#this was so forced and set up for s3

[gun-chucks]

just finished good omens s2. okay. what. huh

[seokwoosmole]

Never has my opinion about a non-antagonist character changed so drastically than it has about Shigure ok there might have been some before but right now I can’t think of any.

I went from “Oh he’s just a silly lil guy” to “*sobs* silly *sobs again* DAD” to “ohhhh….silly….pervy😳lil guy” to “ohhhh….silly mysterious guy???” to “oh- oh….😬”

[skrunksthatwunk]

not my dad not liking moral orel season 3 🤭🤭🤭that's so embarrassing for him (<- he's not wrong for feeling that way but i think it's like 60% because he doesn't like it when art gets weird and that's so so tragic for him)

[roundaboutnow]

i love bella in h2o but i think i dislike s3 because they did zane dirty. he made all that progress in s1 and s2 just to be the asshole again? such a shame.

[variousqueerthings]

okay I watched good omens s2 yesterday with my partner, and I was genuinely very surprised -- I think if you've grown up through superwholock/merlin/the 100/teen wolf type shows where (with the exception periodically of doctor who) you kind of had to make up the good show that something could have been in your head, that colours a lot of your viewing, and to be honest I thought season 1 of good omens was a fine little piece, honoured the book while modernising it somewhat, it was a nice, fun, low stakes time, with a couple of things I might have wanted a tad different but nothing overall awful.

so I was seeing all this meta and gifsets and discussion, while I was waiting to give s2 a watch with my partner and thought "ah, people have made up the good show in their heads again" not that I assumed s2 was going to be a bad show, but that people were taking extra deep plunges into possibilities, the way fandom does, and that was fine. I knew there was a big ol kiss, I had a sense of some kind of argument at the end, and that it was setting up a s3

I also knew that mainstream reviews were calling it (politely) self-indulgent and dependent on whether or not you enjoy david tennant and michael sheen having a good time for just under 6 hours

all in all, expectations of a somewhat mainstream show without too much to think about, a nice, fun low stakes time, moving on...

(EDIT: AND THEN I WROTE A LOT OF WORDS SO YOU CAN IMAGINE THAT MY REACTION WAS QUITE DIFFERENT)

as it turns out it seems these things that were being written on tumblr were discussing the actual text of the show and not things you could extrapolate if you squinted and tilted your head a little to the left as I'm so used to doing, so in fact there is much to think about!

and my first thought was "this is like when you read early discworld books that ask a question like a joke, only to find that over time the answer to that question becomes very serious (and also can be funny at times of course)." how terry pratchett would pick and pick at tropes and notions and social ideas and go "oh now hold on, this seems strange..." starting way back when he thought it was odd that women warriors always seemed to be dressed in metal bikinis and then realising he hadn't done a good enough job of subverting the trope, simply by depicting it and calling it a bit silly

why do goblins always get treated as the villains? what's with this divine succession of kings business? where are the female dwarfs? who do we treat as disposable?

good omens season one went: "haha what if heaven and hell were intensely incapable, bureaucratic, corrupt, and uncaring of the work they did, and we took an angel and a demon and had them actually care? wouldn't that be... a bit silly?" (and it was)

good omens season two went: "what are the consequences for caring when the people who have power over you are incapable, bureaucratic, corrupt, and uncaring? what are the forces that supersede systems built on fear, ignorance, and violent conformity? can people change and break out of/challenge/break down these structures by caring?"

and this was set up with a neat little sleight of hand (to reference aziraphale's switch-and-bait in the episode with the nazi zombies), because the majority of season 2 does feel a bit indulgent: hey, remember those two wacky angel-and-demon characters? watch some more wacky things they did through the ages, watch them take a sojourn through 1827 Edinburgh and do a magic show during the Blitz, and... stop the death of Job's and Sitis' children (actually maybe that whole segment ought to have been what they call "A Clue")

see them try to figure out a kooky mystery, all the while setting up a cute little same-gender romance on their street. watch as everything points towards a happy ending that's all about the two of them realising what they've been to one another all these thousands and thousands (and thousands and thousands) of years- but hold on. lest we forget - and the show has made this point over and over - there are powerful people who control them, who hurt them, and who plan on hurting others, throughout the whole season, and as it turns out they know what they've been to one another for far far longer, and know how to pull their strings...

season 2 then, has to show us these things, not because they're indulgent (well, maybe occasionally, but the apology dance is still important), but because in order to make the ending a tragedy, we first need to understand, properly, the impact that they have had on each other. we need to understand that Aziraphale relied heavily on Crowley to be his moral compass and leaned on black-and-white thinking in order to deal with things, because if it's all grey then where does he fit and what has it all meant and heaven has to be the good guys, even as Job's and Sitis' children are ordered to be killed, it's all he ever had...

and Crowley was always an anchor, needed to trust that Aziraphale was different, needed to bend to every whim that Aziraphale has, because otherwise what's his worth in all this? After having been already deemed worthless by the heaven that Aziraphale needs to believe in?

and that, simplistically described, is the narrative that we're seeing in s2, and alongside that the ways that the changes they have upon each other are noticed, and monitored, and placed under suspicion, and finally... broken up, not by the clumsy, brute force that's been attempted over and over again, but by a promise to return into a violent, controlling system and to "make it better from within"

and all of this is wrapped up in two queer relationships + a third queered-within-the-text relationship that creates the inverse of how it ends for Aziraphale and Crowley (so far). queer love -- whatever shape that has -- is explicitly the shape of non-conformity within this narrative, including within the symbolism of angel-and-demon love of Gabriel and Beelzebub, which in the context of the systems created is considered queer (and one can argue till the cats come home about casting cis actors, about angel-and-demon notions of gender/romance/sexuality, but the "queerness" comes from building something non-conforming to the systems they exist in), and enforced by the explicitly our-world-definition-of queer romance that Nina and Maggie have going on (which, while less high stakes, still contains the background controlling relationship that Nina initially is in)

all of this to say, that I disagree that s2 meanders, or that plotlines happen for the sake of showcasing Aziraphale and Crowley without purpose, or that characters get sidelined (I'd say it sets up a whole host of interesting characters to further get into actually), or that it's strictly mainstream easy-access narrative that's just an excuse for the main creators and actors to get back together.

the love is the point, and this show takes its time to show the love (and the unequal boundary-setting, and the fact that one of them has an undiscussed tragic backstory, and the desperation to belong again, and the fear instilled by oppressive systems, and and and), so that we understand why those last 15 minutes happen the way that they do

it's sleight of hand, and like all good magic, you don't notice until it's happened

[aeternallis]

Colin's jealousy just hits so well for me this season because unlike Simon and Anthony's jealousy (which mostly comes from male ego and physical lust), Colin's jealousy is born from something much deeper, beyond the surface-level, primitive instinct of seeing he has competition. That's not to say some of that isn't influencing Colin's actions, it most certainly is, but it's not the main force driving his emotions.

His jealousy doesn't come from out of nowhere, yknow?

His jealousy is born from shared history with one of the few genuine relationships in his life that he holds close to his heart, an unconscious, albeit cherished understanding that Penelope is a constant in his life. It's born from the slow, painful realization that he had lost her without even knowing it (further shaking his already flimsy resolve to try and fit into society's standards of being a typical rake), and whilst making a genuine effort to earn her good graces back, unwisely set himself up to lose her again.

Whereas Simon and Anthony's jealousy is superficial (and logically speaking, doesn't make much sense and only speaks to their self-entitlement due to their positions in society), Colin's jealousy is a humbling experience for him, which lends itself to his growth as a character and as a man. It's no wonder he'd described it as "a feeling that is like torture, but something he cannot, will not, does not want to give up."

Can y'all imagine Simon and Anthony having the same sentiment as that without it coming off as OOC? Simon was determined not to continue his family line and Anthony couldn't let go of his pride and obligations, pursuing Edwina until the latter had to set her foot down akjhdjsvbd If they had had any choice in the matter, both of them would have done their utmost to not have to feel anything towards their love interests pre-marriage. (Colin too made an attempt with that second brothel scene, but let's be real, it was half-assed at best)

Colin wants Penelope so much to the point he'd fully embraced even the torture of wanting her. And honestly? That's so damn refreshing to see, considering the typical romantic leads we usually see on television are trying to repress their emotions, not embrace it.

Colin yearns and wants, and he wants unashamedly. He's not jealous of Lord Debling; it's less about Lord Debling himself and the superb qualities he has that makes him an eligible gentleman specifically for Penelope and her circumstances, and more about being threatened by the concept of any other individual having the chance to establish that same emotional connection he has with Pen, and the possibility of that growing into something even more.

For all his kindness, Colin is actually quite possessive of that special connection he has with Penelope, and for a man who's already at odds and ends with his purpose in life and who he is in the grand scheme of the ton, understandably so.

It's why I knew in my gut during my first watch-through of s3 part 1 that although Colin had offered to help Pen find a husband by teaching her how to seduce men, he had never actually set out for it to be a successful endeavor. Lol If anything, it was just an excuse to be able to spend time with her. He had, albeit subconsciously, probably pictured the entire exercise to be something more along the lines of the incident with Lord Basilio, i.e. joking/gossiping w/ Pen about her prospective suitors and how unsuitable they are for her.

It's why Colin's excuses regarding Lord Debling about being a bad marriage prospect for Penelope sound so damn weak, his best reasoning being that he's "too particular."

For Colin, no man was ever going to be good enough for Penelope if it wasn't himself.

[zepskies]

Lost on You - Part 7

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x F. Supe!Reader

Summary: 1983 is a big year for you. You’re finally chosen to join the ranks of Payback, led by the most (in)famous supe in the world: Soldier Boy. He’ll never admit that he’s trying his damndest to figure you out. You’ll never admit that he’s actually growing on you. But the problem with this game is deciding who’s the predator, and who is prey.

AN: Consequences of the game.

Word Count: 5.2K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! More smut, show level debauchery, implied threesome, drug use, some light, some dark, violence and angst. (We're diving into some canon S3 content.)

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Part 7: Welcome to the Jungle

“Yes, well, Countess and I decided to end our relationship shortly after we wrapped on Red Thunder,” Ben explained to Jason Carver.

A little damage control could go a long way, coming from Soldier Boy himself. Vought News was one of the most convenient outlets for it.

“I know there’s been a lot of talk, but it was a mutual decision,” Ben said. “We still have a lot of love for each other. It just wasn’t working out.”

“Well, it sounds like it ended on good terms then,” said Jason.

“Yeah, so anyone who wants to run their mouth about it can come straight to me,” Ben said, with a stern set to his brows as he looked into the camera.

Jason uttered a slightly nervous laugh. “Well, I don’t think there’s anyone that brave.”

Ben shot him a smile. “Let’s hope not.”

“But are the rumors true? There seem to be some sparks between you and Sirena.”

Ben relaxed his posture a little, all while calm and controlled in his seat.

“She’s a special woman,” he admitted, with an incline of his head. “I can’t deny, we have…a connection.”

“Wow. You two have really hit it off since she joined the team,” Jason observed.

“Well, you know how it is, Jason,” Ben said. He glanced over and found you in the dark, standing next to a PA. You smiled.

“I’ve always been a man who knows what he wants,” he said.

“Shit,” Ben gritted out, his eyes rolling shut.

His gloved hand was fisted in your hair as you showed your gratefulness—on your knees, sucking him off from base to tip. He had to brace himself against the wall of one the makeup trailer. You two hadn’t even left the studio of Vought News when you took his hand and led him in here with a sensuous smile and an unspoken promise. 

“You sure do have a talented fucking mouth,” he said with a smirk.

You hummed around his cock in response while your lips and tongue continued to work him over. The sensation nearly made his eyes cross. His blunt fingers bit into the wall, creating divots there and stirring up paint and plaster dust.

But if he could still talk, you weren’t satisfied. You squeezed his ass through his uniform pants, pulling him even closer. His hips rocked forward, forcing you to take him deeper until his cock hit the back of your throat.

You gagged for a moment, but you took a breath through your nose to steady yourself, blinking through the sting of involuntary tears in your eyes. Then you slid your lips back down him again. This time you relaxed the back of your throat and managed to take him fully without gagging as much.

His grip was getting tighter in your hair as muttered curses fell from his lips. You winced, but you kept going. You could feel him getting close; his thighs locked with strain, and his cock throbbed a warning in your mouth.

A cross between a grunt and a shout escaped him along with his release. You swallowed up as much of his spend as you could, but it still dribbled from the corners of your mouth and down your neck. You eventually released him with a soft pop, panting heavily.

He had to catch his breath as well while he leaned against the wall. His fingers untightened from your hair, petting your head instead.

“Good girl. Jesus,” he said shallowly.

You smiled and helped yourself off the floor. You grabbed a hand towel from one of the makeup artist stations and wiped your face and neck, ruined lipstick and all. Ben was trying to play off his recovery when you turned back to him.

His gaze on you was satisfied, and yet, still simmering with heat. He grabbed your arm and guided you against the wall. He caged you there with his hands molded to the curve of your waist. His touch was warm even through your leather suit.

“Countess may have some fireballs for me in my future,” you remarked.

Ben snorted dismissively. “Don’t worry about her.”

You weren’t so sure. She probably hadn’t done anything publicly to you yet because she was afraid of Ben. At this point, having him in your corner was protection—both for your career and for yourself.

You tipped your face up at him with a more playful smile.

“You really think I’m special?” you teased.

Ben chuckled through his nose. “You’re fucking something, all right.”

His tone was laced with amusement, but you saw the edge of it in his eyes, and you felt it with your abilities. You sensed the sincerity in him, tinged with…fondness, maybe? Even for you, it was hard to parse out.

It was definitely something beyond lust. Was he even capable of something more?

And is that what you want?

He gave you one last kiss, distracting you from that troubling thought. His lips moved slowly against yours for a change. It was affectionate, as he cupped your cheek. 

“Come see me tonight,” he said when he finally pulled away. He gave you a slap on the ass to punctuate his request. Your hand wrapped around his forearm before he could turn away.

“How about a change of scenery? You could come to my place,” you suggested. He didn’t look enthused.

“Come on, I’ll even cook for you,” you added.

Ben raised a brow. “You cook?”

“Well, I’m no Martha Stewart, but I can whip up something good.”

Your smile was a tease as you slipped by him. You stopped in front of the mirror to fix your hair and lipstick. You briefly met Ben’s gaze in the mirror’s reflection. His brow was quirked. Was he waiting for you or something?

“What? I can’t go out looking like this,” you said.

At that, Ben smirked. He came up behind you and grasped your hips where you were bent over slightly. He pressed into your ass from behind, prompting you to straighten up and lean back against his chest. You couldn’t help a smile of amusement. Did this man ever get tired of fucking?

To your surprise though, he just pressed a tantalizing kiss into your neck. His eyes once again met yours in the mirror.

“I think you’re a fucking sight,” he said, picking a bit of his spend out of your hair.

You bit your lip out of embarrassment, but you couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped you.

It made him smile.

It was another facet of your evolving plan. Now that you had Ben in hand, you needed to keep his attention. A man like him appreciated certain values, and you had a feeling a woman who could cook was one of them.

It took some trial and error and a lot of praying, but you managed to make a decent roasted chicken. Ben seemed impressed enough. He ate half of the entire bird by himself, along with two helpings of mashed potatoes with gravy, even the parmesan broccoli. But as always, you two couldn’t seem to get through dessert.

Or rather, he took the cheesecake you bought into your bed and licked the accompanying raspberry syrup off your body. By the end, you were a sticky, sated mess (as usual). The bedsheets were a disaster, but you knew what you’d been getting into when you invited this man over. You had an extra set of clean sheets waiting in your dresser.

Ben smoked a large blunt afterwards, his eyes half-lidded as he drifted towards dozing off. When you noticed his eyes closing, a small alarm went off in your mind. You leaned over and stroked his arm.

“My bed doesn’t really compare with yours, does it?” you said. Which was true. His was even more plush and soft than yours. Not to mention, his bed was a California King. Yours was a modest queen-sized.

He shrugged and blew out smoke. “‘S not so bad.”

He dabbed his blunt in the ashtray and put it out for now. He raised his arms and folded them behind his head. He groaned and settled in against your pillows. You hid your wary frown.

Shit, maybe you’d miscalculated by inviting him over. You hadn’t thought he’d actually want to stay the night. 

“Nooo, don’t fall asleep,” you playfully whined. You rolled over onto his chest and laid kisses along his jaw. “Why don’t we go take a walk or something? Go on a little adventure.”

Ben cracked an eye open at you, but he soon closed it again. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Come on, super-man. Don’t tell me you’re tired already,” you goaded.

At that, Ben’s eyes opened, and he frowned at you.

“You just stuffed me full of food like it’s Thanksgiving—”

“You’re the one who went for seconds. And thirds, mind you.”

“Gave me a fucking workout—”

“Which you started.”

“I may be the strongest man on Earth, but I still need to recharge every now and then,” he said gruffly. “Keep sassing me though. When I wake up, you might just find yourself bent over my knee.”

You tried not to smile. Sometimes his grumpiness was just too amusing. It didn’t seem like he was going to get out of your bed though.

Sighing in defeat, you got up and tugged at the ruined sheets he was resting on.

“Come on, at least let me change these.”

With an annoyed huff, Ben got up just long enough for you to remake the bed. He hunkered back down before you were done, making it harder for you to lay down the last one correctly, but you rolled your eyes and gave up, tossing the sheet half-made over his bare legs.

You went into the bathroom to clean yourself up. Hopefully by the time you came back, he’d be asleep. You’d make your way to the couch with a spare comforter and sleep there.

It might’ve seemed strange, but you had never actually slept with him in the same bed. It wasn’t personal. You’d made it a habit to always sleep alone.

