Oh, dude. Gross! You know, God made conscious thought as a mechanism for humans to know when to shut up.”

“To be fair, ninety percent of the population don’t know how to use that mechanism,” Karen jumps to Matt’s defense.

As he laughs, he takes a whiff of the air surrounding their new baked goods. Matt can smell the sweet chocolate of the cookies, and somewhat of a herbal essence, but he can’t quite pinpoint why the scent seems so familiar. 

Karen walks around her desk to drop her bag and her coat. “So, do guys want a cookie?” she asks, swiftly changing the subject.

“I’ll take one,” Foggy is quick to answer.

Matt nods from his desk. “I’ll try one, too.”

The innocent decision to indulge in a sweet treat soon comes back to bite them in the ass though. Heavily.

When Matt first bit into the cookie, he didn’t think there was anything wrong with it. It tasted like chocolate mixed with basil, sugar, honey, and the kind of flour Ms. Lebowsky used, but he didn’t find much else wrong with it. Perhaps if he hadn’t allowed himself to get distracted by his phone calling out your name and the sweetest text he could have possibly received this early in the morning from the love of his life, he would have noticed that something tasted off about these cookies. And that what he believed to have been basil as a secret ingredient was something else entirely.

When lunchtime finally rolls around, you drop everything you were doing before and make your way to Matt’s office. You always spend lunch together. It’s your favorite time of the day. For an hour, you can forget the stress of your workplace and focus on him. He’s your safe haven. Your home. You crave to memorize his features anew every day so that you will have something to carry around with you when he has to work a bit longer, or when he goes out at night and his Daredevil duties drag on beyond what he planned. 

You need to be with him as much as possible because you’re scared that your happiness will shatter on a white cloth, and you will be forced to move on—you can’t imagine losing him. You dedicated your life to loving him, and the thought of ever losing that privilege kills you. 

On your way out, your phone vibrates in your pocket. You smile, thinking that it’s Matt, but when Karen’s number pops up on your screen, you frown. 

‘We have a problem,’ she texted you. Without context. 

All the alarms in your head start blaring, and you start to walk a little faster. You start imagining all possible scenarios. When you ask Karen what’s going on, she doesn’t even reply. What if someone got hurt? What if something happened to Matt? You almost lost him once; you can’t go through that again. 

You burst into the new office space that your friends share a few minutes later, your chest heaving and sweat dripping down your pulsating temples. You’re ready to fight whoever dared to hurt the man you love, or possibly threaten your friends, or both, but when you look up and see your darling boyfriend with his cheek pressed against one of the leaves on their gigantic office plant as if the overgrown Calathea were the coziest pillow he has ever touched, you understand why Karen texted you that you—both you and her—have a problem. A big one, too, judging by the looks of it.

“What is going on here?” you ask the dreaded question, shutting the door behind you.

Only then do you notice Karen to your right in Foggy’s office, trying to get him off of his office chair. He’s belting the chorus of Defying Gravity at the top of his lungs, and he’s got a broom clutched tightly in his right hand.

Oh boy. Your wide eyes drift to Karen’s desk in the middle of the room. As soon as you see the chocolate cookies inside the Tupperware, it slowly begins to dawn on you.

You’re not sure which is worse: Matt cradling a houseplant with his glasses discarded and the first three buttons of his dress shirt undone as he’s coated in sweat, or Foggy singing one of Broadway’s greatest ballads so off-key that the Calathea is starting to wither.

It takes Matt much longer than usual to sense your presence in the room. He calls your name, and his lips curl into a bright grin. Even completely out of it, he looks like an angel on earth. 

“Matthew,” you say. You approach him like you would approach a little kid. He’s on his knees, so the analogy isn’t far off. 

“Hi, honey. What’s going on?”

“Sweetheart,” he greets you, and you have never heard this man sound so relaxed. His hazel eyes are red-rimmed and glazed over, but the most obvious change lies in his behavior. 

“Feel that.” He reaches for your hand when you’re close enough for him to smell you, but he misses. “Where are you?” Matt pouts. “I can’t see.”

You want to laugh, but this is not the time. “You are blind, baby,�� you remind him. 

“Since when?”

“Over twenty years.”

“Oh.” He finally gets a hold of your hand. The conversation seems to go right over his head. “Feel the power of nature,” he tells you. “It’s so soft.”

You want to drag him away from the potentially dangerous plant if he decides to eat it, but the sight of him is one to behold. He looks downright adorable. 

You have to focus though. You gently pat his hand. “Maybe later,” you say, and then you make your way to Karen’s desk to inspect the cookies.

Behind you, she calls your name. You twirl around. From the looks of it, she managed to get Foggy down from his chair, but he remains singing at the top of his lungs. All the signs point to one thing, and one thing only.

“Did you give my boyfriend weed cookies?” you sound a lot more condescending than you planned to. 

Karen shakes her head. Her face is pale, and she looks just as panicked as you do. “Those are not mine,” she says. 

“But you knew they were edibles?!”

“Of course, I didn’t! I started questioning it when Matt started cuddling the plant because his Braille felt like boobs and he didn't want to cheat on you, so he decided that he needed to touch some grass.” She points to him, exasperated. As if on cue, Matt lets out a happy little sigh.

Your brain struggles to process all of the information at once. “I’m sorry, what?”

“He said that his Braille feels like boobs. I don’t know! I thought he was messing with me until Foggy turned into Elphaba, and that’s when I took a bite and realized there was weed in them,” she says.

You groan, your worried eyes momentarily flicking back to your high boyfriend. High. That’s not a word you thought you would ever associate with him. “How did this happen?” you ask.

“Ms. Lebowsky, the lady next door, we helped her out the other day, and this morning, she gave me these cookies. I called her when these two started acting like idiots—more than usual, anyway. Turns out, she confused them with the ones her niece made for her birthday party tomorrow.”

“Her niece made edibles for her birthday party?”

“Please, don’t ask. I don’t have all the details. I just–”

“It’s fine,” you cut her off. “Just tell me that you’ve got Foggy under control.”

Karen peeks in through the window to his office. “More or less, yeah. You’ve got Matt?”

“Yeah, I’ve got him.”