So after a quick shower, brushing your teeth, and slipping on an old shirt to sleep in, you padded quietly back into your bedroom. Sure enough, Ben looked to be fast asleep. He laid on his back with an arm curled over his stomach. Like this, he looked peaceful. Even docile.

The thought made you smirk as you went to grab a spare blanket from your closet. You draped it over your arm and went to your nightstand next. You just wanted to grab the book you’d been reading from the top drawer. You did so very carefully, knowing Ben’s hearing was sharp.

Once you’d successfully retrieved the book and slowly shut the drawer, you turned to head for the door. A hand shot out and grabbed your elbow. You gasped and jolted slightly, but of course it was just Ben. His fingers wrapped around your arm. His eyes were open, barely.

“Where’re you going?” he rumbled.

“Um, just to go to the couch and read for a bit,” you lied on the fly. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

With a dismissive huff, he tugged you back and hauled you effortlessly back into the bed. You yelped in surprise. The book went tumbling off the side of the bed while the extra blanket got coiled between your legs. That strong arm curled around your waist. Possessive.

You turned your head across Ben’s shoulder and stared at his face. He shot you a smirk, then closed his eyes. His chest moved with his deeper breath, as it evened out in sleep.

You frowned. The man could be demanding, sure, but you never expected him to act this way. It did cause a flutter of something to rise in your belly. Something warm, and equally unexpected.

You sighed and allowed yourself to relax against him. You rested your eyes. Just for a little while, you told yourself. Then you’d try to extricate yourself.

Somehow, you never got around to it.

You woke in the morning to something warm and firm under your cheek. Your eyes slid open, and you were met with the bare chest of your lover. He was awake, sitting up against the headboard as he sipped at a mug of coffee. He glanced at you with a subtle smile pulling at his lips.

“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty,” he said.

You smiled sleepily. Yawning, you turned and curled yourself into him without really thinking about it. But then it hit you, how intimate this was…and how much that conflicted you inside.

You eased away from him with a faked yawn, stretching your limbs, and gaining at least a few inches between you. Ben watched you do it with a certain glint of knowing in his eyes.

“You moan in your sleep,” he remarked idly.

You shot him a look of surprise. “I do not.”

“Yeah, you do. I fucking heard you,” he said. His lips pulled at a smirk. He set his coffee down and rolled over, trapping you underneath him. He thumbed at your chin. “Here I am thinking, ‘This dirty little girl. Didn’t get enough last night, did she?’”

You bit the inside of your lip against a smile. Your face warmed with a blush.

“Is that why you don’t want me in your bed?” he asked. “You embarrassed, sweetheart?”

At that, you frowned. “No, it’s not…”

“Because believe me, I’ve seen weirder shit,” he said. “There was one girl who sleepwalked into my fucking closet. That one was a headscratcher… Aw hell, one girl even took a shit in my bed.”

You gaped. “Seriously?”

He grimaced at the memory. “And tried to blame her Pomeranian. Think I don’t know a human shit when I see one?”

You blinked in bewilderment and disgust. “Dear Lord.”

Ben stroked your side.

“So you got nothing to worry about,” he said, a slow grin curving his lips. “Some little sex noises don’t bother me.”

You laughed a little, but then you chewed on your lower lip, looking up at him. You didn’t know what compelled you to be honest in that moment.

“It’s not that, it’s just…ever since I got my powers, I’ve felt safest sleeping alone,” you said.

Ben’s amusement faded. “Why’s that?”

“I’m not like you,” you admitted, touching his chin with your fingertip. “When I’m asleep, I’m vulnerable, just like everybody else.”

He seemed to consider what you were saying with furrowed brows. You itched to sweep his hair away from his eyes, but you kept your hands to yourself. 

“Well, you’re safe with me,” he said eventually. 

You tilt your head at him. You wondered if he really meant that, or if it was just part of the façade of “charm” he was trying to portray. Even with your skin touching his, you couldn’t quite read his heart to parse that one out.

You had to pull back on the connection before he realized that you were trying…

But then again, maybe it was you who didn’t want to know for sure.

Christmas came around sooner than you expected. This time of year was heavy on your heart, after your mom’s death.

“I’ll be back before New Year’s,” you said, leaning up to give Ben a kiss. You were in his apartment saying goodbye. His personal chef was in the kitchen cooking up something that smelled amazing, but you had to leave. You had to pick up your father in Brooklyn and drive both of you over to your brother’s house in Queens.

“What’s the winter like in Indiana?” Ben asked in curiosity.

You blinked. Fuck if you knew, but he still thought you were a smalltown girl from the boonies and the cornfields.

“Um…cold. Snowy. Same as here, basically, but the wind isn’t going to cut through your bones when you turn a corner around a skyscraper,” you said.

Ben gave a mild shrug in response. Like he was ever going to go to Indiana. 

“Well, gotta go catch my flight,” you fibbed, but you grew curious about something as you peered up at him. “What’re you doing for the holidays? Seeing family, or…”

Again, he shrugged. “Nah, I’ll be here. I don’t get into that corny festive bullshit.”

You frowned. Something told you it wasn’t just that he didn’t do Christmas. He didn’t seem to have any family, or friends outside of Vought, for that matter. If you can count any of those people friends.

Was he really just going to be here all alone until New Year’s Eve?

Perhaps for the first time, you felt a bit bad for him. You knew you couldn’t invite him over for your holiday plans, however.

So you gave him another kiss goodbye, and you left.

You returned in time for Vought’s annual New Year’s Eve bash. According to Tommy and Tessa, it was legendary. First, there was a huge banquet held for all the big wigs and the investors and the press. That was just to load up on good food and champagne.

The real party was the afterparty, made up almost exclusively by supes employed by Vought—from all across the country. Of course, Payback were the guests of honor, with Soldier Boy leading the pack on free booze and lines of drugs smoked or snorted across most available surfaces.

You felt overwhelmed by all of it at first. In fact, you almost left the party. But then you saw a very drunk Countess in a little red cocktail dress, offering Ben to take a shot of tequila out of her mouth. It stirred irritation in your gut.

You grabbed the nearest bottle of alcohol, went over to them, and subtly touched Countess’s bare shoulder.

Give that shot to Tommy, you compelled her.

With that small trill of your power, Countess stood straighter and beelined straight for Tommy. She grabbed him by the back of his head and surprised him with a deep tequila kiss.

Gross.

You grimaced at the sight, but when you looked back at Ben, he was smirking in amusement. He slid an arm around your waist and spoke closely in your ear.

“Let’s have some fun.”

The next morning, you sat up in bed with a groan. Your head pounded with a horrible hangover of at least three different substances. You wiped the remnants of powder from your itchy nose. And you were naked.

You drew the sheets to cover up to your breasts, which accidentally pulled the covers off another warm body beside you—a mystery woman. Someone you vaguely recognized as another supe from the party. She woke with a wince.

“Ooh, fuck, where’s the bathroom?” she asked. You were bleary-eyed, but you managed to point over to the left. She nodded and slowly got out of bed.

You wiped at your face and realized that Ben was there as well. It was his bed, after all.

He was slowly waking up too, looking more than a little fucked up himself. You groaned and slid under his arm, resting your head against his chest. Mistakes had been made, but you couldn’t bring yourself to give a shit.

Way to ring in 1984.

There was a reason you didn’t like group training sessions. You watched with a grimace from your corner of the matt, along with the TNT Twins. For sure, they did not want to be next in the ring with Ben. His idea of training wasn’t very…constructive.

“Lighten up, Gunpowder. I’m just playing around,” Ben said, as Countess helped the younger man off the floor in concern. His eye was already swelling up, along with his bloody lip. He was too exhausted to even get off the mat. You’d tried stopping Ben fifteen minutes ago, but he hadn’t budged.

He now rolled his eyes and walked away from Gunpowder, waving a dismissive hand. “You fucking pussy.”

Your brows furrowed with your frown. You were cautious as you approached him again and lightly touched his arm.

“Was that really necessary?” you asked. “Ben, he’s only eighteen.”

He shot you a stern look.

“Don’t fucking start with me.”

He was definitely tougher on the men than he was on you or Countess, but still, it wasn’t easy to watch. This was the side of him you didn’t often see when you were alone with him. With you, he was still crass and arrogant, but sometimes, his harder edges softened the slightest bit.

In front of the team, he was Soldier Boy. He could be callous, and even cruel. It reminded you of every mission you went on together; every brutal, fatal move against the “bad guys,” and every innocent life that got caught in the crossfire.

The double doors to the gym opened, and in came Black Noir. You grew concerned, as you sensed anger coming off of him in waves.

“You’re late,” Ben said, crossing his arms. “We started at 3.”

“I really wanted that movie,” said Noir.

“The hell are you talking about?”

“I just got off the phone with my manager,” Noir continued. “It’s a no-go on Beverly Hills Cop.”

“Oh, that,” Ben said, with a roll of his eyes. Your own widened a fraction.

Noir stepped forward, his hands balling into fists. “I was born to play Axel Foley. Why would you say all those horrible things about me to Don Simpson?”

Your mouth fell open in shock. Don Simpson was a big deal. He’d produced Flashdance just last year. 

“Jesus, Ben. Really?” you said.

“Zip it, Sirena,” Ben snapped. Your mouth fell shut, even as you glared at him. He rarely called you by your supe name behind Vought’s closed doors.

“The guy’s supposed to be funny,” said Ben. He pointed back at Noir. “You’re. Not. Funny.”

“Well, I…could’ve been,” Noir said, a little weakly.

If there was one thing Ben couldn’t stand, it was a weak spine.

“You’re not good enough!” he barked. “Now shut your cockhole, and get to work.”

“But—” The moment Noir grabbed the other man’s shoulder, you knew it was going to be bad.

Ben turned and threw a swift punch that would’ve rattled any supe’s spine, even if they did have super strength. It wasn’t even a contest. He beat Noir down bloody on the mats, no matter what you or the others shouted out.

You were horrified, and you couldn’t stand by and watch anymore. You hurried over and tried to touch Ben’s arm. Maybe you could calm him down.

“Ben, stop! He’s had enough—”

He meant to just rip his arm out of your grasp. Maybe he’d shove you out of the way, out of his way. But the momentum of it sent you to the floor, with the wind knocked out of you.

It managed to briefly cut through his anger. He paused, seeing the shock and the stricken look on your face. You were looking at him like he was some kind of animal.

Deep down, he felt like one too. He just couldn’t allow himself to show it.

“That’s what happens when you don’t stay the fuck out of the way,” he growled.

You blinked wide as wet tears gathered in your lashes. It struck a cacophonous chord inside him, down to his bones.

He turned away from you to glare down at Black Noir. This was his fucking fault.

“You think you can be me?” Ben sneered. “You’re not a movie star. You’re not shit. I see you getting outta line again, trying to ‘move on up,’ I will put you in the fucking ground. Understood?”

Noir, fucking pussy that he was, stayed there on the ground covered in his own blood. By the time Ben turned back to where you’d fallen, you were no longer there.

You were gone.

You left the gym in tears. You pulled a staff member aside and let her know that Black Noir and Gunpowder were going to need medical attention.

“Are you okay?” she asked in concern. “Do you need—”

“I’m fine!” you snapped, even though you were still crying. It was more embarrassment at this point. You knew what Ben was from the very beginning. You’d just never thought he would…

Sucking in one deep breath, you steeled yourself. You wiped your face dry and forced your expression to ease into nothing. Blankness.

Show them what you want them to see.

He tried to come see you that night, but you wouldn’t let him into your apartment.

He sent flowers—some bullshit roses, with an apology written on the card.

I'm sorry.

You threw them in the trash.

You were done playing this game. It wasn’t worth it.

He wasn’t worth it…

Or so you felt, for the first few days. You began to wonder just how much shit Countess had to put up with for the years that she was with him. You wondered if he’d ever hit her.

You replayed that moment over and over in your mind. You knew if you hadn’t intervened, Ben wouldn’t have shoved you. He hadn’t truly meant to, you thought. With his strength, you were lucky it hadn’t been worse.

He didn’t mean it, you tried to rationalize. Even as you tried not to think about Gunpowder, or Noir, bloody on the floor.

Because at the end of the day, being with Ben was still good for your career, and if you kept denying him like this, he’d likely just go back to Countess.

So, even though it took a huge chunk out of your pride, you ventured to the elevators and up to the penthouse suite. By now, your feet knew this path by heart, even if your stomach churned with unease.

You stood in front of Ben’s door for a minute, just thinking. You knew this was the lowest you’d ever been. Was your career really worth debasing yourself like this?

Well, your question was soon answered when the door swung open. You hastily stepped back as a trio of smiling, giggling women came out from the apartment, all of them high-heeled and scantily dressed. Behind them was Ben in a black silk robe. His hair was a mess, and he had that post-nut look on his face, along with a layer of drying sweat. They all stunk like weed and sex.

Ben paused in the doorway when he saw you. His amusement faded. You let the girls slip past you without comment. Then you crossed your arms and looked up at him flatly.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. At least, nothing good.

“Hey,” he said.

You nodded. “Right.”

You turned from him and started walking down the hall the way you came, but Ben reached out fast and grabbed your wrist.

“All right, look—”

He turned you around, only stopping short when you gasped, your eyes glowing with thinly veiled power on reflex.

“Let go of me,” you demanded. Your tone was firm, but you both heard the fear in your voice. His jaw clenched.  

It seemed Ben did have a sliver of a heart somewhere inside his chest, because he let you go. You continued on your way, scrubbing furiously at the sting in your eyes.

“Dad, I just…I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you confessed. You were sitting on the edge of your bed with your head in your hands. You didn’t want to burden your brother, who had his own family, his own problems. So you called your dad first. Tears slipped down your cheeks and bled into your jeans.

“I think I need to come home,” you sniffed.

“Aw, honey. I’m sorry to hear you’re having such a hard time,” he said. “But you knew it was going to be difficult. You’ve been doing so well too.”

“I know, but—”

“And your mom’s medical bills might be taken care of, but I’ve still got the house to pay off. If it wasn’t for my back, I’d be out there working two and three jobs like I used to, but you know, I just can’t do it anymore.”

You rubbed at your tired, bleary eyes and sighed.

“Yeah. Okay, I know,” you said. “I’m going to help you, don’t worry.”

“So you’re gonna stay right? You’re going to work it out with Soldier Boy? You two do look good together, I’ve gotta say. What happened exactly? You didn’t uh, really explain that part.”

Your lower lip trembled. “Actually, Dad, I’m getting a page. Let me call you back later, okay?”

“Oh. Well, okay, sweetheart. I’m here for you. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Your next conversation was in Arthur Cohen’s office. You’d marched in while he was on the phone and said:

“I’m quitting the team.”

Arthur, professional that he was, gave you one look before he told whoever was on the other line that he’d call them back in a minute. Then he turned to you with his full attention, folding his hands on his desk. His many gold and silver rings shone in the lamplight.

“What can I do for you, sweetheart?” he asked. As if to say, Did I just hear you correctly?

You remained firm. “I want out of my contract. I’m quitting Payback.”

Arthur needed a beat on that one. “…Ah. I see.”

He held out a hand to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“Please,” he gestured. You reluctantly obliged.

“Okay, I understand you’ve been going through some hard times—”

“Do you?” you intoned, tilting your head.

He nodded. “Believe me, I do. The problem is, you’re under a two-year minimum contract. You’re only about a year in. If you want out, no problem. I can do that for you.”

“Good,” you said. “Let’s make it happen.”

He held up a hand. “However. If you back out of this deal, remember that we invested in you. You’ll have to give back the advance we gave you, plus everything we’ve spent on your marketing, your new suit, your training, not to mention that little incident we smoothed over a couple months ago. A lot of lawyers and red tape. It’ll drive ya nuts…but it all adds up, unfortunately.”

Fuck. It hit you almost like a physical blow, a deep churning in your stomach. What kind of soul-sucking contract had you signed? Had you even read the fine print on that one?

For a long moment, you stared at Arthur’s desk in silence, to a point where he began to fidget slightly. You raised your head.

“All right,” you said, with a perfect smile. “I understand.”

Then you got up and left.

Arthur heaved a breath of relief. Fucking supes.

His door opened again, but to Stan Edgar. Arthur still didn’t know what to make of this guy. There was something about his calm, unfazed demeanor that Arthur didn’t trust.

“Sure, screw my lunch break. What can I do for ya?” he drawled.

Stan raised a brow and handed a thick file to him.

“I just got off the phone with Director Kasey from the CIA,” he said. “We’re approved for Nicaragua.” 

AN: 🫣 Ooh, don't hate me loll. It's gonna get worse before it gets better. I did warn about morally charcoal characters in this series, especially Ben himself. (He's got a lot to learn, and so does Sirena, for that matter.)

And now, we hit another pivotal moment...

Next Time:

“We’re all playing a game, Irving. Just at different levels,” you said. “For example, what were you talking to Stan about?”

You’d seen them a couple of hours ago, hidden behind a fortified stone wall. Noir stopped walking. You were curious enough to follow suit.

“Something that could change everything for all of us,” he said. “You included.”

Your brows knitted together. “What’re you—”

Shots rang out in the clearing.

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 8

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[ghostlycleric]

Will donating his dnd stuff at the end of season 3 was a more on the nose metaphor than I thought.

[Context: dnd = their relationship. The goodbye scene itself, the rain fight, and their overall conflict all point to this.]

So, Will walks into the room and gives their relationship away right in front of Mike. Mike panics for a second, confused: “woah, dude, that’s the donation box”. Will doesn’t bat an eye. Instead he tells Mike that the ball is in his court: ��we can just use yours…if we still want to play”. Basically, we can be us if you want us to be. Then Mike asks if he’ll move on from him. Will says that isn’t possible, and he walks away. Both of them are smiling, happy.

Then we get to season 4…

Will doesn’t move on, doesn’t join another party. But… Mike doesn’t make any moves. He doesn’t reach out to Will. That’s the core of their miscommunication. Will thought they agreed that Will wouldn’t replace him, and Mike would prove that he wanted to stay with him. He gave the ball to Mike expecting him to do something with it, and then nothing happened.

Why? Because El lied to Mike, he thought Will didn’t uphold his end of the bargain. He thought Will got new friends and was super happy in Lenora and their goodbye meant nothing to him. Mike was jealous of these imaginary people and upset at Will for lying to him in their goodbye.

Mike and Will spend season 4 unraveling the above miscommunication (that was set up in their s3 goodbye scene). You’d think that’d be the end of it. Mike and Will’s relationship has finally been restored and they can be best friends again. But then…

At the end of season 4, Will donates his love for Mike, again. They just made it more literal. Season 4 was just Will giving up his initiative in the relationship because of everything that happened in season 3. Now, a new, mature Will quite literally donates his side of their relationship to El. He gives away his love and his painting.

If Mike and Will were supposed to just be best friends, they wouldn’t have reintroduced that conflict in a more serious way. Season 4 would’ve been the end of it. It’s just like how Mike and El had ‘silly fights, stupid fights’ in season 3 that were reintroduce in season 4 in a more serious way. For Mike and El that was meant to deconstruct their romantic relationship. For Mike and Will, this conflict reintroduction is meant to construct their romantic relationship.

The plotline is different this time, though. They flipped it on it’s head. Now, Will is the one lying to Mike, not El. This time, Mike’ll be forced to realize that Will put words in El’s mouth in the same way El did for Will in her letters.

El’s lie caused Mike to ignore Will, destroying their relationship. In the end, he restablishes their relationship. Will’s lie caused Mike to “confess his love” to El, restoring their relationship. In the end, Mike… stays with El?

The painting lie is set up to be unraveled in season 5. Mike’s reaction to this lie is important and it changes something. Otherwise, the painting wouldn’t exist.

But, yeah, they’re definitely writing a slow burn rejection…

[sineaden]

One of my favorite moments in “Forces of Nature” (S3, Ep3) is when Violet finally realizes Colin’s feelings for Penelope.

Up until now, Colin really hasn’t been on Violet’s radar, her focus being on Francesca, so I love that it only takes this one conversation for Violet to piece it all together.

Her reaction is brilliantly understated whilst still carrying so much weight. You can see the initial surprise in Violet’s eyes before the realization quickly sets in. Then, there is the slight upturn in her lips, pleased by her discovery, though tinged with a bit of apprehension.

There is a beautiful contrast in how she interacts with Colin this season vs how involved she is and has been with her other children’s matches. She is clearly supportive of Colin and Penelope but understands the gravity of Colin's decision and gives him the space to make it himself. This ties into their conversation in the next episode, where she encourages him to put himself first.

I also love that Violet can be seen subtly in the background, watching the exchange between Colin and Penelope before we see her more obvious concern when Penelope is dancing with Debling.

Chef’s kiss!

[chefkids]

What do you think of the s3 episode titles and synopsis? (Spoilers from the bear subreddit) because I'm nervous seeing it especially with the episode 9 (which is alluding to carmy apologizing to claire?) And the last episode claire is his forever? Sorry, I'm just panicking.

I think the first episode will just be about Carmy getting out of the fridge and then jump right into the funeral.

This will be about them going back to the kitchen, Carmy setting up his non negotiable list and proposing a marriage partnership agreement to Syd.

This is just going to be their incredible dysfunctional toxic workplace. Everyone is going to be so sick of them.

Marcus gets his groove back. Maybe Luca comes over this ep? I think Marcus is going to prove to be the only stable and consistent member actually putting out good creative dishes meanwhile Syd and Carmy spiral.

This actually about me. I'm children. I'm chefkids. I think it's about money, Unc treating everyone like they're stupid kids burning through his pockets. Which they kind of are. I think it's also about the responsibility of having a million people to take care of with the staff. Mom and Dad (Syd and Carmy) are gonna have to step up for their kids. Also about the stars and the odds of getting them with how their reviews have been going.

I think this is going to be a flashback episode of what happened after Fishes, Mikey telling Carmy he needs to leave and cutting him off for The Beef, and Carmy going to New York and beginning his toxic path.

By this point Sydney is going to be so sick of Carmy and his rules and the system. She's going to meet the CDC of Ever and start to seriously consider a life outside of The Bear.

I think by this will be mostly about Nat and her baby, although I do think she would have given birth by this point. But I also think this could be when Fak tries to bring Claire back because he think she can fix him and stop his spiral. I think Richie is going to force Carmy to talk to Claire here.

This going to be when Carmy realizes how bad he has been fucking up and tries to fix things with Sydney. He knows she is considering leaving and that other people want her. And I think he'll also see his mom again and apologize for not being there when Mikey died and I think Donna will apologize to him for everything she's ever done.

Sydney is going to have to choose between The Bear and Ever. Carmy will be have to make a final plea for her. I think she will pick him, and I think he will tell her how he feels about her and that he was just trying to do everything for her because he loves her.

[paradlselost]

ATONEMENT —

noir x fem!reader x homelander

⎨ 𝐀𝐍 ⎬ based on this ask from a little while ago . sorry it’s taken so long , i got a second job and i’ve been really busy </3 . anyways i’m obsessed with this new layout ; sorry i keep changing it lol . reader is left intentionally vague on whether or not their a supe !

⎨ 𝐂𝐖 ⎬ set sometime in between s3 and s4 , earving lives au . smut : abuse of power , coercion (?) , degrading names used in and out of sex , p in v , oral ( m receiving ) , deep throating , m / r / m pairing , public sex , voyeurism , unprotected sex , cream pie . 2.2k words . NOT BETA READ

His tongue swipes over his front teeth, sucking on them sharply in an attempt to regain some composure. The corners of his mouth twitch back and forth between a pained smile and a deep frown. Hatred brews behind those blue eyes of his, no doubt crafting a punishment in his head.

Poor, stupid doll, it wasn’t your fault now was it? How were you to know the truth of Homelander being Soldier Boys son would send him spiraling? You’re just a girl, after all, naive and stupid. He can see what Earving likes in you, how you look up at him with those innocent eyes.

Corruption flows through his veins like blood, his hand audibly clenching in his glove. Oh, you’ll have to do something pretty sizable to make up for this fuck up, bunny. You’re lucky he didn’t reach in and tear out Noir’s heart, perhaps you would’ve seen the blood pumping to the sound of your voice, or how your name is carved into the organ.

Lucky you, Lucky Earving.

“Look I’m sorry okay? We’re sorry. But don’t you think Vought would kill us if we told anyone?” You still have a smart mouth even when faced with his power, you run your lips like you’re invincible, as if one laser won’t halve you.

“Well he managed to tell you somehow. What? Am I not good enough to have the one thing he knows I want more than anything in the world?” There’s laughter sprinkled into his words, hate-filled and angry. You should tread carefully unless you want to get your pretty self damaged.

Homelander tilts his head to the side like a curious dog, watching as you worry your bottom lip in between your teeth. What answer could you give him? Yes, Earving could’ve told him if he really wanted to; how are you meant to defend your boyfriend's actions?

“You could’ve told me, doll.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what more I can say, you know now and look how it turned out. He didn’t want you.”

“Don’t fucking say that. Keep your goddamn mouth shut.” He advances faster than you expected, gripping your chin to force your mouth closed. The red leather feels hot against your skin, as if he’s burning in rage, seething through every line he speaks.

You can only whimper against his glove, always having hated the nicknames he bestowed on you. Doll, Bunny, Sunshine, a slew of others that he pulled out when he was antagonizing you. Demeaning you. An ant beneath his heel, a weed he hasn’t plucked in his garden quite yet because, despite being a pest, you’re an awfully pretty sight to look at.

So how you got scooped up by someone like Noir is a mystery to him.

“You’re better quiet. ‘Should laser your damn tongue out, won’t be talking much then, huh sweetheart?” He grins, sadistic intent playing on his features as he forces you to shake your head, another whimper escaping through his leathered hand. “Maybe someone should keep it preoccupied, then. I bet you’d look prettier with a cock in your mouth.”

Oh, how his smile only widens when he sees your eyes dilate in fear. Your hands reach up to grab at the leather still covering your mouth; to try and get some words out. Maybe an apology, a pathetic beg, he only shakes his head in response as his other hand grabs the back of your suit, forcing you to walk with him.

“Don’t look so scared, bunny. I won’t do anything to you, dont’cha trust me?” Perhaps his hand over your mouth is a good thing, vile words threaten to fall from your lips - holding nothing but contempt and anger for America’s favorite supe.

At first, you’re not sure exactly where he’s taking you. The halls of Vought Tower are long and winding, and look especially so in the state after Soldier Boys destruction; rebuilding yet empty. Almost liminal. You only manage to get your mind out of shambles as you see the statues of the Seven in front of the door. It’s fleeting, and in a moment you’re pushed onto the cold tile floor of the meeting room.

Noir is beside you in a moment, crouching down to help you back up. He’s gentle as his gloves rake through your hair and gently graze over the little bruise forming on your skin. It’s a complete shift from the red glove that was on you moments ago. Earving makes you feel safe and secure in contrast. He’s your home.

You can hear The Deep suppressing a laugh from his spot at the table, then quickly silencing himself. No doubt getting a look from Homelander. How the mighty have fallen, another empty chair in this ‘team’ as Maeve had disappeared after the big fight. They were falling apart at the seams.

“Go on, put that body to use.”

You blink at the words that cut through the eerie silence of the room, your ears practically ringing trying to pick up on anything they could - so you felt stupid when your brows furrowed in confusion at his command.

“What?”

“You heard me, put your body to use and take Noir’s dick.”

“Huh? Why the fuck would i-“

“Maybe I should just rip his heart out, then. Or are you going to atone?”

Noir is quiet, as always, yet somewhere behind the black mask and balaclava he always wore you could hear his breath catching in his throat. The glove that had been on your face finds its way back, gently taking hold of your chin. It takes a pitiful amount of time for you to realize what he means, that he wants to go along with this. Above everything else, you know self preservation is the most important thing to him.

Again, Homelander could cream his fucking pants at the way you worry your bottom lip between your teeth. His fists clench and unclench at his side, desperate to be the one putting hands on you; running them over your body and tracing every curve and pattern your skin makes. Perhaps he could memorize your fingerprints if he tried hard enough.

“Do these assholes have to be here for it?” The Deep snickers a bit more, his chair moving from side to side as he got a bit more comfortable for the show. A-Train looks a bit mortified, you were never particularly close with Reggie and knew how much of a prick he could be, but every interaction has been at least amicable, so it wasn’t a stretch to say he was a bit uncomfortable being put in this position.

“I’ll leave-…”

“Sit the fuck down, A-Train. No, we’re all going to watch.”

A small yelp at a sudden grasp of your hips, the rough fabric of Noir’s gloves being ingrained in your mind. He’s as gentle as he can be in this situation, it’s not the first time you’ve been put in such an embarrassing position in front of the others. It seemed Homelander had a special hard on for making you the spectacle for the others amusement.

A sigh fell from your lips, partly all too used to this and also smart enough to know he wasn’t playing around. No, he was pissed, and like the man-child he is if he says he’ll tear out Earvings heart, you know it’s not simple empty threats.

It’s nice, regardless. Noir has a way of shutting everything else in the world out - of making it just you and him. His half charred and mangled lips feel nice through the balaclava, pressing gentle kisses against your pulse point as his gloved hands slip down your front.

God, what a whore, leaning back into him like that in front of two powerful supes. And the Deep. Homelander doesn’t bother suppressing his grin as he leans back in his chair. What a good bunny, maybe he’ll have to play this card more. Maybe, in time, that’ll be his hand against your clothed cunt, pressing a digit in and using the leverage of the fabric as friction to make you mewl and squirm.

He could clap his hands together at the sight, like watching an amazing performance. Black gloves travel to grasp at your hips, guiding you forward against the V-shaped table, folding your body over the cool glass. It’s not the first time he’s done this, not the first time the meeting room has been used for this reason; after all, you two have been together for years.

But it is the first time you’ve made eye contact with Homelander while your mute boyfriend rocks his hips forward against yours, grinding into you.

At some point between Earving fumbling to get your suit off and the asshole in the chair re-adjusting himself, the Deep and A-Train were conveniently called away for some reason. It wasn’t organic, part of you knew Homelander somehow told someone to call them, but did you really care? He was kind enough to give you some privacy, you should be grateful, doll.

In some way you are, more so as Noir finally manages to get your clothes out of the way and slots himself behind you. He won’t take off his own suit, you know this, not someplace someone else could see - and someone else is actively seeing, but you won’t complain. Not when the feeling of his cock trailing against your folds is a good excuse to close your eyes and block out the blue ones boring into you.

He offers no prep. It’s not the first time you’ve taken him without it; but it’s rare and still foreign to your body. He knows, being as gentle as possible as he eases himself further and further into you. The stretch makes it feel like the first time all over again, soft tears pricking at your eyes which makes Homelander chuckle more. What a prick.

But you. Oh, you. What a beautiful sight you are to him as he practically blocks out the fact that his only ‘friend’ in the seven happens to be fucking you in front of him. He can imagine it’s him, imagine how sweet you would feel around him. Your breathing picks up, sharp whines and mewls interrupting your panting as the thrusts become deeper.

God, he wants to taunt you. Does that feel good, bunny? Is he reaching that spongy spot? But from the wanton moans that fall from your pretty lips and the way you put your body weight fully onto the table he knows there’s no way he’d get an answer now.

That familiar red glove reaches to grab your hair, at some point the mighty Homelander decided he could no longer sit back and watch, but needed to be a part of your atonement. Eyes fluttering up to watch him fumble single-handedly with his suit, you bite at your bottom lip, stifling moans and whimpers from Noir behind you; threatening to roll your eyes back.

“Can’t let lover boy have all the fun.”

And he doesn’t. Managing to get that part of his suit undone and awkwardly pushing the slit of his red white and blue boxers out of the way, your lips are almost immediately pressed against the tip of his cock. Angry red and weeping, who are you to tell him no? It gets rid of the eye contact, at least; so your lips part to invite him in.

It doesn’t take long for the glass table underneath you to fog up, the sweat accumulating on your body making it easier to rock back and forth with the rhythm of Earving’s thrusts. His black gloves grip your hips harder, almost possessively as he leans down to press his chest against your back, helping to keep you in place. His balaclava is damp from his own sweat and breathing, dog-like panting ringing in your ears.

His hips are stuttering just as Homelander’s head lulls back with the hollowing of your cheeks around him, hands gripping your hair tighter and pushing his cock deeper into your mouth. He loves to make you gag, it seems, hitting the back of your throat as much as he possibly can, using you to milk his leaking cock.

It doesn’t take long, and maybe in some other position you would’ve made a snarky comment about how soon the mighty Homelander came in your mouth, but with your throat coated in white and Noir following not far behind him into your needy cunt, you’re naturally lost for words.

Earving lifts you up and off Homelander, burying his masked face in the crook of your neck and pulling his balaclava up just enough to kiss and mark you like he does after every passionate encounter together. He’s a man of romance, and it feels sweet against your hot skin.

Such a good bunny, so sweet as you lean back against your boyfriend, pretty eyes fluttering closed from exertion. You didn’t get to cum, but you don’t complain, he likes that about you. A good doll should know when to open her mouth and when not to, he just hopes you learned your lesson.

“We’ll have to do it again sometime, yeah sunshine?”

[honest-moth-of-silver-grove]

Could I ask for some yandere alucard post season 3 with a s/o that isn't human or only part human? Like being half fae, nymph or siren. I just think the dynamics of that relationship would be quite different then say if the object of his obsession was human given his lack of faith in humanity in season 3s aftermath

A/N: I LOVE this question! It was so interesting to think about all the different ways the MC could be half-human and have that connection with Alucard. I did end up going with a mermaid/siren sort of creature as the original asker did send in an additional ask clarifying how they could picture this abused mermaid girl feeling kinship with Alucard because of his current distrust of humans, and I liked that element. I also chose a siren / mer create as they have abilities to manipulate/hypnotize their prey, an ability Alucard probably has as well with him being half-vampire. I ended up writing a very long outline in bullet points but felt that it didn't quite flow for HC, so I instead broke it up into smaller scenes below. I hope that’s ok. Sorry, it took so long. I was sick with some weird virus for weeks (lowkey feel like it’s mono or something), and could only handle work and family crap, like I barely had any motivation to live. And then when I started writing this, it sort of took on a life of its own lol. (What can I say? I love me some Alucard.) 

Anon also suggested I check out this manga- it’s called Becoming the Villain's Family and it’s about a siren who goes back in time and makes a marriage pact with a devil to prevent their untimely fates. I’m not a huge manga reader, but my sister is, so I’m going to recommend it to her and maybe we can read it together. 

Yandere! Alucard (Post-S3) w/ A Half-Siren S/O 

The fair creature did not see quite how it happened, for it had all transpired too fast. A deep guttural growl echoed from past the tree line, well beyond the corners of her vision as the very ground beneath the wagon’s feet began to shake violently. As swiftly and silently as a flash of lightning, the wagon she resided in was sliced in half, the metal cage that kept her prisoner acting as her only guard against an elongated talon from some sort of monster. The cage was tossed sideways, skittering along the dirt ground as the poor mer creature inside flipped over violently, her dehydrated human form and lack of clothing sending her soft, nearly translucent skin into the square welds hard enough to form bruises. 