You have to take care of him. He’s your responsibility. But as calm as he is right now, his heightened senses make the situation a lot more complex than the mere accidental consumption of edibles.

Walking over to him, you try to haul him up. He protests, at first, but then he feels the fabric of your shirt, and he slacks.

Matt wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. “You’re so soft,” he coos. “You smell like honey.”

With his entire weight on you, you have to widen your stance so you won’t fall over. His usually quick reflexes are nonexistent right now; he won’t be able to catch you if you trip, and then you’re both going to get hurt.

“You know what’s even softer?” you ask.

“The plant,” he answers confidently. He sounds like a more careless version of himself. You can’t deny that it does something to you.

“No, silly,” you chuckle softly, “I meant your bed.”

“Oh. But I’m not tired.”

“You’re high.”

He pouts. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” You stroke his back. “It’s okay. I’m not mad at you.”

He stiffens and relaxes at the same time. You swear you can feel the electricity in his veins as his nerves respond to the feeling of your skin on his. It’s like he’s on fire. Like your touch feels a million times more intense, and he’s being crushed under the weight of it in a way that makes him crave more. 

He squeezes you tighter, trying to get swallowed by you, consumed to the point that you are the same person. The drugs are doing a number on him, and his already heightened sense of feeling has increased tenfold to the point you’re not sure if it’s pleasurable or painful or both. It must be agonizing, yet at the same time there is a high chance that the weed is calming his nerves and dampening his perception to the point he’s taking everything in without the added weight—he’s enjoying the newfound sensations in limbo, and he’s unaffected by it. You wonder how long that is going to last. 

After bidding farewell to Karen, wishing her good luck with Foggy who has now reached a point of his high where he’s lying on the floor, demanding to listen to Bohemian Rhapsody and cry over Freddie Mercury. She assures you that she has got it under control, apologizes again, and then sends you on your way.

“Bye, Karen,” Matt says. “You have very nice hair.” His hand tangles in yours, and his face lights up like a Christmas Tree. You managed to convince him to put his glasses on, at least, or he might get irritated. “Never mind,” his voice turns into a pur. 

Usually, you would shiver at his fingers in your hair, tracing the strands and sensually massaging your scalp only he knows how to, but today is not one of those days. You’re still concerned about the effects that the weed might have on him, so you want to be careful, although you’re not sure how much longer you can keep yourself from laughing. 

As you maneuver Matt through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, his cane hovers above the ground and his arm is hooked around yours. Without you, he would have run off into traffic by now. He has absolutely no spatial awareness anymore. 

Every sound, scent, and texture seems to capture his attention, but there's one sensation in particular that he can't seem to shake: thirst. You’re not even home yet, and you had to stop by a convenience store to get him a bottle of water. He shed his coat, which you are now carrying for him while also guiding him while simultaneously trying not to attract any unwanted attention. 

You can’t help but look at him as though he is your whole world. He is. He is everything to you, even high on edibles he never meant to consume, and acting like a feral toddler. If anything, you are even prouder now that he is yours. 

“Hey,” he whispers, leaning close to you, “do you think fire hydrants taste like licorice?”

You shake your head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Matt, don’t lick the fire hydrant.” 

He pouts. For a moment, you think that you have steered off any possible disaster, but that was only wishful thinking.

Matt’s curiosity knows no bounds, and he’s soon reaching out to touch anything that catches his eye. He runs his fingers along the rough brick foundation of a building, marveling at the texture, and he stops to sniff a flower, declaring, “This is the most beautiful flower I have ever smelled.”

You pluck it for him, and he carries it in the pocket of his coat with a happy smile. 

You’re both exhausted when you finally make it to his apartment. Getting his large frame through the door is one thing, stopping him from tearing the tap off the sink as he desperately searches for liquid with the words, “Water!” is another.

“Okay, okay,” you try to calm him. You grab a bottle from the fridge, open it for him, and force him to take it. “Drink.”

One touch is enough for him to drop it. “It’s cold,” he recoils in agony.

You sigh. “Tap water it is, then.”

You have never seen him down so many glasses of water. He is severely dehydrated and sensitive to changes in temperature. It’s either too hot or too cold, and you’re so glad that Karen texted you when she did.

You manage to get him to the couch with some snacks that he devours within seconds. If he moves one more inch today, you may not be able to catch him again.

His lip twitches. “Chickens don’t have any arms.”

You pause in the process of wrapping him in a blanket, staring blankly ahead at him. “Excuse me?” you ask.

“Chickens don’t have any arms,” Matt states. “Every American citizen has the right to bear arms under the second amendment in the constitution. If an egg was fertilized on US soil, and the chicken hatched there as well, technically, that makes them a citizen of the United States of America, therefore allowing tiny creatures without arms the right to bear arms, but who gives the bears their arms?” 

You’re so flabbergasted that the absurdity of the situation eludes you. The words process only slowly in your mind, and when they do, they cause a wave of confusion to wash over you before it turns into genuine amusement, and it takes every ounce of self-control to keep yourself from laughing at him.

You can pinpoint the exact second the thought escapes his mind and something else replaces it. His hand brushes over the leather couch. “Smooth,” he observes. You haven’t even fully processed his very philosophical question about the animal kingdom before he drops his cheek down on the couch.

The man who has been carrying the weight of the world in bricks on his back for years is finally relaxed; it shouldn’t leave such a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.

You kneel in front of him, reaching out to touch his cheek. “Do you need anything?” you ask.

Matt’s gaze is filled with an odd sort of clarity. “Nah. Just you,” he mumbles.

A soft smile tugs at your lips as you brush a sweaty strand of hair away from his forehead. "I'm right here," you reassure him. 

He nods, his eyelids drooping as the effects of the edibles start to take their toll. “Good.” He searches for your hand, and you help him intertwine your fingers. A giddy smile finds its way onto his face. “You’re warm.”

You lean in to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “And you’re high,” you tease.

Matt huffs out a breathy laugh. “Mmh, yeah,” he says. “But it’s okay. ‘Cause you’re here.”

Despite the chaos and the unexpected turn of events, there’s a sense of contentment settling over you as you watch him drift off into a state of bliss. He deserves it more than anyone. 