“Retrieve the asset!” 

“Don’t let her escape!” 

“Are you crazy?! Fuck the asset!” 

Around her, a flurry of mixed male voices shouted out contradictory directions. With only the setting sun for light, it was difficult to make out who had yelled what. 

Then came more growls in addition to all the shouting. Then the shouting turned into screaming. And a handful of those screams turned into cut-off cries followed by loud squelching. A flurry of slices and swings from blades and swords interrupted what must have been the creature's onslaught, but it would certainly not last long. There would be more torn flesh, and more final yells- a final symphony of bloodshed to follow. 

Kneeling into an upright position, the fair mer creature pushed and pulled frantically against the metal door of her cage. The hinges had warped in the fall, bending just so, that if enough force was applied…

With a metallic screech, the young water maiden could kick her cage door from its battered hinges. Fortunately enough for her, none of her captors seemed to notice her imminent freedom, the lot of them busy battling hideous creatures beyond any comprehensible amalgam or imagination. 

Unfortunately for her, her sudden movement did not go unnoticed by one such creature. 

A smaller, fiendish-looking thing, with the body of a lizard, but the head of a vulture, and the tail of a scorpion mawed loudly at her, its stinger striking warningly at the ground. 

Not needing to be told twice, the young maiden leaped up and made a mad dash for the treeline on the other side of the clearing, opposite the line of creatures. 

As she made it past the treeline she watched as one of her imprisoners struck successfully at the rear of the small fiendish creature with the sharp end of a spear. It cut roughly into the monster’s backside, turning the horrid thing’s attention away from her back onto her captors. 

Pausing for a mere second, she took one last look at the few men still alive, fighting for their lives against the horrible creatures. Even if they were to win the fight, she swore it would be the last time she saw them. Beasts or no beasts, she was never losing her freedom again. 

✧ ✧ ✧

The bottoms of her feet stung with every step, and her calves burned worse every time she jumped over branches, landing on uneven ground. Her thighs were practically numb from the midseason cold, and her time forced to rest on the cold metal bars of her prison certainly did not help. But she refused to stop running. Even if she was unfamiliar with the practice of traveling upright on two extremities, she perished the thought that her inexperience might slow her down. She could not fail. She could not yet rest. Whoever won the fight between her captors and the creatures was certain to follow after her once the battle was done. She could not waste precious time. So despite pain and exhaustion, she pushed onward. 

After what felt like an eternity, although, if she were to judge by the moon, it must have only been a few hours, she found her legs could no longer support her weight, as her knees buckled beneath her, slipping on the soft embankment ground. 

‘Embankment?’ The maiden, feeling a final surge of hope, strained her neck to get a better look. It did appear that she had made it to a river bank, although it was a rather small one at that. Still, the sight felt like a miracle. It had been too long since her body was submerged, snug, within her element’s embrace. And given the choice between breathing her last breaths on the cold dry forest ground, or under a river’s soft current, she’d choose the river, any day. 

Using her arms to pull herself into the cold water, she breathed one final breath of chilled night air before slinking into the river water. Closing her eyes, the young maiden had but one thought: 

‘If this is to be my final resting place, then so be it.’ 

✧ ✧ ✧

The next morning started the same way all mornings do: the sun rose in the sky, the birds and bugs began their daily chirps, and a very forlorn-looking Adrian Tepes, known currently as Alucard, son of Dracula exited his castle in search for food, his usual basket in hand. Unusual however were the two corpses that greeted him as he passed the castle steps. 

Alucard paid the bodies no mind, he didn’t once glance in either of their directions. He kept his eyes forward, locked onto the foliage and wildlife hidden within the forest line choosing to pretend the bodies were no longer there. Yes, he knew they were there. Of course, he knew. He was the one to string them up after all. But if he were to acknowledge the corpses' presence, then he would also be required to acknowledge the circumstances that led them to be staked there, and that was something not even the great slayer of Dracula could do. So instead Alucard did what he could: he adjusted the basket in his arms and began mentally preparing the meal he would make. 

Coming to the river bank, Alucard felt something was off. He sensed another presence nearby. Kneeling down to the water, he kept his ears open for any movement within the trees but did not hear any. 

‘Odd.’ The dhampir waited for a spell before resuming his usual activities. He methodically removed his boots, before rolling up the ends of his pants, as he prepared to wade into the river. He had found a comfortable position, balanced on the river rocks below his feet when he noticed another oddity. 

“Where have all the fish gone?” 

The river, once teeming with fish, ones even brave enough to stick around as he waded into the water, were nowhere to be seen. Besides the rushing of water over the river bank, Alucard could not hear them swimming around within the water below. 

Turning his head, he found a single glint of scales reflecting the morning’s rays a few meters from where he had been standing. But just one fish? Or perhaps, a damn of some kind was preventing them from moving freely. Alucard made a move to investigate closer. But then, just as he turned to do so, what appeared to be an incredibly large fish leaped out of the river, and flopped onto the bank. It writhed around, flopping this way and that before rolling over to face him. It was at that moment Alucard realized why all the other fish had disappeared. There was no damn, no net. It was because of this… this creature. 

✧ ✧ ✧

The young mermaid awoke with a start, the deep echo of footsteps underwater had vibrated her awake. From where she lay, her vision was obscured, but she could make it out that the being was human in nature, standing on two legs, with only two arms to boot. It did not possess any claws or animal characteristics like any of the night creatures from the night before, nor did it appear to resemble any of the men who had taken her. 

The maiden stayed as still as stone, hoping this new strange human would grow bored of waiting for a meal to catch, turn around, and go home. But luck, as it had proven time and time again as of late, was not on her side. 

The man made a move towards her position, and she found she could not help the fear that bubbled up from inside her chest. The river was too small for her to swim through. More so, moving within the water would only create splashes to further catch this stranger’s attention. If she wanted to get away, she’d need to shift back to her human form and make yet another run for it on foot. 

Using the strength her long waterlogged rest had given her, she propelled her body out of the water, onto the river bank. As soon as her full body was on land, she writhed and wriggled, doing all she could to shake the excess water from her body. 

Her earlier set of legs had once again merged into a fishtail, strong and thick, with grooved fins to match. Her abdomen and chest were plated with scales all up the sides. And as she shook herself dry, several of those scales slid off her body into the dirt. Her ears, previously flesh and pointed more like an elf’s, had pulled back, with loose tentacle-like fins spouting out around their outer shell. In the daylight, she knew there was no mistaking what she was. But if she was to change her form quickly, it was a risk she needed to take. 

Despite the morning's warm sun, her body did not dry as fast as she had hoped. The maiden used her arms, and her now-clawed fingers to pull herself up further, finally gaining purchase on one bark of a tree, as she did her best to twist around and face this stranger head-on. 

Letting out a hiss, she bore her fangs at the strange blonde man standing before her. Only the man did not seem intimidated, nor shocked to see a creature such as herself. If anything, he appeared, at ease. Was this perhaps a trap? She hissed again but found herself on the side of surprise when the seemingly human man bared his own set of fangs and hissed back. 

✧ ✧ ✧

‘A mermaid?’ Alucard watched, amused, as the young creature did her best to appear menacing to him. If only she knew, how instead of fear, Alucard felt a rush of reassurance at the sight of her inhuman features. 

‘Humans,’ he thought bitterly. It was two humans who had hurt him most of all. Not even his own father’s war on humanity had harmed him the way those two did. His father left him for dead paled in comparison to the shame and torment he carried with him from that one night.  

Had a human shown their face on his property, he’d… Well, Alucard was not certain what he would do should they refuse his order to leave. But whatever he decided, it would not be a fate any would enjoy, that’s for certain. 

Thankfully, with the very distinct mer-features of this individual, that point was moot. He did not need to threaten disembowelment or an eternity of torture as a spawn, Alucard felt no such need to. 

He took a step closer, taking in her unique features. Her eyes were large and dark, almost pure pools of black. He could feel the pull luring him in closer the longer he looked into them. Her skin was almost opaque, despite its color. At certain angles, rays of the morning sun seemed to shine through her body, as opposed to around it. And her tail, no doubt the most impressive of her peculiarities, glinted impressively, making her an almost otherworldly mirage against the browns and greens of the surrounding greenery. 

Of course, no sooner than Alucard could admire such an ethereal sight, her tail began to lose some of its luminescence, growing duller by the second. The previously shiny scales that overlapped each other began to flake off, one by one. Down the middle of her tail, from where her belly button would have been on her abdomen had she been a human, what scaled skin remained began to crack, viscously, like a deep fissure that would not heal. The fissure continued to grow in depth and width as Alucard came within feet of her. 

She hissed for a second time at his forward movement, but Alucurd was undeterred. Smiling a sort of melancholy smile, he paused before opening up his maw, revealing his impressive fangs with a hiss of his own.

At his revelation, the creature’s demeanor changed abruptly. Gone was the fear and hatred in her eyes, instead replaced by a much more benevolent wonder. 

She opened her mouth, the tentacles around her ears shriveling into themselves, her ears changing to a more elven point as they came to rest flatter against her head. Alucard watched as her fangs dissipated too, the sharp canine points rounding themselves down into very simple humanoid-looking teeth. The back of her throat opened and closed, but very little sound came out. If she was trying to communicate, it seemed a verbal conversation was currently off the table. 

“I am Alucard Tepes, son of Dracula and Lisa Tepes.” Alucard spoke, taking the lead for her. “And I am not human.” 

The mermaid closed her eyes as she leaned back against the tree bark, wincing once or twice as a very slime-covered, human-looking bottom half cracked free from the dried shell of her former tail. She used her hands to pull the husks away from her body, leaving every bit of her person on display. 

Alucard cleared his throat before deciding to remove his shirt and give it to her. He tossed the white shirt to the maiden who caught it in one hand. Bringing it in to smell, she sniffed it before looking back at him curiously. 

“If you wish to spend the walk back to my castle naked, I won’t stop you. But as I’m sure you’ve learned, people up here spend most of their life clothed.” 

She turned her head in the opposite direction as if to say, ‘So?’ before ultimately relenting, pulling the white top over her head. 

Making a move to stand, her legs wobbled, giving out underneath her. But before she could fall, by the grace of his vampiric speed, Alucard managed to catch her, one of his arms looping under hers around her shoulder. Upon noticing the sudden conflict, the mermaiden hissed again but made no move to shove him off. Making another choked-off sound, from the back of her throat, she tried speaking again. 

“Ghhank hou.” Frowning, she cleared her throat before trying again. “Thgank cou,” her voice was quiet, and yet deep and guttural at the same time as if she was holding back. 

“So you can speak,” Alucard commented as he helped her walk a distance, finding her balance. 

The young maiden nodded, before shaking her head. “Youg may naught want mee too.” She blinked her large, dark eyes at him, pointing to them, them down to her throat as she did so. “Sssighh-rhen.” 

Alucard paused his walking, staring his golden orbs back at her. In the light, the mermaid watched as they glittered and shined, an almost metallic color, reminiscent of pirates’ gold, lulling her into a sense of security. She gave off a warning growl, having caught on to the fact that she was not the only one with influential abilities. Alucard blinked twice, breaking off the trance. 

“As I said before,” he reiterated, leading the way back to his castle, “I am not human.” 

The mermaiden watched him, as an almost smirk graced her inhumanely beautiful face. “Gooodd,” she hissed out. 

✧ ✧ ✧

“That is how the castle came to be in my possession.” 

Alucard led the young mermaiden down the many hallways and corridors of the castle, telling her the story of how he, along with Belmont and Sypha, were tasked with defeating Dracula. He stopped to point out various rooms along the way, the ones he was the most familiar with, anyway. There was still much of the castle that felt foreign to him. It was as if he walked the rows of a graveyard, rarely stopping to notice yet another name on a tombstone. How many hands had helped build this place? How much of their blood was shed to gather all the infinite knowledge and wealth that was kept here? Alucard did not know. Nor was he certain he wanted to know. 

Walking past the various debris and carnage still left from their battle with Dracula, Alucard ushered her into his father’s former study, now his study. In the middle of the room sat one large rather ornate chair, placed before a cracked fireplace. In the chair was a crumbled blanket and pillow. On the small table next to it, a cold long-forgotten cup of tea. The items together suggested this chair was used in recent days for sleeping, not for sitting and reading or studying of any sort. 

The mermaiden narrowed her eyes at that. Surely, even with this battle, Alucard claimed had taken place within his home, there were bedrooms and living quarters left unbothered. Why would someone in possession of such a grand and luxurious home sleep sitting up in a chair? Or perhaps, was it a question of biology, not psychology? Did a being like Alucard require sleep at all? 

As the mermaiden contemplated, Alucard kneeled down to start a fire, but not before vaguely gesturing at the crack that ran up the front brick of the fireplace. “As you can see, the fight was not limited to one area or room.” 

“Bprokeghn,” the mermaid nodded before gesturing herself to the chair and blanket set-up. “Behd?” 

Alucard cleared his throat, as he stoked the beginning flames of the fire. “My room was… damaged, yes.” 

Seemingly content with that answer, the mermaiden turned her attention to other parts of the room. 

Off to the right there were various bookshelves and texts. And on the left? A modest oak desk sat under a large painting of a beautiful woman. Her hair was golden, almost appearing to glow under the warm hue of the fire’s dancing light. Her eyes were large and hopeful, and her size petite but strong. In her hand, she held a white flower, although its beauty paled in comparison to hers, it was a lovely touch against the dark maroon dress she was wearing. 

“Prehty,” she said, stopping to admire the woman in the painting. 

Upon hearing her words, Alucard looked up, a soft smile having formed on his face. “Yes,” he said. “She was beautiful.” 

Glancing back at the man, the mer creature noticed his hair was blonde and rather lovely as well. Not as gorgeous as her own siren’s locks of course, but that was understandable. She pointed to the hair of the woman in the painting before pointing to her own, and then finally, to his. “Prehty too.” 

✧ ✧ ✧

From where he stood in the kitchen, Alucard watched amusedly as the young woman tried taking a bite of her grossly undercooked fish using a knife and fork, stifling a laugh every time she would manage to grip one utensil only to drop the other. Her less-than-human approach to everyday things made Alucard feel at ease. She was not a lying, conniving human he had to watch out for, she was not biding her time waiting to stab him in the back. Quite the contrary: she was blunt and rather oblivious to human social conventions. 

She had very little reservations when it came to nudity, Alucard had come to discover. If it wasn’t for his polite, insistence, she would have continued to roam the castle naked. Dwelling deep underwater made her rather immune to things like catching a chill. Alucard was similar, he did not feel the cold the way humans did, although he was not entirely immune to it. He would surely suffer frostbite should he choose to venture outside in the dead of winter without any clothes on his back. However, unlike a human, and more like a vampire, it would take more than freezing exposure to do him in. 

It was almost comforting in a way, to share the castle with someone who’s biology was surprisingly close to his. She was more unhuman than human most days, her residual scales and sharp claw-like nails coming back once her body had returned to full-health. Her teeth had also increased in length, although Alucard suspected she could control their sharpness at will to some degree, her opting to keep her incisors short and squared, more human-like, whenever the two would talk walks around outside the castle. 

The mermaiden also had an interesting diet. She preferred her food cold, if not raw. Even things like fish and other meats, she refused to eat properly cooked. Alucard briefly recalled the first time he had tried to offer her dinner. He steamed her fish the same way he steamed his, and presented it to her, expecting gratitude. It was humourous now, but back then he recalled being rather dissatisfied with her indignant reaction. She hissed, and berated him for serving her something ‘burnt’, or ‘burrrnt’ as she had called it. 

Alucard discovered it was less of a preference and more of a requirement when he found her eagerly licking the blood from a freshly killed and skinned hare he had fetched for dinner. It seemed that she, like him, and like the many other supernatural creatures, had a penchant for blood that was born out of a necessity, and not mere cruelty. With her diet of raw and bloody food, her skin appeared healthier- still as shiny and translucent, but less gray. Her human form’s skin was less cakey and dry, and when she did change back into her tailed form, which was rather often given how much she enjoyed lounging in one of the castle’s large communal baths, her scales shed much less than they had when they first met. Upon her initial arrival at the castle, Alucard found she’d leave scales behind her wherever she walked, the same way a lover might lay out a trail of rose petals. Of course in this case, there was no intimate surprise waiting for him behind closed doors (not that he’d want one given his past circumstances, anyway), but a very brash and temperamental half-siren, usually impatiently awaiting yet another “useless” lesson in human conventions. 

“Naught fun-ie,” she hissed, under her breath, well aware of Alucard’s amusement. “No need for toools underwater.” She dropped both her knife and fork unceremoniously onto her plate before crossing her arms, looking like a wilful toddler. 

“There’s no one to impress here,” Alucard assured her. “Besides, even without a fork and knife I’m sure you eat like a magistrate compared to Belmont. The rodents outside have more manners.” 

“Belmonnt,” the fair maiden repeated, picking up her fish with her bare hands. “Frrend.” 

“Yes. Although, I haven’t seen him or Sypha for quite some time.” Alucard answered, just a hint of loneliness creeping into his voice. 

“Hadd frend wonss.” Biting into her fish, she tore a chunk of flesh off with her teeth, a satisfied groan leaving her body as some of the excess moisture dribbled down her chin. “Huumann too.” She swallowed her bite of fish down, not bothering to chew much at all. “Dyed.” She licked her lips in satisfaction. “Beectraaid.” 

“Wherever humans are concerned, such possibilities are never in short supply.” Alucard agreed, handing her a cloth napkin to wipe her chin. “It is their nature.” 

Choking down the rest of her fish, the mermaiden swallowed harshly again before asking, “Owtsighed?” Of course, the two giant stakes housing decayed corpses had not escaped her notice on their way inside. 

Alucard retrieved her empty plate, moving to place it in the sink. Closing his eyes, he desperately tried not to remember the feel of the silver cords burning his skin, the way he suffocating under Taka and Sumi’s gaze, how if it were not for his sword and the magical component of it, it’d be his body flayed and strung up outside instead of theirs. Despite not having had anything to chew or eat, Alucard swallowed hard as well. 

“Yes,” he finally said.  

✧ ✧ ✧

“Where are wee going?” The mermaiden asked, her vocabulary and annunciation having improved much over the last couple of weeks. 

Dressed in a relatively sheer nightgown and robe, the young woman begrudgingly followed Alucard, already dressed for the day, as he led her over to the remains of the Belmont hold. Upon reaching the cleverly designed pulley system, Alucard lifted the safety bar of the lift and gestured for her to get in. 

The young mer woman bared her teeth but did not hiss, a vast improvement of manners and trust on her part. 

“You may recall in the past, I’ve mentioned a man named Belmont, Trevor Belmont.” Alucard set the bar back down, clicking it into place, before pulling one of the levers to begin their descent. 

She nodded. “Friend. Miss him.” 

Alucard furrowed his brow. “I do not believe I’ve once said I missed his company.” 

The young woman shrugged her shoulders, a form of nonverbal human communication she had recently picked up on. “Still,” she wagged a finger, disapprovingly. “Can tell. No want to be alone.” 

Having reached the bottom of the lift, Alucard secured the platform before exiting, seemingly eager to remove himself from their current conversation. “I speak his name frequently because he has gifted me a rather large piece of his family’s inheritance for safekeeping. Without my permission, I might add.” 

Flicking a large switch on the wall, the mermaiden watched in awe as hundreds of blue flames suddenly sparked alight, illuminating an expansive cavern of towered rows and rows of books and other meticulously organized collections. 

“This,” Alucard extended his arm out, showcasing the vastness of the space before them, “Is the Belmont Hold. It possesses all the knowledge the Belmonts learned on creatures of the night, the collection starting generations ago. Everything any Belmont learned has been recorded onto paper, and stored somewhere within these tomes.” 

Temporarily blindsided by excitement, the mermaiden found herself quickly making her way down several sets of stairs, her balance thankfully having improved tenfold, as she ignored the darker implications of Alucard’s words. 

“So much boooks!” She cried out, settling on entering a random upper row of tomes, pulling one out of the shelf. “So much papper!” 

Alucard nodded, coming to join her. “I take it your people do not have much use for such records underwater?” 

The young mer woman nodded, running her clawed fingers delicately over the inked pages. “Runes. Maghik. No paper.” 

Carefully, Alucard took the book from her hands and placed it back onto the shelf where it belonged. Before the mermaiden could bare her teeth or hiss at him in irritation he had already begun climbing down a nearby ladder, calling for her to follow. “Come. The books are impressive, but they are not what I wish to show you.” 

Reaching the lowest level before her, Alucard smiled softly as his eyes were met with the familiar scene of a magic mirror, and open chest. How strange to think he and his friends stood on this very ground when Sypha successfully managed to summon the castle. How strange to think right there, under his feet, was where Adrian Tepes died and Alucard of Wallachia truly began. 

There was a time when Alucard believed he and he alone would be the one to ever stand upon this, practically hallowed ground. Belmont was not yet sure if he wished to resume the responsibilities of his namesake. And Sypha, well, Sypha had chosen to follow Belmont in whatever trouble he managed to get himself into. Who knows if they would be back, if they ever intended on coming back? At the end of their journey, there was Alucard, left alone to shoulder the burden of both their families’ legacies. 

Trevor had told him not to make the castle his grave, but to use it and the hold to… help people. Such a task seemed near impossible when you were one dhampir, isolated far away from the rest of the world. But then, Alucard reflected, along came Taka and Sumi, and perhaps, he had once thought, he would no longer have to be alone. 

They were so eager to learn, but they were also so eager to leave. They did not come intending to stay, Alucard knew this, and yet, he could not help the way he drew their lessons out, making sure to be as detailed as possible. If they must go, he supposed, he could make it so they did not leave for a while. It was foolish to think his desires would go unnoticed by the two humans. More foolish perhaps, to expect them to understand. Alucard had been wrong. 

They sensed he was less than forthcoming, Alucard could not deny that was true. But he never lied, not once to them. But in their humanity, in their hurt and in their pain and guilt and anger they felt they were deceived. Perhaps deception was so readily on their mind because they had arrived with a plan to play him for a fool all along. 

Either way, it was fatal on their part. Alucard may have wanted them to stay, but he did not need them. They alleviated his loneliness, but they were not necessary companions, not like Trevor or Sypha. They were far too different, far too divested from the line of existence Alucard walked to ever truly understand him. Being human, they ignorantly believed themselves to possess so many options of their own, but as fate had proven: they too were wrong. 

But this young woman, this siren, this mermaid, she was different. She did not come seeking him, rather their meeting was entirely accidental. And this time, the playing field was even: she needed him just as much, if not more, than Alucard wanted her. It was different this time. Here, within the Belmont hold and his castle, she was the outsider. And no matter how long she stayed with him, no matter how hard she tried, she would remain less human than Alucard. Next to her, he was not a monster or a beast, no. 

At her side, he appeared solely as Wallachia’s savior, Alucard, and he was neither human nor monster. 

Coming back to the present moment, Alucard watched silently as the mermaiden approached the glass display case of vampire skulls. He watched as her eyes widened, and her fists clenched, before she spun around, her fangs bared. “Exsplain, now!” 

“The Belmonts hunted creatures of the night for centuries. They came to Wallachia hunting Dracula and his army of vampires.” 

“You said Belmont friend!” 

“He is- was. As I have said to you before, he aided me in my journey to defeat my Father Dracula, to prevent him from securing the extinction of the human race.” 

The mermaiden tilted her head to the side. “Buut why? You vampire.” 

“Not entirely,” Alucard countered. 

The mermaiden’s eyes squinted. “What?”

“The woman in portraits you’ve so admired within the castle, she was my mother, Lisa Tepes, and she was human.” 

Enraged, the mermaiden’s face contorted into an expression of anger, her nostrils flaring with every huff of air she took. “Liar!” She accused him, making her way around the side of the cabinet, trying to move past the dhampir without encountering him directly. “You said humans betrayed! You said not like them! You lie!” 

“I did not lie. I never told you I was wholly vampire, nor did I once say I was not part human.” Alucard mirrored her movement, cutting her off before she could reach the stairs. “I aided humanity only to be betrayed by humans. I do not belong in their world, nor do they belong in mine.” 

“Nor in minesss!” She snarled. “You human. Not friend. Not anymoresss.” Shoving past Alucard she began up the stairs before she felt a hand on her wrist yank her back. Whipping around, she found herself face to face with Alucard, his expression angry, his fangs elongated and on clear display. 

“And where will you go? Your human charade may not disturb me but it is bound to alert others. There is no city, no town where you could travel that they would believe you to be one of their own.” His voice was deep, dark, and full of disdain. 

“Then I go home,” she retorted. “With othersss like mee.” 

“Do you think they will accept you now you’ve lived with a human, lain with a human?” 

“Half,” she spit into his face before sneering: “Half huumannn.” 

Alucard did not even flinch, entirely unphased by her vulgar action. “Human nonetheless,” he said, the ice in his veins offset only by the golden fire in his eyes. “Not even they would welcome you back now. There is nowhere you can go, no one who would welcome you. I,” he spoke, baring his fangs, “am all you have left. I am the only one who understands.” 

The mermaiden opened her mouth to speak, but could not find the words. She closed her mouth before opening it again, still hesitant on how to respond. If it was not as serious of a moment, Alucard would have laughed: she truly looked like a fish out of water. 

Careful as not to spook her, he slowly raised one hand, using it to wipe away a stray tear that had fallen from her eyes. How strange a sight to see a siren crying, awful yet beautiful at the same time. Like him, Alucard thought. 

“You are the only one who could possibly understand me. You need not ever leave.” Alucard used his other hand to take one of her own, and guide it, resting it atop his chest. “I do not wish to be alone anymore.” 

The maiden choked back more tears, shocked she was shedding them in the first place in Alucard’s presence. 

Prior to those horrible humans taking her, tears were not something the mermaiden had ever experienced. Living underwater, she was surrounded by saltwater. Even on the occasions she was consumed by great emotion, her eyes behaved no different, felt no different than they did being in their usual full-contact with water as they were everyday. But after she was taken, she found the ability to cry, something she despised. It burned the skin of her cheeks with hot shame, her throat felt too tight for air: the process of crying was foreign, and undeniably painful. She prayed it would not become a normal occurrence for her. She swore the moment she was free of her captors, she would never shed a tear again. And then she met Alucard. And he was…

Sweet. He was kind. He was not an ignorant, vengeful human. Surely, he would not give her reason to cry. They were of the same kind, she and him. He would harbor no hate for her in his heart. 

How foolish of the girl to think hatred was the only feeling capable of creating pain, of making remorse. Afterall, ‘love’ was just as powerful. ‘Love’ was just as dangerous. 

Deep down, the young siren knew the dhampir’s words were true: there was nowhere else she could go, there was no one else who would understand her, and care for her the way he did. 

In fairness, he was not fully human, he was half vampire, and his father was the great Lord Dracula to boot. He was not simple in the way other humans were. He was not stupid in the way people were. He was educated and well-aware of the fragility of egos, the slow passing of time… He did not look at the world through a mortal lens. The mermaiden knew she could do worse, in choosing someone to trust, in picking someone to rely on. 

Then again, he was half-human. She was wise to fear him, to doubt him. He may have meant what he said, when he told her she need not leave, but that did not mean she needn’t want to. But she was so far from home, so far from more of her own kind. Who else left in this region ravaged by night creatures and monsters would open their home to her the way he had? Perhaps it was wiser to stay. 

Did she even possess a choice in the matter?

Even withIn the arms of that former stranger, she felt more forsaken than she had when those evil traders first captured her. She felt so alone… Gods… 

She, too, wished not to be alone anymore. 

“Ssstay.” 

“What?” Alucard’s head snapped up at the sound of her words. “Truly?” He could not help the hope that seeped into his voice. “You wish to stay with me?” 

Before him, the mermaiden nodded, yet another human expression she had come to love over the past few weeks. “Yessss,” she hissed out, her voice still nasally from her earlier tears. “I ssstay.” 

A/N: Holy shit! Almost 8,000 words here. And to think I did it all while fighting the worst virus of my life! (See, THAT just goes to show you how strong my love for Alucard is. 

Don’t forget to Like & REBLOG!!!

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[ro-is-struggling]

The Ballad of Orpheus and Eurydice || Geralt of Rivia x nymph!reader

REQUESTED

Summary: Life was good when Geralt was by her side. They were in love and happy... Until they weren't and she was left alone once again. After spending so much time under his protection, she had forgotten how dangerous the world was for creatures like her. Sad and heartbroken, she was unable to defend herself when the men came for her. Now locked up far away from her forest, she only hoped that her loved protector would come to her rescue.

Warnings: angst (with happy ending), major character death, reader gets imprisoned by a evil dude (I don't know how to tag this lol but I think it’s important to mention that she’s forced to serve him), fluff (it’s not all sad, I promise), forest nymph!reader, fem!reader, let me know if I missed anything!

English is not my first language

Word count: 12.700 (it's a long one)

Notes: A few things to have in mind while reading: It follows the timeline very loosely, and Geralt and Yen's relationship never got to that solid point in s3 cause it's not real love, just the product of Geralt binding their fates together with that wish

She never imagined that her story would end like this, locked in a cold and humid dungeon far away from her forest. Nymphs were not immortal beings —something she had come close to verifying several times in her long years on the continent—, so the idea of her inevitable end was something that she had thought about from time to time. It was not something that haunted her obsessively, but every once in a while her mind would wander to the imagining of the end of her days. 

She lived a quiet life, making sure to be cautious around any unwanted people who passed through her forest. She had no enemies, at least not ones powerful enough to present a real danger to her. So she always imagined that she would die a peaceful death, slowly fading away as her birth tree withered away after having completed its cycle on this earth. If not, she imagined she would die a heroic death as she fought the greedy humans to prevent the destruction of her forest. Both scenarios brought her a sense of comfort in a way, because they showed that she had fulfilled her life's mission, the purpose for which she had been placed on the continent.

She never imagined that the end of her days would actually be so dark and torturous, forced to live in captivity away from her home and everything she loved. She never thought she would miss the feel of the wind on her face, or the warmth of the early morning sun, or the sweet scent of flowers in the spring. She had never imagined herself living anywhere but her forest, but that was an option that had been taken away from her the moment King Elian's men set foot in her home. 

She had heard rumors of his infamous reputation from the mouths of other frightened nymphs. His name inspired terror among magical creatures, who chose to call him The Hunter as if the mere mention of his name was a sign of bad omens. He was known for his obsession with magical creatures and what he did with them after capturing them. Despite what his nickname implied, he did not always chase a magical creature to kill it and display some part of its body as a hunting trophy. No. There was a fate far more horrible and obscure than that, and that was to end up as a piece of his collection, just another exhibit, forced to smile in his presence and perform for his entertainment whenever he wanted it. It was the terrible fate that had unfortunately fallen upon her. 

In the past she had not seen King Elian as a threat. His kingdom was on the other side of the continent and while he used to go on hunting trips when he heard rumors of a creature in his vicinity, he had never ventured this far before. Besides, she was under the protection of one of the continent's fiercest witchers, so she knew no one would dare mess with her. No one who knew Geralt of Rivia would dare to challenge him, and the poor bastards who, out of ignorance or arrogance did, usually didn't live to tell the tale. The bond they had was strong, a love unlike any she had ever experienced in her many years of life, so she never thought there would be a day when she would wake up without him by her side.

"The king requires your presence." A guard announced from her cell door, snapping her out of her thoughts. She rose to her feet reluctantly, stepping up to the bars so he could put the handcuffs on her before unlocking her cell. The dimeritium on her wrists was engraved with the same symbols as the bars of the box in which she spent her days. It was a powerful incantation that weakened her magic so that she could not use her powers to escape. It was painful since the metal burned her skin, but she had learned the hard way not to complain.

The guard led her to the throne room, where the king was shouting directions to the group of servants working on decorating the place, changing the curtains and adding chairs and tables to the sides of the room. She had been there long enough to know that the castle was being prepared for a feast, though she did not know what the celebratory occasion was.

She forced herself to bow when the king's eyes fell upon her figure, though her expression showed how little respect she truly had for him. "Your majesty." She murmured as a learned response as she lowered her gaze to the ground.

"I hope you used your time in the dungeon to reflect on your attitude." His voice was firm, almost as if he was still angry with her for refusing to comply with his demands almost a week ago when he had wanted to use her to entertain the king of the neighboring kingdom who had come to visit. "You have to understand that you belong to me. You are here to serve me and the only reason you are not dead already is that I find you useful. But that can change and it depends entirely on how you behave. Do I make myself clear?"

She clenched her jaw, biting her tongue to avoid causing a scene that would undoubtedly send her straight to the dungeon again. "Yes, my king." She wasn't able to look him in the eye as she spoke as she didn't want to see the satisfaction in his expression. 

"As a demonstration of my great generosity and compassion, I have decided to give you a second chance to prove your loyalty. But do not mistake my mercy for stupidity for this will be your last chance to prove your worth to me. If you say or do anything out of place you will know the sharp blade of my sword."

After she submissively assured him that she understood the seriousness of his words, he explained that he needed her to take care of some of the preparations for the feast in honor of his daughter. During the week the entire kingdom had participated in the celebrations for the girl's fifteenth birthday, an event that would culminate with a grand banquet in the evening. She would be in charge of preparing the floral arrangements that would decorate the entire palace as well as being responsible for the main entertainment since there was nothing to match the singing of a nymph. But in addition, the king put her on a special task. He wanted to give his daughter a beautiful garden with different types of flowers —one for each year of her life—, and she was the perfect person for the job. She accepted without question, not so much because she valued her life or feared reprisals if she refused, but rather because after being locked up for so long she missed being in contact with nature. 

"If it's alright with you, my lord, I would like to start with the garden." She said in the most respectful way possible, explaining that with her powers weakened it was the task that would take the most work.

She was escorted by a group of half a dozen guards, who grabbed her roughly by the arms and dragged her through the castle corridors to the garden. Normally she would have complained about their mistreatment, but it all stopped mattering to her when she felt the gentle breeze hit the skin of her face. It was a wonderful feeling smelling the wet dirt in the air and hearing the birds singing after having spent so much time locked up in the deepest part of the castle. It almost felt like freedom.

Working in the garden awakened a bittersweet feeling in her. On the one hand, it was the most comfortable she had been since she arrived at the castle. Walking barefoot on the grass, feeling the earth between her toes and the flowers growing under her hands was as close to home as she had ever been. It was liberating in a way, putting her powers to good use and connecting with the nature she missed so much. But, on the other hand, it was also a reminder of all that she had lost, the life she would never get back. As much as she loved being outside after so many days locked up, she couldn't help but notice that nothing felt like home. The flowers didn't smell the same, the grass under her feet wasn't as soft, and even the birds didn't sing the same. That wasn't her home. This was not her forest. 

As she buried her hands in the ground, she couldn't help but question what she was doing, and more importantly, why she was doing it. Sure, avoiding further punishment for disobeying the king's orders was a valid motivation, but was it really worth it? Why was she trying to preserve her life when the only future she had was to live locked up there forever? Was dying such a terrible fate when the alternative was imprisonment and slavery? A life away from her home, forced to indulge the whims of a power-hungry monster was no life at all, so why was she there obeying the orders of that disgusting man? 