You stay by his side, watching over him as he succumbs to the pull of sleep that you’re all too familiar with after a sudden high. 

“Note to self,” you say to yourself, “never eat a stranger’s cookies without drug testing them first.”

And love has funny ways of making even the most absurd moments feel strangely beautiful.

Matt Murdock Tag List: @littlenerdyravenclaw @yarrystyleeza @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @thatonegamefish @norestfortheshelbywicked @mattkinsella @itwasthereaminuteago @linamarr @gpenguin666 @acharliecoxedfan

[thelastofhyde]

you cut your hair, and take some space.

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 15k

hyde’s input. this was written over the course of four months and could easily be used in court to prove i am, in fact, unequivocally in love with one mr. javier peña. if you take the time to read it, just know i appreciate it so much. i really poured my heart and soul into this and, as someone who's been writing for years, it's been so long since i've written something so self-indulgent that's brought me nothing but joy to write. as the fic has surpassed 30k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it, i've decided to post it in two parts. part two will be posted within the following weeks.

(it'a nearly 4 am as i post this, please look the other way at any typos or editing errors.)

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

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

The mirror is not clean enough to see yourself.

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

It’s something new to fidget with.

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

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

If you do, you’ll blame him.

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

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

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

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

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

You were careful all night to never speak of him.

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

And then it happened.

You didn’t say his name, no.

Not aloud.

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

But it was enough to make you want to leave.

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

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

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

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

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

There were usually three of them.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t have an answer.

You didn’t get to give an answer.

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

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

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

Javier Peña was none of that.

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

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

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

It was like, nothing.

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

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

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

That was never part of the plan.

Neither was skipping dinner, though.

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

His hair, freshly cut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you stumble to the elevator.

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

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

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

“Déjame. (Let me.)”

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

He catches you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m glad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thud against the nightstand.

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

The undressing is gentle and so unlike his usual impatience.

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

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

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

He looks like he wants to.

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

Against your forehead, lips that linger.

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

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

Vermont, ‘98.

That’s where it all began.

Your dad, turning fifty.

Javi just hit forty.

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

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

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

Wrong.

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

Textbooks on the table, glasses on your face.

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

Peaceful and quaint, until it wasn’t.

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

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

You put your head down, breathed more subtly.

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

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

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

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

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

Inching towards the exit, footsteps light as a feather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not in the mood.”

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

“I have an early flight.”

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

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

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

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

“I ain’t done talkin’ to you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t remember which direction you turned.

“Quit running, you bitch!”

He was still following, how was he still following?

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

He was getting faster. Maybe you were getting slower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thumb swiped over your palm.

Your mouth winced, your arm pulled back.

He held you in place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was instinctual, no thought placed behind his action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took you back to his own cabin instead.

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

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

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

Late june brings nothing but gloom.

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

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

Tonight, you’re appeasing them.

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

Truth be told, you don’t want to go.

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

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

In the mirror, it’s still lopsided.

The clock sits at eight forty-seven.

They’re 2 minutes late.

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

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

Dive back in, search again.

An empty tube of lipbalm.

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

A broken earring.

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

Bile burns the back of your throat.

He opens on the fifth knock.

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

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

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

The air’s uncomfortably quiet.

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

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

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

The silence returns.

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

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

You notice his bedroom door is shut.

It’s never been shut before.

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

He blinks, slowly.

It’s hard to tell if it’s from guilt.

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

He doesn’t answer.

You keep talking.

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

“This needs to stop.”

You don’t have to question it.

You do, anyway.

“What?”

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

“I don’t underst-”

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

He’s stern.

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

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

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

Everything, you want to tell him.

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

“I just thought-”

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

I know, you mouth.

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

When he calls to make sure you got home safe.

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

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

Javier Peña is not your boyfriend.

So why does he act like it?

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

Kid.

That makes you angry.

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

“Don’t call me kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, the back-and-forth stops.

Silence.

You take the lead.

“So, what? That’s it just... over?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too late, you want to say.

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

“Corazón, I’m so sor-”

The car honks, again.

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

Another honk.

You never make it to the line dance.

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

Love’s a verb And not a bandage

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

A promise of casual, turned into something fragile.

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

All you remember is a pounding at your front door.

1 am. Too late to be causing ruckus.

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

Pause.

This could be anyone, anything.

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

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

You let him invade your senses.

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

You pull back. He follows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, you do trip over them.

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

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

The gold of his skin shines brighter.

The red on his skin appears darker.

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

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

Later with Javi never seems to come.

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

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

‘I’ll get these back to you later.’

He’d never made you that dinner.

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

You’d never gotten those panties back.

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

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

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

Distractions are not welcomed, your patient needs tending to.

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

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

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

It does the trick, unlocks his tongue.

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

He hisses.

You’re pressing too hard on his fragile lip.

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

A splotch of red stains your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

Javi sighs, gives in.

He always gives in, to you, eventually.

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

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

He doesn’t need to.

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

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

He’s rambling.

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

You listen closely, swallow up every morsel he offers.

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

He chokes.

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

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

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

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

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

He nods.

“Did you help her?”

Another nod.

“Did you get her someplace safe?”

This time, a reply.

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

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

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

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

“What more could you have done?”

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

You whine out his name.

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

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

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

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

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

The words catch in your throat.

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

But mostly because he kisses you.

Desperate, hungry. Groaning into your willing mouth.

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

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

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

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

When Javi fucks you, he fucks with purpose.

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

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

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

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

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

When did Javier Peña stop wanting you?

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

By July, things change.

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

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

Boredom leads to hobbies.

At first, you try pottery.

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

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

You hate it, running.

You sweat, you ache, you exhaust.

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

The heartache.

The headache.

The agent.

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

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

The pink shirt still lives on one of your hangers.

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

Not right now.

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

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

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

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

Today, however, it’s more challenging.

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

You have to come, kiddo.

The phone-call still echos through your thoughts.

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

You’d wanted a better explanation than that.

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

You had no plans.

Bring your friends then! The more the merrier!

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

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

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

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

He said it, like that would persuade you.

Keep asking about ya, the whole lot of them.

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

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

You’d hung up.

Immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

Until you come to a screeching halt.

Double over.

Place your hands on your knees.

Dry heave.

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

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

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

You’ll have to see him.

Spend time near him.

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

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

For not quitting the force.

For being your dad’s friend.

For not wanting you the same you wanted him.

Want him.

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

You’re usually more careful.

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

You pick your pace back up.

Manage only a handful-or-two steps.

Your feet fly out in front of you.

Land ass-first on the gravel below.

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

You groan and prepare to get back on your feet.

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

Big mistake.

The hand tugs you.

You glance up.

And meet the eyes of Javier Peña.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You come up empty handed.

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

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

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

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

Wedding attire, a post-party glow.

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

Had he smiled, then?

Had he even been there?

Or was he merely a product of martinis and negronnis-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I- What?” Confussion.

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

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

Adjusts your piercing, swipes his thumb over your cheek.

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

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

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

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

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

Or both.

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

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

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

Your father’s voice.

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

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

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

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

Maybe it’s sadness you see.

There’s definitely remorse.

Guilt, too.

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

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

But none of that matter, anymore.

You’re already walking away.

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

He calls out your name, loudly.

Attracts the nosy eyes of people around.

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

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

He reaches out for your hand.

And quickly gives up on the thought of holding it.

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

He knows the answer.

You still give him it, “yes.”

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

You feel his eyes on you.

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

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

You’re laughing but it’s mostly fake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not her fault. You know.

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

Your dad is.

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

Even from here, you can hear him bragging.

So then Peña’s on his ass.

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

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

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

He’s exaggerating.

The guy was barely going 5 miles an hour!

He stepped out the vehicle at his own will.

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

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

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

If you step inside the frame, it cracks.

Shatters.

And maybe he knows that.

Knew it all along.

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

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

The feeling lasts all but four seconds.

“Kiddo!”

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

It takes a moment, but you wave.

“Come over ‘ere!”

Not the response you were hoping for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not a sight you want to see.

It fills you with dread.

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

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

“London.”

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

All eyes snap to him.

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

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

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

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

That peaks your interest.

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

“Really?”

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

With Javi, friends could mean anything.

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

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

So it’s best you don’t inquire on it.

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

“Mr... Bond?”

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

You can practically hear it, in his voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His lips press against your hairline before speaking again.

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

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

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

It’s too late though.

You’re already snoring against his skin.

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

For a minute, it feels like she knows.

She knows why Javi knows.

You should be panicking.

Both of you should.

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

But you aren’t. Neither of you are.

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

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

Your dad gives an unceremonious oh.

Your mom rolls her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pulls her close, kisses her shoulder.

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

Open, celebrated, acknowledged.

Not secretive, dirty, scandalous.

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

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

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

Your heart drops.

Javi’s seems to do the same.

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

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

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

But I’m actually bloody Motherfucking batshit crazy

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

You’ve lived plenty of such moments.

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

And all because you heard his voice.

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

He’s facing a woman.

She’s pretty.

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

And a well-rounded belly.

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

You’ve never seen her before.

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

She’s a total stranger, to you.

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

A very pregnant, non-stranger.

“We gotta get this kid some better taste.”

His hand rests on her bump.

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

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

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

You won’t let it fester.

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

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

Was she the reason things between you and him ended?

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

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

Surely, he couldn’t have.

But, then, why couldn’t he have?

You were never exclusive.

You were never anything.

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

Your heart’s palpitating.

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

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

Because, how could he do this to you?

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

Love you so deeply and leave you so easily?

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

“He’s a real kicker, ain’t he?”

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

But, no, it’s too distant. Too far.

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

He’s handsome, in the typical sense.

Blonde haired, a nice smile.

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

“He?” It’s Javi who echoes.

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

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

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

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

The bile in your throat burns more than ever before.

The misplaced anger bleeds into sadness, shame, embarrassment.

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

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

Friends his own age.

Worlds apart, yet nothing but a shelf between you.

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

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

The little girl perks right up at that.

Eyes widened, head off her father’s shoulder.

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

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

“Quit lying to my kid, Peña.”

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

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

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

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

Your breathing stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flicker up to the shelf and-

He’s no longer standing on the other side.

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

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

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

You wake up early.

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

Making the most out of your time upon foreign land.

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

The truth lies in that you can not sleep.

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

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

A quarter past six.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your ringtone is the culprit.

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

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

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

“Corazón.”

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

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

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

Sadness that it sounds so broken down the line.

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

“I’m here,” it’s only a whisper.

It’s enough to shut him up.

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

“You’re in London,” he states.

“I am,” you affirm.

He hums, sips something.

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

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

“Yeah,” you spare him the details.

The truth.

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

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

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

You sure felt alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For answers, for clarity, for closure

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

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

Even then, it kills you to do so.

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

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

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

“What answer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The image doesn’t quite form.

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

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

Refuge he’s willing to share with you.

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

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

“Promise me you’ll go, corazón.”

Your reply is instant, “I promise.”

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

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

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

“How you feeling, kiddo?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of them have, really.

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

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

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

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

“You’re literally in my room!”

“Which is literally in my house!”

Downstairs, your mother yells something unintelligible.

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

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

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

Tupperware, clasped in his hand.

The contents are hard to decipher.

Luckily, your father spots you eyeing it.

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

Your stomach growls, hungry and unfed.

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

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

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

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

Immediately, you spot chicken.

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

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

Your father continues, practically talking to himself.

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

“Cazuela de ave.”

A change into warmer, drier clothes.

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

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

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

And that fact is partly what warms your insides.

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

Objectively, you think, he’s gorgeous.

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

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

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

The scent alone is enough to have you salivating. 

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

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

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

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

A real date.

Only, this isn’t even a fake date.

You guys don’t do that.

“It’s- It was my mom’s recipe.”

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

He’s never mentioned his mother.

Or much about his family, really.

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

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

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

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

Open.

His eyes, his mind, his heart.

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

“Was she a good cook?”

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

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

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

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

It’s disturbingly beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know what to say.

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

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

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

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

Both of you settle back in your seats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She would have liked you.”

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

They’re as open as before.

“Really?”

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

“Kiddo?”

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

“Hmm?” 

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

“I’m- Yeah, just tired, s’all.”