Then she realized that she still held out hope of escaping. Her spirit wasn't completely crushed and her love for Geralt wasn't entirely gone, so even if it was foolish, she still hoped he would show up to rescue her. They hadn't seen each other for over a year, since that sad day when their story had met an abrupt end after he confessed to her that there was another woman in his life, but she still held out hope of seeing him again. She dreamed of seeing his long white hair move in the air as he skillfully knocked down the guards that separated them and freed her from her confinement. How could she not when he had been her savior on more than one occasion? In fact, that was how they had met.

She was frightened and hurt the first time she saw him, trapped in a cage with symbols carved into the bars. It was a powerful spell that weakened her powers just like the shackles of dimeritium around her wrists. The cage was too small for her, a confined space where she could barely stretch her legs or sit up straight if she wanted to. A group of well-trained men had managed to capture her, taking advantage of her distraction and temporary weakness to lock her up and take her back to their master. She was so terrified that when she heard Geralt's sword clash with that of one of her attackers, she curled up in a corner, her body folding in on itself in an attempt to make herself small and invisible to the group of fighting men. 

She recognized immediately that he was a witcher and that brought her no relief. While his kind generally didn't tend to see nymphs as dangerous monsters —as long as they behaved and didn't do anything to end up on their list, of course— she didn't feel completely safe in the presence of a witcher. She tended to hide on the occasions when one passed through her forest, believing it was best to stay away from people like that just in case. After all, they were monster hunters, a concept that, in her experience, meant something different to each individual and there was no way of knowing for sure if she fell into that category or not. So, even though he had overpowered her captors, she still felt fear when he approached.

Geralt felt that fear as soon as he took a step towards her, it was almost as strong as the power and magic that flowed from her being. Her beauty alone was enough to let him know that she was a nymph of the forest. Behind the earth and blood, hidden in a grimace of terror, were the delicate features that the witcher had only seen in the creatures of her kind that he had encountered in the past. The nymphs had a certain look, a special glow that distinguished them from the rest of the magical beings on the continent. They were also one of the gentlest and most peaceful creatures on the continent, focused only on protecting their homes and turning to violence only as a last defense mechanism. That was why Geralt did not sense a drop of evil in her. And that was also why he set out to free her from her confinement.

Even though her captors lay dead on the ground, she still looked terrified, her eyes glassy with tears and her lower lip trembling as she struggled to hold back a sob. When he approached her, the nymph snuggled further into the corner, pulling her knees to her chest in a protective manner. He raised his hands in the air in an attempt to show her that he was not going to hurt her, walking slowly toward the cage so he could release her. It was then that he noticed the symbols on the bars and the dimeritium shackles, which helped him understand how she had ended up there and why she was so scared. She was in a position of extreme vulnerability without her magic and, despite having saved her, he was a complete stranger who could very well cause her more trouble. So the witcher made an effort to appear friendly and non-threatening.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” He told her to try to calm her down, though it wasn't much help. She curled further into the corner of the cage, hugging her legs to her chest and looking up at him with watchful eyes from between her knees.

"I know what you are." She answered him, the fear clear in her voice. "You are a witcher, you kill-"

"Monsters, yes." Geralt spoke for her. "But you are not one of them. You're safe with me." 

At that moment she had no way of knowing what kind of impact those words would have on her life and how genuine they were. She accepted his help because she had no other choice, but time would show her how fortunate she had been to cross paths with Geralt. At first he played hard to get, barely speaking as she nursed his wounds once her powers stabilized. She'd had to resort to using her charms a little to soften that hard exterior of his, but once Geralt began to open up to her, she discovered the man he truly was. 

Geralt tended to lean into rumors about himself and his kind, pretending to be emotionless and not caring about anything or anyone but himself. But that was all an act, a protective shield. In reality he cared. He was capable of feeling emotions as deeply as any other being on the continent. He hated and held grudges, but he also loved and cared for those close to him just as intensely. And once she discovered that, she found it very easy to love him back. 

She was truly safe with him, and in the long years that their love blossomed he did nothing but prove that to her. Geralt was her favorite person in the world. He was her home, her lover, her protector... A love like that was not easily forgotten and no one could blame her for holding out even the slightest hope that he would come for her, that he would somehow sense that she was in danger and rush to her rescue. It had happened in the past, their connection was that strong, so it wasn't an entirely far-fetched idea. It was just... naive of her.

Geralt had been traveling for days. He usually preferred to use alternative paths hidden behind forests or swamps, they were quieter and better for his business. Not many people used them so he didn't run into anyone that would bother him, and it was easy to run into the occasional monster roaming around, so it was a win-win situation for everyone. What he hated, however, was that most of the time it took him twice as long to get to some town where he could rest with minimal comforts and eat a hot meal. 

Had he taken the main road he would probably already be at his destination, drinking in the dark corner of some dingy bar or locked in the room of some cheap inn, and not wandering the forest in search of an animal big enough to satisfy his appetite. He didn't mind being outdoors or having to hunt for his food on the spot —-in fact he was so used to that he almost preferred it—, but this time he was tired and couldn't wait to be anywhere but there. Perhaps that was why when he came across a king and his hunting party he accepted his offer to return to his camp to eat with him without putting up much of a fight. 

Geralt hated royalty and King Elian was no exception. He was arrogant and self-absorbed, just like the vast majority of kings, but there was something else about him that rubbed the witcher the wrong way. He tried to decline his offer at first, but he was unwilling to take no for an answer.

"I'm afraid I will have to insist. My camp is not far from here and my tent is big and warm. I have more than enough food and I would love to hear some of your stories while we eat." The king insisted, pressing Geralt to accept his offer. "My men don't make for good company and I'm bored. I'm sure a witcher like you has been involved in a good share of adventures that make for fascinating stories."

In any other circumstances, Geralt would have found a way to escape from there. The last thing he wanted was to be used as the personal entertainment of an arrogant king. But this time he decided not to resist too much. He attributed it to his tiredness, he had been traveling for a long time and at least it wouldn't be a sacrifice in vain since he could at least get food in exchange for entertaining him for a while. But perhaps there was something more than that playing a role there. Fate itself had crossed their paths for a reason, even though he didn't know it yet.

"It's not as interesting or glorious as one might think." Geralt said with honesty. 

In his experience there were two types of opinions regarding his people and what they did for a living. There were the people who despised them for what they were and believed they were no different than the monsters they killed and there were those who found them fascinating and longed to go on adventures like the ones they often experienced. To him both opinions were bullshit. He wasn't a monster, he didn't kill for pleasure or for fun as many people believed, but neither was he some kind of hero whose life was worthy of being immortalized in songs and poems. He was just a man who did what he knew best to survive, just like all witchers and all beings on the continent. He and his kind did not deserve hatred, but neither did they deserve to be crowned with laurels. They deserved to be left in peace, nothing more, nothing less.

"I have to say I'm grateful for the work you and your kind does." The king continued speaking without acknowledging Geralt's words. It was as if he was not there, his words were of little value to the king when they did not say exactly what he wanted to hear from him. "These creatures are dangerous and can't be left alone to live amongst us. Although some are fascinating creatures if given proper care and purpose."

Geralt looked at the monarch with a frown, unsure of what he meant by that. He said nothing, however, just remained silent for most of their journey to the camp, while trying to get a better read on the man beyond the typical arrogance of all of his kind. There was something about him that he did not like, something that caused a feeling that other kings and nobles did not. It was something more than his simple unpleasant personality, but he could not figure out what it was.

"You should come to my kingdom sometime." King Elian offered as they finally reached what appeared to be the camp where he and his hunting party had set up their base. "I have a collection of creatures I'm sure you would love to see."

The witcher halted his walk, looking at the king with narrowed eyes. "A collection?"

"Oh yes! I have the biggest collection of magical creatures in the whole continent." He admitted as if it was something to be proud of. "I have some pretty rare ones I'm sure you and your people would love to study. You're more than welcome to come over anytime! After all, we are all on the same side."

Geralt did not like the way the king referred to magical creatures and hated that he equated himself with witchers and the work they did. They didn't lock up monsters to brag about their large collection to strangers. They didn't see them as objects that gave them some kind of prestige. They saw them as living creatures, sometimes dangerous, sometimes misunderstood. Witchers did not enslave or kill monsters for fun as he seemed to do and Geralt was disgusted that he would even try to imply such a thing.

However, before he could voice his opinion, the king shoved him into his luxurious tent and the servants set a plate of food in front of him. It was filled with meat and potatoes and vegetables so colorful that they must have been freshly picked. It might have been the hunger talking, but it was the most appetizing food he had tasted in a long time. It was indeed fit for a king and Geralt thought it was definitely worth chatting with his host for a while in exchange for a share, especially after tasting the wine.

"It's good, isn't it?" the king asked him, studying his reaction as he lifted the wine glass to his mouth. "I have someone special that takes care of all the plants in the castle so I only eat the best of the best. It's actually one of my creatures. You can meet her, if you want."

Geralt let go of the piece of meat between his fingers and looked at the king with a frown. There was a subtle change in the air that made him instinctively tense, wondering what his host was up to. The king gave him a small smile before gesturing to one of his men, who left the tent without saying a word. The monarch's menacing aura put the witcher on alert, carefully watching his every move while he ate as if trying to predict what he would do next. His attitude had changed in a matter of seconds. Geralt couldn't quite pinpoint what it was, but there was something about the way he looked back at him that put him on edge. It was almost as if he was waiting for something to happen —as if he knew something was going to happen—, the glow of anticipation clear in his eyes. 

He didn't understand his attitude, at least not until the guard returned to the tent. Only he wasn't alone, but was carrying a girl on his arm who was shuffling her bare feet across the ground hesitantly, as if she really didn't want to be there. Her eyes were downcast and her long hair was tangled over her face, so that Geralt could not see her features. Her dress, which seemed to have been a beautiful piece of art at one time, was now dirty and worn, with the fabric torn to shreds on some sides. Her hands were bound together at her wrists, trapped by shackles of dimeritium that marked her condition of slavery. It was a sad sight that became horrifying when Geralt smelled the scent of flowers in the air.

His heart stopped as his nostrils were assaulted with the sweet smell of cherry blossom that he knew and had come to love. The world around him stopped as he was struck with the horrible realization of what was happening. He did not need to see the face of the captured young woman to know it was her. It was enough to feel her energy in the tent as he breathed in her characteristic sweet scent. 

Geralt jumped to his feet, hand gripping his sword as he entered a state of desperation. He wasn't thinking, he couldn't, he had been reduced to his most primitive instincts by seeing her there in that condition. She was weak and injured in a way that Geralt had never seen, her glow and warm, positive energy almost completely extinguished after being tortured for who knows how long. However, when her eyes met his, he noticed a slight glimmer of joy and hope. That only further increased his desire to protect her, the murderous urge growing inside him and urging him to crush anyone who stood between them.

"Let her go!" Geralt demanded firmly, turning his eyes away from his former lover to look the king in the eyes. 

He was furious and desperate, it was evident in his voice and in the hard expression on his face. Anyone would have given in to his demands if he looked at them with those murderous eyes, but King Elian did not flinch. He didn't seem to care that Geralt was pointing his sword at him or that he looked ready to take on an army on his own, he continued to eat as if nothing was happening while the tent filled with guards ready to defend him.

"Please, sit down. You barely touched your food." The monarch spoke in a calm, casual tone. But Geralt did not move, he stood his ground, sword held high and hate-filled eyes fixed on him. "Fate is its a curious thing, don't you agree? This invisible force pushing us to the right path so we might fulfill our destiny, making every little interaction, every little decision, integral... Take this as an example. This morning when I woke up I didn't think that I was going to cross paths with you and yet here we are."

"Let. Her. Go." Geralt interrupted the king's unimportant ramblings, pausing slightly at each word to emphasize his anger. He didn't care what the man had to say, he would slice him through with his sword right there if it weren't for the fact that his sweet nymph was bound and surrounded by guards who wouldn't hesitate to hurt her before he could get to her. "I won't ask again. Next time it will be my sword doing the talking."

"I don't want to fight you, Geralt. If anything, I want to thank you for helping me fulfill my destiny, my purpose of becoming the biggest collector of magical creatures in the continent... You see, if it weren't for you, I could never have captured a forest nymph as powerful as her. I admit that you ruined my plans the first time when you attacked my men, but in the end it was thanks to you that I was able to get my hands on her."

"What are you talking about?" the witcher asked, confused. It could be the adrenaline coursing through his veins and drowning out his thoughts —or the fact that his heart was beating so fast that it was pounding in his ears muffling all other sounds—, but the king wasn't making much sense to him. They had never crossed paths before, and if they had, he would never have helped him in something so horrible.

"I could never have caught her while she was under your protection. But when you left... well, let's just say she was withering away little by little, weakening day by day until she got to the point where she couldn't defend herself when my men came for her."

Geralt froze in place as the king's words echoed in his head. It was a lot of information to process and he was in no condition to do so. If he wasn't so devastated he might have reacted to the implication that the king had been watching them, waiting for the right moment to strike after he had saved her from his men the day they had met. But at that moment he could only concentrate on the feelings of guilt and regret that came over him. 

When he left, he never thought about the consequences his decision might have. He never thought about how his departure would affect her or if she would be okay. He knew she would be sad and hurt, just as it hurt him to have to leave her, but he also knew it was the right thing to do. So he focused on moving on, hoping she would too, without stopping to consider the consequences. He thought about her a lot in the time they spent apart —when he lay awake at night, admiring the stars and the nocturnal sounds of the woods; or as he dressed quietly after spending a night with Yennefer—, but in his mind he always pictured her happy. She was strong and had lived many years alone on the continent before their paths crossed, so he was sure that their breakup would not destroy her. He was sure that she would find a way to get back on her feet and that it would be better for the both of them to stay apart. 

Now he realized that was just an excuse. He was being selfish, protecting himself and running away from reality so as not to face it because it hurted him. It hurted to know that he was hurting her. It hurted that he fell in love with another woman behind her back. It hurted to have to leave her after all they had been through together, the love they shared, the moments of vulnerability and intimacy that had brought them together. It hurted because he had failed her, because he couldn't keep his promise to be with her forever. So he completely disappeared from her life, making excuses to justify his behavior and convince himself that he was doing the right thing even though he knew deep down that he wasn't. He ran away like a coward and she ended up paying the price for it.

The witcher's eyes searched the nymph's, hoping to find in them the answers to the questions he had not asked, some indication that the king was not lying. She escaped his gaze, feeling embarrassed and extremely vulnerable. But eventually their gazes met and Geralt knew the mistake he had made. He should have been there for her. He should have helped her when they came for her. He should have searched for her all over the continent once he noticed her disappearance. He should have protected her, just as he always had. He had failed her twice, but he would not let there be a third.

Geralt carried out his threat without hesitation, lashing out at the nearest soldiers in an effort to reach her. The clinking sound of clashing swords and the groans of his opponents were all that echoed in his mind, focusing on his enemy to keep his head cool and ensure victory. They were no threat to him. They were well trained and knew how to move around very well, but he was a witcher with decades of experience and unmatched reflexes and skills. He had defeated them once in the past and he would do it again now without breaking a sweat.

At least that's what he thought before he heard the voice of the young nymph in the distance calling out for him.

“Geralt!” She exclaimed his name for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Her sweet voice traveled through the air, piercing through the sound of metal and the grunts of pain until it reached his ears. She managed to get his attention immediately as he recognized the hint of fear in it. As he buried his sword in his opponent, his eyes snapped up to her, searching for her in the crowd following the sound of her voice. 

When he finally found her, Geralt's heart sank as he discovered the reason for the fear in her voice. The king had his hands around her, holding her tightly against his body. His left hand was wrapped around her torso, restricting her movement, while his right hand wielded a silver dagger against her neck. The metal gleamed in the dim light, revealing the sharp edge that burned the girl's skin. Desperate, Geralt tried to lunge at the monarch, but he stopped him with a click of his tongue.

"One more step and she dies." He assured, firmly. Geralt noticed the honesty in his voice, so he stayed in place and slowly lowered his sword —though he did not drop it—, a desperate attempt to buy time to think of a plan to get out of there with her by his side.

"You don't have to do this." Geralt tried to reason with him even though he knew it was in vain. He didn't see her as more than an object, just another piece in his long collection of creatures, so it was safe to assume he didn't value her life very much. But still, Geralt didn't have much choice so he tried anyway.

"She has been nothing but trouble since the moment she arrived at the castle, isn't that right, darling?" The king grumbled, lowering his head just slightly so he could mutter the last question against the young nymph's ear. "Crying all day, disobeying my orders, upsetting the other creatures... and now your friend over here kills half my men after I feed him and show him my generosity."

"If we present so much trouble to you, why don't you let us go? I'll take her with me and I promise you won't hear from us ever again."

"You are ungrateful brats." The king continued speaking, completely ignoring Geralt's words. "You think you are special, important, and therefore above it all... but you are not. Your actions have consequences and I am the one who decides what they are... You do not deserve my generosity or my mercy."

Geralt didn't have time to think about the hypocrisy in the monarch's words because before he could process them his eyes watched in horror as he slid the blade of the dagger across his beloved's neck. Blood began to gush violently from the wound, the thick, sticky liquid sliding down the young woman's delicate skin, turning everything red. He screamed her name, his sword slipping from his fingers and crashing to the floor with a muffled sound. He ran towards her, completely forgetting the guards he was fighting moments before. He only cared about her.