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

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

[scmoobly]

Wanna Be Yours | Bucky Barnes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Even months after Bucky had rescued you from HYDRA, you still had a separation anxiety that made you paranoid when he wasn't around. And so did Bucky.

Content: [bucky being unable to stay away from you] [Comforting] [minor pining for each other] [alluding to s³x]

Warning: Mild mature themes

A/N: first buck fic😍✋️That I'm posting anyways. Not saying my draft isn't full of horndog shit BUT PLEASE PAY ATTENTION THIS PART IS IMPORTANT. Please watch this bucky edit before reading. It'll give you a visual of this fic. I'll leave the link in the comments as well so it's easier to copy. Okay, enjoy ♡ https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSNMdKCFQ/

Not proofread, Sorr :)

"Bucky."

"Hmm." A low grumble echoed from the other end of the call, the familiar rattle of his metal arm easing the anxiety in your chest.

"I miss you."

"I'm working." He responded with the same monotonous effect. He'd been dispatched on a mission nearby, along with Natasha Romanoff only about 20 minutes ago.

She was a glorified babysitter that Steve had assigned to accompany Bucky just in case he got himself in trouble.

As grateful as you were that they'd helped Bucky save you from HYDRA, you weren't that well acquainted with the avengers to know their relationship with each other so the fact that you were left at the tower alone while Bucky was out with someone else just didn't sit well in your stomach.

"I miss you." You repeated mechanically into the phone. It was a habit hard to kill even though it had been months since you'd been freed from the shackles Pierce constricted you in. You were no longer a soldier, but it wasn't like you could just turn off or forget years of torture.

When there was no response, you opted to repeat yourself another time before he interrupted you. "I miss y-" "I know."

You heard a soft sigh from the other line, a few minutes of silence passing before it disconnected with a distorted click.

•

10 minutes later

The door to Buckys bedroom swung open, revealing you sitting in front of it with your legs curled up to your chest, the same inexpressive look in your eyes as they looked up at him.

"How long have you been sitting here?" His brows knotted, and his forehead creased revealing a hint of worry. "Since you left." You answered to which he could only respond with a deep exhale.

Bucky walked closer to you, crouching down to your level before gently sliding a few strands of hair behind your ear, his thumb caressing the skin of your cheek with caution.

Leaning into his touch came much easier to you than most things. Having Bucky close was your only source of comfort after he'd rescued you. His presence grounded you in a whole new world that felt like it was caving in around you.

A world where no one knew who you were but him, and you depended on him to not forget yourself.

"Let's get you to bed." Before you could say anything, Bucky had already hooked his arms around your body, lifting you up with almost zero effort. Your own found their way around his shoulder, eyes glued to his stone cold expression as he moved you nimbly over to the bed and set you down.

"Are you hungry?" He questioned further while reaching for the covers to which you'd responded with a light shake of your head.

"Just missed you." A low hum erupted from the depth of his chest.

Pulling the covers over your legs Bucky sat himself down beside you on the edge of the bed, leaning his back against the headrest before stretching his hand out in your direction, lacing his fingers through your hair.

Forget the Avengers. Your own relationship with Bucky was a mystery, if not anything else. One thing was clear, though. You were definitely not friends. At least you didn't want to be.

The years you'd spent being tortured and trained at HYDRA's base was something only he had the capability to understand. Naturally, your heart ran to him to seek any kind of empathy or comfort, but you'd both been wrung so tight that any sense of emotional sensitivity had been drained from you almost completely.

It took him a long a while, but he'd warmed up to the Avengers, finding his old best friend in Steve, a good companion in Sam, and a supportive team in everyone else.

However, it wasn't so easy for you. Bucky was all you had, and you'd worried your dependence on him in trying to fit back into society would someday become too much of a burden. The vehemence of your affection for him seemed to be concealed by the expressionless look on your face and the thought that he would someday choose to want someone who showered him with love unlike you.

Little to your knowledge, Bucky had his own apprehensions when it came to you. He'd thought being around the Avengers who'd protect you at any cost would make you feel more comfortable and safe. That it would help you open up.

That was the reason he had insisted for you to stay at the tower after the rescue mission. Well. Half of it anyway.

He couldn't stand the thought of you being alone the way he was, holeing up within the dark confines of his room. As hypocritical as it was, he cared too much to see you turn into the version of himself that he'd barely managed to escape.

You deserve to feel the warm flutter of happiness in your body. You, more than him. More than anyone.

That's why he'd rushed back to the tower halfway through his mission after you'd called, leaving Natasha to deal with the aftermath.

He could almost still feel the wind on his face from how harshly he'd revved the engine of the Harley Davidson Street 750.

"Bucky?"

You whisper softly while looking up at him, your doe eyes making him take in a deep breath. "Y-yeah?" He didn't realise how long he'd been staring or how close you'd gotten, your breaths mingling with each other, caressing the others' skin and sending shivers up and down his spine.

Close. Too close.

Too close not to do anything about it.

His metal arm that had been stroking your hair slid down to hook around the back of your neck, the cold vibranium thumb tracing circles on your jaw, and you couldn't help leaning into the touch, sucking in a breath, you closed your eyes in contentment.

"Bucky.." You purred, your cheeks filled with unfamiliar heat. Blushing? Bucky was making you blush.

Meanwhile, Bucky seemed to be awestruck as he blinked in disbelief. "You.. smiled." It was brief, a very small one, but he definitely caught it, and suddenly he couldn't think of anything more beautiful than the sight of it.

He wondered what it would take to see your lips tug upwards just a little more. To hear you laugh if he was lucky enough.

Buckys mind was clouded. Filled with the image of heaven that you'd graced him with, and suddenly he was closer, his lips hovering dangerously close to your own.

"Smile for me, doll."

Your eyes widen when his lips finally pressed against yours, knocking the wind out of you. However, it only took a few seconds for you to melt into the sensation. You had been craving it after all.

Your body began to curl up in an effort to be as close to him as possible, fingers grazing the outline of his stubble. A muffled whine slipped from your lips, causing Bucky to chuckle into the kiss before parting only slightly, an adoring look in his eyes. One you couldn't fathom was meant for you.

"Somehow, that was even better." He cooed, sliding his hand down your arm, the side of your body before resting on your hips, giving it a little squeeze.

"Come here, babydoll." He murmured with a feverish look in his eyes, using both hands to hold onto your hips and move you to straddle his lap. The pet names only served to make your ears burn hotter.

As soon as he'd settled you on top of him, you could feel how tight his pants had grown around him. Your chest heaved up and down as the alien feeling of arousal bubbled in your stomach and in between your thighs, making you squirm and let out little mewls.

"Shh, shh.. calm down, sweets. I have you." It felt like his lips had been taped into a smile. He wanted to ingraine the faces you were making in the deepest part of his thoughts. "I'm right here." He continued, leaning close to leave a trail of wet kisses down your neck, pausing at your shoulder to breathe in your scent before continuing down your collarbone, your arm all the way down to the back of your hand.

"You smell intoxicating. And you taste even better." Your breathe hitches for the millionth time. There was nothing you could think to say in response to his sweet words. Your silence was fine with him, though, because you displayed your innermost feelings on your face, and it was all he needed.

With both hands, he pressed your hips down onto him, eliciting a gasp from you. "Mm. And those delicious sounds you make. You must be an angel given human form because you make me feel like I'm in seventh heaven-" Bucky huffed out the last bit, his own chest heaving in anticipation.

You'd already showed him more emotions in that very second than you had the last few months you'd spent with him, and he was more than eager to explore what more he could pull out of you..

[hantenguclonesimp-minuszoha]

Happy Wife, Happy Life.

Hantengu clones x Fem!Reader [Yandere-Angst-Fluff]

Part one.

Dividers by Saradika

Dividers by Saradika

Y/N = Your Name

Synopsis: Another punishment causes her to finally go cold with her 'beloveds'. They finally know what has been bubbling up inside of her after the many harsh punishments given to her.

Warnings: Possessiveness (duh), gaslighting(?), manipulation, coddling, isolation, monophobia, stalking, reader loses her shit at them, ANGST, more suffering! :D

Requested by: luvcOree

Ps: I didn't notice that my tumblr auto updated and I had saved this on schedule only to find out that I couldn't edit it, so I had to delete the whole thing and rewrite it only to find out later that you could edit the post 😭 so that's why I have to reset to this- I'M SORRY

(Look at this goofy fella I found on pinterest)

This morning was no different from the others except for a little bit of harsh weather. Y/N was simply cooking for herself while also being deep in thought. She's been thinking about her family for some time now, especially her sibling. She's been missing her mother and father dearly and it's been eating up at her for too long, she can't take it anymore. After having finished making herself her meal, the woman took a deep, nervous breath and left for the dark room her husbands stayed during daytime. Walking up the stairs, Y/N was certain that they had already heard her since she was in the kitchen and by the time she arrived, they were all in the darkest corners of the room, or in this case, he was. "Dear?" He was quick to flinch at the mere sound of her voice, but that was just him in general which did not surprise Y/N in the slightest. Hantengu, the main body of the clones, was currently the only one present due to the clones not being seperated. They often stayed merged together with Hantengu to avoid the sun and only revealed themselves at night. This gave Hantengu time to spend with her since his clones would all simply want her attention to themselves (if you like the clones, love him too beuz they're all the same person). "Y.. Yes?" The demon answered timidly to his wife as she entered the room, closing the shōji door behind her.

Y/N inhaled deeply before timidly asking him the question. "May I go spend some time with my family for today? I promise I'll be home early! I just... want to see them. It's been too long..." To Y/N, this was nothing more than a simple request and perhaps even a reward for having been the obedient wife they wanted and giving them all an equal amount of attention, keeping them all satisfied. To the Hantengus however, this was a question they all dreaded. Their dear wife asking to go outside, even more so to visit someone? What was wrong with staying home? They provide her with everything she needs, get her everything she asks for one way or another. What more does she want? Cowardly as the demon may be, he could not let his dear go. Not the one who he knows believes in his innocence. Not the one he needs. "N.. No... You can't! W-What if you get hurt and.. and I'm not... there?" "But it's just my family! I'll just be there for today and nowhere else! Please, let me go visit them!" But the wife was desperate. She doesn't ask much of neither him or the clones, much less Zohakuten, who she knows is more strict and harsh. Y/N does as she is told, stays home where she is safe and gives them attention. Even Urami and Zohakuten on the rare occasions they reveal themselves. Y/N is a good wife, never asks for anything, but this time, she was desperate. She even said that she'll be home before dusk. But the husbands, they disagree. She cannot leave. She'd be out of their sights, vulnerable, in danger. They cannot risk their lovely wife dying, the risk is too grave. "No! You c-cannot go! You'll... You'll get hurt!" What would he do without her? What they do without her? All he would offer is to stay home and spend some time with him which she reluctantly agreed to. Y/N wasn't happy. She could never be happy. Her family! She needs to see them at least once after having left without much of a valid explanation.

If they wouldn't let her see them once, then she'll go herself with or without their permission.

For the entire day until dark, Y/N was with Hantengu and didn't really do much. She did have some surprisingly pleasant conversations (and with his constant complaining of the evil around him and that he is an innocent demon), cuddled with him the same way she would with the clones, took a day nap and so on. However, while she was a sweet and loving wife towards him, she was waiting for him to leave in search for humans to eat and to find the Blue Spider Lily for his master. Soon, evening would arrive and Hantengu would go out for his hunt and mission leaving Y/N alone until he would return. She watched him shrink and leave through the dark forest of where their shared home is located. When she was sure she was alone, she too would leave. Y/N would pack her delicious sweets for her parents and sibling before then leaving her home.

After almost forty five minutes of travelling by foot, Y/N finally made it to the home of her parents. luckily for her, her sibling was there as well. Running up to the door excitedly, Y/N knocked and waited for one of her family members to open for her. Eventually, all would go as she had hoped. Y/N managed to see her parents after so long, caught up with her sibling and would finally be able to spend some time with them after not having seen them in so long. She laughed, she conversed, she cooked with her father/ mother, played with her sibling like children once more knowing that Hantengu would return at midnight. But that wasn't the case this time.