Suddenly, he felt as if he was moving in slow motion, as if his feet were twice as heavy and dragging them along the ground was more difficult than usual. Everyone around him seemed to slow down, the men around him, the gentle breeze of the wind... everything but her. He watched her collapse to the ground, blood covering her chest as she struggled to keep breathing. But he couldn't reach her. All he wanted to do was hold her in his arms one more time, but it was as if an abyss was keeping them apart. It felt as if fate was mocking him, punishing him for his mistakes by allowing him to be there with her, but not letting him do anything to save her. 

He tried to stop the bleeding as he knelt beside her —placing his hands on her neck and feeling the blood gushing from the wound—, but it was too late. She was pale and weak, all the magic in the world could not have saved her at that moment. There were tears in her eyes, in those beautiful green orbs that were fading with each passing second. She was scared, Geralt could see it in her expression. She didn't want to go, but she knew there was nothing else to do now.

"I'm here, I'm here." Geralt whispered in the calmest, most comforting tone he was capable of uttering at that moment. He swallowed his anger and pain, holding back tears so he could give her some peace. He cradled her face in his hands, fingers caressing the skin of her cheeks delicately as if he were afraid of breaking it. "It's going to be okay... you're going to be okay. I will fix this."

She opened her mouth in an attempt to speak, but instead of sound only blood came out. Geralt caressed her gently, feeling the tears rolling down her cheeks. She clutched her hand around his arm, looking up at him with pleading eyes. She was begging him to understand her, to read in her eyes her thoughts as he had done so many times in the past. It took Geralt a few seconds to understand her, although in hindsight it should have been obvious to him. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, to assure him that none of it was his fault and that no matter what had happened between them, he would own her heart forever. 

"I love you. I always will."

Geralt saw the reassurance in her face as the warmth of love enveloped her in her last moments. She gave him the faintest of smiles, an almost invisible sign of the peace his words had brought her. And then her grip on his arm weakened, her hand dropping to the floor as life left her body. Suddenly, that subtle smile, now permanently carved into her expression, was all he had left of her, of her life and the love they shared. 

Geralt did not fight when the soldiers dragged him and tied him to a tree to leave him there to die while they escaped, he did not have the strength to do so. He was numb to the world around him, consumed by grief. The sound of the king and his men preparing to leave sounded muffled and distant, as if they were far away from him. And in a way they were, for his mind was not one with his body, but far away. He was focused on the slowly withering body of his beloved, on the fear as she called his name and the terror in her eyes as the edge of the dagger sealed her fate. He could only think of her and all the time they had lost and could never get back, feeling the guilt slowly consuming him as her body transformed into a pile of pink petals.

Geralt admired her face in the dim glow of the candlelight, thinking about how beautiful she looked tangled in the sheets beside him. Her hair spread across the pillow like a halo around her head and her smooth skin was covered with a light layer of sweat that gave her an almost ethereal glow. It felt like an illusion, a trick of his mind. He found it hard to believe he had someone like her lying next to him, looking at him with love in her eyes. 

It wasn't just her beauty. No. It was the peace her mere presence awakened in him and the void he felt in his chest when they were apart. It was the way he dreamed of her and her caresses every night he went to bed alone and how his longing disappeared when he felt her warmth against him as their bodies melted into one. It was the way her kisses made him feel like he was home, safe and away from the complications of the world outside the little paradise that was her forest. It was much more than physical attraction, more than the effects of her nymph charm, as he had initially thought. It was love. Pure, honest love, like he had never felt before. He was in love with her, and while he hadn't put it into words yet, he wasn't afraid to admit it.

Her fingers aroused a warm tingle as they caressed his cheek. Geralt leaned into it, closing his eyes for a second to appreciate the magic of the moment. It was amazing how such a subtle act, such a light touch, was able bring out so many emotions in him. It was something only she could do, a clear demonstration of how deep his feelings for her were.

However, when Geralt opened his eyes again, he didn't find the special glow he usually saw in them at intimate moments like this. She was looking straight at him, but it was as if she was looking right through him, as if her mind was lost in her thoughts. Something was bothering her, that much was clear in the green tint of her eyes. Her mouth would open slightly, almost in an imperceptible movement, only to close seconds later, as if there was something she wanted to tell him but couldn't quite bring herself to say. So he decided to ask her about it. 

"What's wrong?" Geralt voice was low and raspy with sleep, looking at her with a slight frown in confusion. There was a moment of silence before she answered. Her eyes never left his, but her hand slowly slid from his cheek to rest on his bare chest.

"I'm afraid of losing you." She eventually said, her voice almost a whisper. "You travel across the continent, meet all kinds of people... I'm afraid one day you will get bored of me... find someone better and leave me forever."

Geralt could not believe his ears. It was ridiculous to him that she could have such a fear of abandonment when he felt the way he did. If only she knew how happy being with her made him... If only he could somehow transfer his emotions to her so that she could feel his heart race when they kissed, or experience the peace that filled him inside every night when he lay down next to her... If only she knew, she wouldn't be having those kinds of thoughts. So, he took her hand in his and pressed it against the left side of his chest, right over where his heart was beating with love for her. She needed to know that she was the only one who had a permanent place there. She was the only one he loved and he doubted that would ever change.

"Believe me when I tell you that there is no force on this continent that can keep me away from you." He spoke in a soft voice and watched as her eyes lit up full of illusion. "I love you, forever and always."

He sealed his promise with a kiss, showing her with his lips how serious he was about it. He loved her and there was nothing he wanted to do more than to be with her for the rest of his life, sharing intimate moments like this one and protecting her from any evil that might come her way. He felt complete with her and could not imagine how miserable his life would be without her by his side.

Geralt allowed himself to get lost in the passion of the moment, fingers tracing trails over his beloved's bare skin as he melted into the kiss. It was different this time, more intimate and charged with all the emotions that were left unsaid —it was their special way of communicating, one kiss and they knew what was going through each other's minds. The comforting warmth of love filled his heart, leaving him in a state of total bliss as she whispered sweet nothings against his lips. He was happy in a way he could not remember ever being before, in a way he knew he could only be with her. 

But suddenly that comforting warmth that flooded his insides was replaced by a paralyzing cold, an emptiness that pressed against his chest and took his breath away. Geralt could no longer feel his beloved's lips against his. He could no longer smell the flowery scent her soft skin radiated or feel the warmth of her body. He was trapped in a black void, in emptiness itself, all alone. And in the distance he could hear his name being called.

Geralt

Geralt

Geralt

It was a cry for help, the voice of terror of someone who had been confronted with their own mortality. The voice trembled with fear, certain of the fatal fate that awaited them. Geralt could not escape its shrieks, no matter how hard he tried. It was his own personal hell, a void where he was forced to confront his pain, his guilt, and to listen again and again to his beloved's voice filled with terror as she spoke his name for the last time.

Geralt woke up tangled in the sheets, covered in a thin layer of cold sweat and breathing fast due to his nightmare. He lay in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling as he tried to pull himself together. His beloved's voice was still ringing in his ears, only that with every waking second it became more and more distant until it became an almost unintelligible whisper. Anguish and guilt weighed heavy on his chest, but he was used to that by now. The emptiness inside him had accompanied him every moment of his life since that unfortunate day. He could not escape the pain and regret he felt, it haunted him even when he closed his eyes at night. He could not even enjoy the peaceful ignorance in the mornings, when one's mind is too sleepy to process life's tragedies, because his nightmares would remind him of every painful detail of that day so that he could not rest.

At a time like this, when life had become so overwhelming that he was unable to sleep, he usually reached out to her. With her gentle touch and sweet voice she was always able to calm his tormented self, wash away the anger and frustration and replace it with love and calmness. But now she was gone and he didn't know how to go on. He missed her more than he thought it was possible to miss anyone. He missed the melodious sound of her laughter and the light in her eyes when she was happy. He missed waking up next to her in the mornings, feeling the warmth of her body enveloping him as she whispered good morning to him, her voice hoarse from sleep. He wished he could once again feel the soft caress of her lips on his and hear her say she loved him one more time. 

There was nothing Geralt wasn't willing to do to have her back with him, to be able to tell her how much he loved her and how he regretted leaving her. He had been an idiot to have given in to his desires for Yennefer. He should never have gotten involved with her, he should have let her own greed and obsession destroy her that day. He should have saved Jaskier and moved on with his life, after all Yennefer's problems were of no concern to him. But he could not resist his need to intervene, acting like a knight in shining armor instead of what he really was: a witcher. He made an impulsive decision, binding their destinies with magic and unknowingly triggering the death of his beloved. For if only he had been with her, if only he had stayed by her side to protect her as he had promised, he was sure things would be very different. She would still be alive and he would not be so miserable.

But Geralt was determined to make things right. He refused to let her die because of his mistakes. And looking at the cherry blossom tree growing outside his window, he knew the time was getting closer.

"I will fix this." He spoke to the tree, stroking the trunk with his hand as he sucked in a long breath of air. It smelled like her, a sweet scent mixed with the aroma of wood and wet earth. It ached and comforted him in equal amounts. "I will bring you back to me and I will keep my promise to you this time."

Geralt knew she was gone, but her essence was still alive in that tree. Born from the pink petals in which her body had withered when she died, it grew stronger with each day, keeping a fragment of her alive. Of course it was not her, but for now he was happy to make promises to the wind that its branches generated, clinging to the sweet scent of its flowers as the only sign that his words were well received by her. It was all he had, all he had left of her, and for now that was enough. He still wasn't sure how he would fulfill his promises or even where to begin. But he was sure of one thing, and that was that his love for her was stronger than fate itself and there was no force on the continent that could stop him from keeping his promise this time.

The solution to his dilemma presented itself almost by accident. And it came from the place Geralt least expected. He had spent the last few months visiting every library he had access to, reading every book and consulting with every expert he knew in his desperate search to find a way to bring his beloved back to life. But in the end, it was Jaskier who presented him with a solution in the form of a song. 

They were traveling on a back road after a successful job. The bard had offered to accompany him under the excuse that he needed new inspirations, but Geralt knew he was doing it because he didn't want to leave him alone. Jaskier knew the pain he felt and being the good friend he was he wanted to accompany him in mourning. Geralt appreciated him even if he didn't have the strength to say it in words. His light-hearted comments and meaningless ramblings were exactly what he needed to distract his tormented mind. Even his spontaneous singing at the worst possible moment cheered him up instead of irritating him as usual. Anything to help him concentrate on something else was welcomed.

They had been walking for hours, hoping to reach the next town before dark and sleep in a comfortable bed in a warm room and not in the middle of the forest again. They were quiet, only the chirping of birds and the sound of leaves crunching under their feet echoed in the air. They had run out of things to talk about an hour ago and Jaskier was starting to get bored. So he did what he always did when he found himself in that situation, sing. Only this time Geralt didn't recognize the verses as one of his own original songs. It was one he had not heard him sing before, so he paid attention.

It told the story of a young man that had managed to win the heart of a forest nymph with his beautiful singing. The connection they shared was so strong that they married shortly after meeting, in the same place where they first saw each other. Happiness and love filled their days for a few long and joyful months. That was until fate, jealous and bitter, stood in the way of their happiness. So, one morning, after being bitten by a snake, the young nymph died. Her beloved fell into a state of despair when he heard the tragic news. Unable to accept that his wife had been taken from his life without warning, he descended into the depths of the underworld to plead for her soul. The song narrated the difficulties of his journey and the perseverance with which he had faced each difficulty until he reached the lord of the underworld himself, to whom he tearfully begged for the return of his wife. The emotion in his words was such that he managed to move Hades, who gave in to his prayers. Although he imposed a condition: that he would not turn around to see his wife's soul following his steps until he left the underworld.

The story did not end well since the young man had been too eager and had turned to see his beloved before she was completely above ground. But Geralt didn't care about that somber detail. His attention was focused on the young man and his journey to the underworld, not only because he felt somehow connected to the emotions of sadness and despair he felt, but also because he was fairly certain he could recreate his heroic efforts.

"Are you crazy?" was Jaskier's reaction to hearing Geralt's idea, his voice raised in a tone of surprise and concern. "Haven't you heard the end of the song? Things go wrong! He doesn't get his wife back!"

“I know, but I don’t care.”

“Geralt, the story it’s just a myth… a tragic love story that one could say is a cautionary tale! You’re not supposed to follow in his footsteps, you’re supposed to learn to live with the grief, process your emotions and eventually move on… Look, I know this is hard for you. I miss her too… What happened to her wasn’t fair, but it wasn't your fault either. Blindly following the words of a myth is not going to change anything.”

“But it’s not a myth, not all of it at least.” Geralt recognized that the love story of the young man and the forest nymph might be an invention, but he knew of the existence of a door to the underworld. It was hidden and required great power and extensive knowledge of magic to be opened, but it was real. And fortunately for him, he knew one of the most powerful and skilled mages on the continent. Though convincing her to help him would not be an easy task given how things had ended between them.

"Why should I help you?" Yennefer said with annoyance in her voice when he showed up unannounced to ask for her help. It was clear that she did not enjoy the witcher's surprise visit and was not shy about showing it. "And more importantly, why are you asking for my help with something like this? I thought you of all people would know how dangerous opening the doors of the underworld is."

"Why do you care?" Geralt answered her with another question. To be honest, he didn't think the difficulties in getting her help would come from a moral issue. Yennefer was not the type of mage who cared too much about such things. "Are you in this or not?"

"That depends... what's in it for me? I hope you know I'm not going to waste my energy in helping you out of the goodness of my heart, not after all the shit you did." Geralt smiled at her remark, surprised that it had taken her so long to once again blurt out her complaints about him saving her life. She was still angry at him for linking their destinies with the wish to the Djinn and at this point he doubted she would ever get over it. 

"You get the once in a lifetime chance to traverse the underworld and possibly get knowledge beyond anyone's comprehension." He simply stated.

Yennefer was silent for a moment, watching Geralt intently, violet eyes piercing his yellow orbs. It alerted him to strengthen his mental shield to keep her from entering his thoughts. 

"When you live as long as I have, once in a lifetime opportunities start losing power and meaning."

"I'm offering you an opportunity to explore the unexplored and that's your answer? This could have all the answers you've spent years looking for and you're not interested?"

"Oh I'm interested, I just can't understand why Geralt of Rivia, the mighty witcher who prides in his indifference and ability to not intervene, would be interested in opening the gates to the underworld?"

"I have my reasons and they are not of your concern. Are you going to help me or not?"

Yennfer was silent for a moment, considering her options. And then, she smiled at him, and he knew he could count on her help.

Preparing for such an adventure was difficult. It was the first time in his life that Geralt did not know what to expect. He had no idea what he was going to encounter once they crossed the gates to the world of the dead. He didn't know what kind of obstacles he would encounter on the journey or if he would even accomplish his task. But he had to try. Even if it was the last thing he did, he owed it to her. 

It was difficult to prepare for the uncertain, so he tried to imagine all possible scenarios and prepare accordingly. He tried to be as meticulous as possible, but he knew it was impossible to stay on top of everything. What he never imagined, however, was that trouble would come from Yennefer's end. He always saw her as such a powerful and determined individual that he did not take into consideration that her energy could wear out and her magic could be consumed. Geralt had no way of really knowing how demanding the spell to open the gates of the underworld would be. He knew it was not something that just anyone could do, but he thought Yennefer could handle it without much trouble. He had never seen magic like hers. And what she lacked in skill, she made up for in stubbornness, so he thought that with her by his side things would not be so difficult.

However, the moment they took a step into the world of the dead, Yennefer fell weakly into the witcher's arms. She muttered something about having spent her energy and how the nature of the place did not allow her to pull herself together. Geralt suggested that she stay outside, after all, this wasn't her fight and she didn't have to risk so much for him. And at that instant, as if the walls were listening to them, the doors closed, leaving only one possible path.

The place was cold and dark, like a cave hidden deep in a mountain. There was not so much as a ray of sunlight, the little light that illuminated their way came from torches distributed along the stone walls. The air was heavy, stale, and it was hard to breathe. It was clear that this was no place for the living, but Geralt continued on his way despite the difficulties. He took Yennefer by the waist, letting her wrap one arm around his shoulders so she could walk, and followed the straight path that the torches seemed to indicate. At the end of the tunnel he came to a large river, and on the shore rested a boat. Inside it stood a hooded figure, long black robes covered its entire body in a way that Geralt could not see its face when it turned to look at them, only a void lost inside the hood.

"He's been waiting for you." The figure spoke, stepping aside so they could board the boat. Geralt hesitated, thinking back to all the catastrophic scenarios he had imagined in preparation for this moment. Surely that had to be a trap, things couldn't be that simple, could they?

"He wants to speak to you, Geralt of Rivia." The figure spoke again as it noticed the hesitation in the witcher's attitude. "He sent me to find you and ensure your safe passage through these waters." He did not trust it, but Yennefer pushed him into the boat with what little strength she had, so he had no other choice.

The dark figure did not utter another word. It went about its task in complete silence, paddling in the waters of oblivion until it brought them close to shore. It did not help them down once they reached their destination, nor did it open its mouth to give them directions. Just pointed a long, skeletal finger toward the horizon and set off the same way it had come. 

A dark, dead forest loomed before them. Long, thin tree trunks, nearly leafless branches and shabby bushes decorated the path. Everything seemed to be in shades of black and gray, though that was probably due to the lack of sun. In the distance a structure could be seen, a castle whose colors matched the rest of the landscape. Although the neat and polished appearance of its exterior contrasted with the disheveled and dead environment around it. It was clear that that was where they should go, so Geralt took Yennefer in his arms once more and set off on his way. 

There was not much distance separating them from the castle, but the witcher felt as if he had spent an eternity walking. And yet, at the same time, when he reached the large wooden gates, he was amazed to have reached his destination so quickly.  His perception of time was totally altered, affected by the atmosphere of the place.  Time did not flow there in the same way as it did on the surface. It was as if it was both stopped and accelerated all at once, as if each step took hours and at the same time a couple of seconds. It was more than the absence of sunlight confusing his perception. It was the way things worked in that place, a world separate from the one lying on the surface that he was not supposed to access.