___

The clones were beyond furious that their wife was not where they had left her. They were all lucky enough to have returned home early after successfully killing demon slayers and humans, but another unsuccessful scavenge for the Blue Spider Lily. The entire ordeal had left them all irritated as usual and simply wanted to be comforted by the loving embrace of their betrothed only to find out that she wasn't there. Sekido yelled and threw a fit, as expected from the clone of anger, and in a desperate attempt to have her back, he forcefully fused. The only reasons the others did not have a problem with Sekido's rather daring stunt is of course for none other than Y/N. Once Zohakuten was formed and Urami had revealed himself, both clones immediately went for the search of their beloved wife. They immediately knew where she was anyways and she would return by choice or by force.

___

Both clones watched from afar as Y/N laughed loudly with a person who they assume is their sibling. Neither of them could believe she would ever do such a thing despite having been told that she wasn't allowed to go! Both would soon close in on the home of where she was, but would keep their distance. Zohakuten would hit one of his drums and would command one of his wooden dragon heads to close in and for Y/N to return. He was still quite furious at the fact that she left despite having been told not to and Urami even more so. It wouldn't be long before Y/N noticed a strange piece of wood moving and eventually realise who it was. Soon, she would bid her family farewell and leave as they hoped she would. Without wasting any more time, she went to the forested area where Urami and Zohakuten stood and would timidly approach. Zohakuten gave her a steely glare and simply pointed towards his wooden dragon head while Urami would already begin his scolding. "How dare you leave! You had us all worried sick! Did we not tell you that you could not visit your family? You could've gotten hurt or worse! Do you know how much it would've broken us if you did?" That is all she heard until she arrived home. Urami carried her inside and placed her down before shrinking back to Hantengu, who began to bawl his eyes out. Zohakuten eyed Hantengu for a moment with pity before returning his intimidating gaze back to her. "How dare you leave me, woman. Have you no shame? I thought you were hurt!" Zohakuten continued to go off angrily at Y/N, blaming her for his anxiety and worry. Being the foul-mouthed boy he is, he cursed in his sentences. "You ungrateful wench! This time, punishment will be longer and harsher! You want to disobey me? Fine! I've been too lenient with your behavior!" Said the boy while dragging her by the wrist to the solitary room. "I'm sorry! I just wanted to-" "Silence! I won't hear it!" The door to her punishment once again opened as Zohakuten then so rudely shoved her into the room, this time without a candle before slamming and locking the door shut. "No... No!" Begging would get her nowhere. Not this time.

"Sweet thing... You've disappointed me."

"When we tell you something, you listen. You will regret disobeying us."

"My little songbird, I thought we had an agreement!"

"... Perhaps a harsher treatment shall remind you not to disobey us again, dewdrop."

And it starts again.

But she didn't beg this time. Perhaps a few tears, but Y/N didn't beg nor did she scream or cry. It dawned on her that perhaps they truly don't care for her feelings and only their own. Perhaps they are selfish monsters who only want to hurt her for their own amusement. At least, that's what their wife began to think. Y/N dragged her futon to the corner and made herself comfortable (as comfortable as she could get in a cold, dark and solitary room), simply staring up at the ceiling in the pitch black room deep in thought of the husbands she loved so much. Before long, the woman fell asleep with a new hatred for her husbands.

The punishment went on for three days instead of the usual two hours. Three entire days of no social interaction, not a word from them and almost no food or water as well. The clones truly did consider depriving her of human necessities, but Urogi had convinced them to be more merciful on their poor wife, having convinced them that she would learn her lesson.

The end of her punishment had arrived. It was over and the clones couldn't wait to hear her say that she had learned her lesson. That she would be a good wife and admit that she will be home where it's safe. That she'll apologise for her misbehaviour. But no, that's not what happened. The clones were absolutely shocked at her behavior when they finally let her out of the room. She was irritable, scornful and suddenly sharp-tongued almost as if someone had flipped a switch and changed her personality entirely. She didn't even want to be in his same room as them, much less have them look at her. Even Sekido began trying the gentle treatment to get closer to her, but that didn't work. "Dewdrop... What happened to her... This isn't the woman I married..." Aizetsu's sapphire coloured eyes began tearing up as he thought of her disrespectful behavior. Y/N would spout hurtful comments at them and express her hatred towards them as if they had hurt her in some way and Aizetsu, he hated that very much. It made him quite sad. "How dare she speak to us that way!" Sekido growled angrily while thinking of her new behavior towards them. Karaku and Urogi stayed mostly silent about the situation, thinking of what could've happened for her to act like this (hm, I wonder why). They would all continue to discuss among themselves, trying to figure out a way to get closer to her without being met with scorn. "It doesn't matter if either three of us say it, she won't believe us. She'll just shove us away and continue with this." Urogi argues while looking at Sekido. It is true, any apology from either Karaku or Urogi would sound fake and from Aizetsu would sound merely like something to ease her hard feelings. "He's right, you know..." Karaku mumbles quietly while playing around with his uchiwa.

Aizetsu knew Sekido would have a huge problem with apologising since he finds it pathetic for someone such as himself, and considering the emotion he is, he would absolutely refuse due to his pride and brash personality. "I already told you fools, I'm not going to apologise!" "Then how do you want her to trust us again, Sekido? If we want our dear back, we have to apologise." Said the relaxed clone in a rather stern tone. Karaku would be the last clone to ever speak in such a stern and serious tone due to his mischievous behavior, but there were times even he knew when it was needed. He got up from where he said and got face-to-face with his older self, staring at him with a blank expression. "You do it. You'd be the most convincing out of all of us. That or we risk losing her, because then, we'd have to move to measures that we would all like to avoid for her sake." Sekido knew exactly what Karaku meant, he wasn't stupid. If they let her continue this, she would grow more reckless and rebellious, and they couldn't risk that. The vexed clone huffed reluctantly, acknowledging the fact that what his clone stated was indeed correct. He, out of every clone, is least likely to apologise and admit that he was wrong. It's a rather stupid solution in his eyes, but the one that they've come up with currently and they will act on it.

So, with a deep breath and some preparation from his clone brethren, he walks to the room where his lovely wife is to apologise. "Y/N-" "You again? I told you not to even look at me, you disgusting demon!" Those hurtful comments irked him, yes, but if he wanted to get on her good side again, he would have to swallow his pride and apologise like a mature adult. "What do you want from me? Just looking at your hellish eyes makes me sick! How did I even fall in love with you?" Her crude comments continue to flow freely and uncensored as if he were a mere stranger to her. The woman didn't even give him a chance to speak which led him to approach her in the blink of an eye, gripping her shoulders tightly. "Will you let me speak, woman?" Sekido asked and as usual, his snappy tone seemed to slip through. This did not come off well to the wife, as she merely continued to berate him and his clones. Finally, Sekido lost it and yelled at her, shutting her up for the moment. "LISTEN TO ME. I..." It was a struggle trying to utter those embarrassing words. A demon doesn't apologise, much less an Upper Moon! How dare she make him seem like a fool! How dare she make him be so- so... so weak! This wasn't how things were supposed to be! But... Sekido will play nice, for now, suck it up and apologise. "I'm... sor... I..." Sekido huffs again while interally cursing at himself for being so pathetic. ["It's just a damn sentence...!"] His monstrous grip tightens, but he remembers to tone it down for her fragile human body. After almost a minute of struggling to get out a simple sentence, Sekido does it. It was the simple thought of Y/N leaving him that pushed him to do so. What would they do without her? Who would calm him down when he would have one of his rage fits? Who would Karaku tell his hunts and mission to? Who would keep Aizetsu from sulking? Who would preen Urogi's wings? Who would love him?

There was no one like you. Not in their demented eyes.

"I'm sorry."

Her expression immediately went from annoyed and hateful to shocked and confused. Sekido apologising? What possessed him to do such a 'shameful' act? "I... Understand that what we did to you was too far... My dear wife." It was rough at first, but soon, the words flowed out flawlessly. "My dear wife, I apologise for my and Zohakuten's brash behavior. In a moment of desperation I lost my composure and did not realise what the consequences of my actions would lead to." It was pathetic, but better to seem like a fool than lose the one thing you cannot live without. But she wouldn't fall for it a second time. "How dare you..." Sekido was understandably surprised. "You think a simple apology would have me running back into your arms like the many, many times before? Have you forgotten what you did to me, Sekido? Have you forgotten the many tears I cried because of my fear?" No, he did not. Did they really think she was going to forget it all just like that? All the torture, the punishment just because they did not see whatever she did that time fit? "How many times have you lied to me? How many times have you guilt tripped me into thinking it was my fault even though it was yours?!" "Y/N I-"

"DON'T interrupt ME while I'm TALKING!!"

It was practically trauma at that point and the clones had no one to blame but themselves. What did they expect? The pain and fear would've caught up eventually.

"I'm afraid of you... I don't love you anymore. I-I..." But even then, does she truly believe her own words? Is she that naive that she truly can't see what is wrong here?

"You put me alone in a room without a single thing but a futon and a chamberstick. You're insane...! All of you know I hate being alone! I'm afraid of being alone!! Do my endless screams and cries, begging and hitting the door entertain any of you?" Y/N hoped it wasn't true, but at this point, she was smart to know it was. Her fear entertained them. They were after all still demons and a human fearing a demon is the greatest sight and feeling a demon can get. "No-" "Don't lie to me..." He knew he needed to tell the truth eventually. "... Yes." The thick streams of tears continued more and more like a raging river crashing down a dam and flowing freely. "Get away from me..."

They can't lose you.

She was in their arms faster than she could blink. "Dewdrop... I'm sorry... Don't leave us... please." The sight of his betrothed's beautiful face stained with tears was enough to shatter Aizetsu. He didn't mean to push her this far. What kind of husband tortures his wife? Oh, how wrong they were. "Songbird, you can do anything but leave. You can scream and yell at us, hit and stab us, we will take it all with grace, but please, I beg of you don't leave. I swear on my lord's name we will be better!" The all clung onto her as if she were their lifeline. They will beg, scream and cry if they must in order to get her to stay. She cannot leave. "I'll never laugh at your tears again, I'll never make you cry. Sweet thing, don't leave. I will get on my knees if I have to..." The woman can put them all on a leash if it meant that she'd stay. They might have been all high and mighty then, but the moment she even hints at leaving for good, suddenly they're her lapdogs. It would crush them if she were to leave for good. They cannot lose that one good feeling not even they can describe. It wasn't joy or pleasure... What it was? They did not know, but it felt too good to be let go and she was the cause of this. Neither dignity or pride was no longer of importance to them, only Y/N was.

"You can put me on a leash and I'd say 'Thank you'... Do whatever you want, but you will not leave me." The lengths these psychopaths would go for one woman is near insanity. They were all demented and she was the one person keeping them sane. Possessiveness in a human can only go so far, but a demon is a new thing entirely. Considering their power, they will do what they must for their love, for that one person. They cannot leave, who said they could leave? Some may hurt them and prevent them from doing so, others may become their servants. Whatever works is what they will do. That one person is their entire life. They cannot live without that one person.

"Don't leave me, please."

No, she could never. They had gotten her too far in. She was theirs, she was already claimed by them. Y/N was going nowhere and she accepted that. Horrid as their actions may be, these man-eating demons loved her. They love her.

"I won't."

So it all starts again. Y/N goes back to them, rushing into their arms as they had hoped for. Their arms clung onto to her as if she would disappear if they didn't hold her. They hugged her tightly, not daring to let go of her in fear of her disappearing. They all told her how much they loved her, how they would sell their soul for her to be happy. The clones and their wife cuddled together for the entire night, not daring to let go of her. She was constantly met with kisses, small love bites, licks, whatever, as long as it expressed their love and affection to her.

She wouldn't ever leave them. She was theirs and it was written in stone.

Which still begs the question Sekido had asked last time.

"... Would you like to bear us a child?"

~~~~~~~

♤|•°A/N°|•♤

Yes daddy, I would love for you to breed me.

Ps: I added Zohakuten, because he too is a clone. Yes, he does see reader as his wife, but that doesn't mean he engages in those acts with reader. He loves her too, but only in a romantic sense. He has the physical build of a child, yes, but that doesn't mean it's sexual. Just thought I'd clear it up for you snowflakes out there.