The man who appeared in front of them when the doors opened on their own was imposing, but far less frightening than Geralt expected. It was enough to look into his eyes to know that he was the person in charge of the place. Power shone in his eyes in the same way the witcher had seen it in the kings in the world of the living. And yet, there was something unique about them, something that made it clear that he was no mere mortal. Geralt knew better than to challenge him, though he wasn't sure his emotions would allow him to be cautious if things didn't go as he hoped.

"I've been waiting for you, witcher." the god said in a loud, clear voice. "I'm surprised it took you this long to find me."

Geralt was not pleased to learn that he had been waiting for him. He had imagined it might be a possibility, but he thought the god would use that knowledge to stop him. The fact that he welcomed him without trials or difficulties, sending his people to look for him and opening the doors of his home to him without hesitation, made him suspicious.  For all he knew, it could all be a trap.

"Oh don't flatter yourself, witcher! I have far more important things to do than to set you up." The god spoke as if reading his thoughts. 

"You knew I was coming?" Geralt managed to say and the god nodded.

"And most importantly, I know why you are here. I knew you were going to find your way here the second she came in."

The mere mention of his beloved in the conversation had Geralt's heart racing, a gesture of both love and anxiety. He felt Yennefer's eyes on him, watching him with furrowed brows as she tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together. She knew of his former lover, the forest nymph he had abandoned after their destinies were linked, and he had no doubt that she would understand what was happening in just a second, but he didn't care. All he wanted was to have her back.

"So, I'm assuming you know why I'm here."

"I do, yes. And I will not be opposing to your wishes, Geralt of Rivia. I knew from the first moment that this was not her time and I am willing to give her another chance to live out her destiny without surprise interruptions from magic... However, I do have one condition."

"And you say it was not a trap..."

"It is not! It is just a simple... exchange."

"An exchange of what?"

The god paused, taking his moment to answer.

"Souls are complex things, Geralt. Very powerful, very strong... I can't just let one walk out of here."

"Why not? You have plenty here."

"It's a matter of balance, I don't expect you to understand that. But, if you want your dear nymph back, you'll have to give me a soul in return."

Geralt was silent for a moment, carefully analyzing his situation. After all the work it had taken him to get there, he didn't plan to leave empty-handed. But he also didn't want to condemn an innocent soul who had nothing to do with his mistakes. So he knew exactly what he had to do.

"Fine," the witcher agreed. "Take me then. My soul for hers, it's only fair."

Yennefer tugged on his arm, ready to argue with him —thinking he was acting like an idiot by offering his life as if it was nothing—, but was interrupted before she could open her mouth by the laughter of the god in front of them.

"It's a nice gesture, but your soul isn't nearly powerful enough. It's better than an ordinary human’s soul, I'll give you that, but she's a nymph. Do you have any idea how much energy her soul contains?"

"Then name your price." Geralt said. He wasn't necessarily going to give in to his demands, but he figured it didn't hurt to learn what the god's wishes were.

"To be honest, I don't think you can get a soul of such power... however, you do have access to one that is quite close." Geralt didn't like the suggestive tone in the god's voice. And he liked it even less when his eyes fell on Yennefer as he finished the sentence.

"No!" The witcher declared as he understood the intentions behind those words. He had brought Yennefer with him to help him open the portal and nothing else. He refused to sacrifice one more life. No one else had to suffer because of his stupid decisions.

"She wouldn't suffer." The god spoke after glancing at Geralt's thoughts. "She doesn't even have to be dead, she just has to stay here with me."

"I don’t care. We're not doing this."

"Why don't you let her decide?" The god said, resting his eyes on Yennefer's violet ones. "It is a good deal. You get your lover back and she gets-"

"She gets imprisoned here forever." Geralt interrupted and the god looked at him wearily.

"She gets to be the most powerful madge in history, sitting by my side ruling the underworld... isn't that what you always wanted, Yennefer of Vengerberg, to have power beyond imaginable? What's more powerful than deciding between life and death?"

Geralt snorted at such words, finding the god's tricks very ineffective. But when he looked back at Yennefer, she had a look in her eyes that made him doubt. "You're not seriously considering his proposal, aren't you?" he approached her, speaking in a lower tone of voice so as not to be heard by the god.

"If we leave now then we traveled this far for nothing. Don't you want to get her back?"

"No if it means hurting innocent people. You have nothing to do with this."

"Except I do since the moment you made that srupid wish."

"I didn't save your life then just to leave you here now."

"You're not leaving me, I'm choosing to stay."

"You don't have to do this, Yennefer." Geralt's voice became softer. She seemed quite sure of her decision and he knew it would not be easy to persuade her otherwise, but he had to try. He didn't like the idea of leaving her behind, of sacrificing her in favor of his own happiness. 

"Oh, please! I'm not doing this just for you. I usually don't like to waste my time and energy just to end up empty handed. I came here because, as you said, it was an opportunity to find the answers I've been looking for. So why don't you worry about you and let me worry about myself?"

Yennefer rolled her eyes. And while she wasn't lying and really had interests of her own in that place, Geralt really was a big part of the reason she wanted to accept the god's offer. There was something in his eyes, the sparkle of true love, that shone every time he thought of his departed lover. It was something she had never noticed in his eyes when he looked at her. It was clear that what they had was real, it softened her hardened and withering heart, and gave her hope that love was real. Though of course, she would never admit that to Geralt. 

The witcher growled under his breath, clenching his jaw. Even though part of him didn't like the idea of leaving Yennefer behind, he couldn't help but feel somewhat relieved to hear those words. If she wanted to stay there for her own selfish reasons, then accepting the god's proposal was much easier on his conscience. 

"Are you sure about this?" He asked her once more, giving her one last chance to back out. 

Yennefer shrugged. "I lived a long time among the living, had my good share of adventures... maybe it's time to try my luck in the underworld. "

That answer was good enough for Geralt. He accepted the god's proposal, exchanging Yennefer's soul for that of his beloved nymph. She would stay in the underworld with him and in return Geralt would get a second chance with his lover. The god instructed him to return home and assured him that when he arrived, her soul would already be back in her birth tree.

As he made his way back, the thought that the god was tricking him crossed his mind. He realized that he really had nothing to assure him that he would keep his word. For all he knew, this could have been a strange move by the god to get to Yennefer and her powers for some reason he did not know. Perhaps he was being used as a pawn in a larger chess game that he did not know he was part of. Perhaps he had unleashed a terrible evil upon the continent without realizing it.

But then he felt it. 

The sweet scent of flowers assaulted his nostrils the moment he set foot in the forest. It was strong, much stronger than it had been in a long time. He noticed then that everything looked greener and more alive, every flower, bush and plant glowing in the warm sunlight in a way that they didn't when he left. Even the birds seemed to sing louder and more cheerfully. 

Geralt ran to the cherry blossom tree he had been tending for what had felt like an eternity. His heart was racing with every step he took, not from the physical effort, but from the anticipation. The hope of seeing her again was what had kept him sane since that horrible day he had lost her. All this time he had thought it was impossible, an illusion that only served to keep him on his feet until the pain subsided. But now it was a reality, and he had so many emotions swirling inside him that he didn't know exactly what to feel.

Suddenly, his eyes came upon a figure on the horizon. It was partially blocked by the rays of sunlight that kept him from seeing clearly, so he picked up his pace to get closer. Little by little the figure revealed itself in front of him, until it became clear to him that the one who was walking around the forest, picking flowers and petting the animals, was her. 

She looked as beautiful as he remembered her, with her long hair blowing in the wind and a sweet smile on her face. It was as if time had never passed, as if that horrible day and the pain that her death had unleashed had been just a bad dream. It was as if he had never lost her.

Geralt stopped in his tracks as his eyes fell on hers, paralyzed by the emotions coursing through him. All this time he had dreamed of this moment and now that he had her only a few feet away he didn't know how to react. His eyes blurred with tears, but he caught a glimpse of his beloved's figure running to him before he felt the warmth of her body in his arms. He held her tighter than he ever had, pulling her against his chest as a way of both making sure she was real and that she couldn't pull away from him.

"You came for me." She muttered, melting into the embrace. Her memory was somewhat fuzzy, but she remembered clearly the moment when the blade of the dagger had caressed her neck. She remembered how it had felt and the horror in Geralt's eyes as she fell into his arms, taking her last breaths. She remembered his words of comfort and his promise to make things right, as if he actually could. She still didn't understand how she was back there, but she knew it was Geralt she had to thank for her second chance at life. Somehow, he had found a way to bring her back, she was sure of that.

"I'll always come back for you." 

The kiss they shared was unlike any other. It was passionate and desperate, yet soft and tender. It was charged with all the emotions that had been left unsaid between them, sadness, regret, longing, but, above all, love. They felt that spark the moment their lips brushed, just like in the old days. Geralt hadn't realized how much he had missed feeling her soft lips on his until that moment. He allowed himself to get lost in the joy he felt, letting the warmth of her body against his slowly remove the traces of sadness and pain that had haunted him all this time.

They remained in each other's arms for a long time, enjoying the moment they had both been longing for so long. It was just him, her and the chirping of birds in the trees. Breathing in the floral scent of her hair, Geralt knew that the gray days were behind him. Gone were the guilt and the pain, the sleepless nights and the cold mornings without his beloved. She was back by his side, just as she always should have been. And he was more than happy for the new beginning he had with her. A new chance to make things right, to honor his word and keep his promise, just as he should have done from the beginning. He was ashamed that he had had to lose her to realize how big his mistake had been, but now that he had her back he wasn't going to let her go. His love had proven to be stronger than everything, even death itself.

[anundyingfidelity]

I'M A RUIN — Soldier Boy/Ben (Part VIII)

Series summary: After the events of the Seven Tower, you present Grace Mallory a new secret project you're working on already to develop a cure to Compound V. The only problem? You need Soldier Boy for that.

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x female reader.

Word count: 5.1k.

Warnings for series: set after S3 (spoilers), some OOC!Ben, some depressed!Ben, angst, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, slow-burn, language, PTSD, reader has Compound V (she's no Vought supe tho), Soldier Boy being an usual asshole, reader is a fucking liar.

Warnings on this chapter: irresponsable parent, one suicide thought, nudity, implied bisexual reader, misoginist thoughts, Homelander (!!!!), SMUT, hate/rough sex, unprotected sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, dirty talking, some degrading, slight choking, bitchy reader.

Notes: i might wrote more than intended here lmao but the smut is here finally you sinners, give this reader a trophy for the strongest bitch ever to resist soldier boy, well deserved!! hope you like it lol, and thanks for reading as always!!

this fic tags: @k-slla @syrma-sensei @mostlymarvelgirl @cheynovak @drasticemotions @soldirboy @deans-spinster-witch @girlsforpjm @artemys-ackles

☕ if you like my writing, support me with a ko-fi !

get yourself in the taglist!

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII

GEN MASTERLIST! — SERIES MASTERLIST!

Part VIII: Tamed

2009

"Baby, how was your audition today?" your mother asked once you entered the kitchen.

Your suit was long gone along with the great smile you put on before leaving early that day. But she was different. She was all honey and candy, putting on the happiest face ever. And you knew it wasn't because of you.

"I'm not doing that shit," you spit harshly. This was your way of delivering the news now.

Her eyes widened as she closed the distance between both. You looked down to your feet, not wanting to see her disgusting face. You felt her hands on your shoulders and your body tensed under her touch.

"Why?! This is your dream, honey! You have to do it!"

You quickly pulled away from her.

"No! Mom, you did this to me!" your voice came out loud and shouting. "I just wanted to be normal! But you always influenced me to do this and go after Vought, I don't fucking want that! Those supes are fucking assholes and everything around them is a damn lie!"

She was startled, you could tell that from the way her eyes widened and her mouth fell open as she placed her hand on top of her heart, pretending to be hurted. It was the first time you talked back to her like that.

Since you were a child, you did everything she asked you to. You never complained, never stood up for yourself. You didn't have a choice, nor an opinion that mattered. Your mother picked everything for you. Your clothes, your behavior, your food, your studies, your dreams... Today, you decided it was over. She was over controlling your life.

Your mother scoffed, a sly smile on her lips as she tried to touch your arm softly. Giving a step back, you shook your head saying 'no'. She sighed.

"Honey, this isn't you. And Vought, this is your dream. The Seven are your dream. Now, why don't you go back and-"

"I said no."

You cut off her stupid words with a straight voice. Her smile dropped in a second and you saw her eyes darkening.

"Y/N, this is not what your father wanted for you. We didn't raise you like this," she hissed through her teeth. 

"Don't talk about dad. You don't care about him, you never did. Fuck, you don't care about me!" you raised your voice, fighting the tears in your eyes and the knot on your throat.

You were so sick of being weak. She raised you to be like it. Soft, fragile, compassionate, cute, playing the dumb rich girl with no brain and forcing you to not show your intelligence to others... It was all a façade. It was easier for her to manipulate you if you pretended to be stupid. Since her pregnancy, all you were for her was a cashback. Your father already had an heir, and what could be better if that heir was also part of The Seven, the most powerful supes of the planet. Of course, Vought shares would be higher than ever and your mother would be even more disgustingly rich. And you would be giving everything away for free. It wasn't fair for your selfish mother to suck your life away like this. But in the end, she didn't care.

"I'm not staying here. I'm leaving," you continued, crossing your arms on your chest. "I want my part of dad's inheritance, and I'm gonna be a fucking doctor and show off my brain after decades of hiding it, I've had enough of you stopping me."

"No, no, baby, you can't do this to me–"

"If you don't, I'll sue you and expose you, Vought and Homelander on a fucking trial."

She scoffed. You could see the tears forming on her eyes, but you weren't sure if they were because of you leaving or because you were threatening her money.

"You won't do that. They'll kill you."

"I don't care, I already tried to kill myself. They'd be doing me a favor."

At your confession, her jaw clenched and she tightened her fists.

"Fucking brat. Someday, when you regret running away from me, don't come back. You're just a disappointment for me, ever since you were a stupid child. Everything you are is useless and worthless, and I regret ever putting you in my womb."

Your brows furrowed when she spilled those harsh words, and you fought the urge of hitting her until she passed out.

"Don't think I ever told you, but yeah, you weren't a natural conceive. Yeah, we used his sperm and everything. The point is- I didn't want fucking kids, but your dad, ugh god, he did. And I gave you to him. All I get to say is, I was better without you. Probably if I should've waited just a little, my child wouldn't be a fucking ungrateful piece of shit standing right here," she gave you a grin. A sick one, as her fingers ran through your hair like she used to when you were a little girl.

You wanted to knock her off and run. But you just stood there, biting the inside of your cheek and tasting your own blood as she finally revealed herself to you, her daughter. It was clear you meant nothing to her. And you just wished your dad would be alive. He wouldn't force you into that stupid audition anyway.

"I pity you," she mocked. "But if that's what you wanna do, then leave. And don't you dare to come back."

A loud knock on his door woke him up from a deep slumber. Ben rubbed his eyes, groaning at the stupid sound of your voice calling him from the other side over and over. This was becoming a fucking routine he was starting to hate.

"Fucking shit," he mumbled, removing the blankets off his bare body when the door finally opened and you walked inside, stopping by his side of the bed.

"C'mon, Soldier Boy, get your ass up. You didn't wash the dishes last night."

Ben rolled on the bed and looked at the clock in the nightstand. He grunted. "It's fucking 6 A.M."

"Yes, and I have shit to do before I leave grocery shopping," you said, looking around his room. There were clothes everywhere you knew needed a good wash, an open bag with weed on top of the desk, joints and cigarettes, and a bunch of toilet paper littered on the floor you didn't want to know about. "One of them is watching you to make sure you clean the cave you live in."

Ben groaned, cursing under his breath, but stood up from the mattress with a wide grin. He noticed you always did your best to keep your eyes upon his face. Even if it wasn't the first time you had to see him like this, he enjoyed the way your body and face reacted to his naked form. So he got used to sleeping with no clothes on, knowing you'd always come to get him for breakfast. He could get used to it. Except for the part where he had to clean shit. That's why you were there. It was your fucking task to clean everything. Women's duties. But he had to endure the fucking times.

He got to complain to you every single day, every morning, and it was becoming already part of his routine too. But you somehow forced him to clean shit up and then he had to wait for his food, for his weed, lube and more clothes and shit you brought every time you were out. At some point, he thought he could be used to you feeding him up, but he still had a mission and it didn't matter how many times he had been sneaking into every room in your place, checking inside your office, how many times he had been searching through your bedroom on the drawers and smelling your lingerie, he still found nothing. He was pretty sure there was something else he wasn't really seeing yet. And Homelander on the TV along with those fuckers Victoria and Dakota Bob wasn't making his personal mission any easier, nor having no clue of where this kid Ryan was.

"Put some pants on," you said, interrupting his daydream.

"Whatever," Ben rolled his eyes and walked past you, taking a pair of pants from the carpeted floor.

"God, you're so fucking stoned," you mumbled watching as he dressed himself. "Get this mess cleaned after the dishes, I don't want to greet this shithole every morning."

"And what's in it for me, doll?" he asked, passing by your side and getting inside the bathroom.

He never bothered to shut the door closed while taking a piss, and this was, also, something you got used to seeing and hearing. When he finished, he came back with a smirk, stopping his tracks right in front of you.

"Nothing. There's nothing for you, stop acting like a dog begging for a bone."

"Yeah, well I'd like your pretty bones better.”

He gave you a wink and walked out the bedroom. God, he was so damn annoying. You followed him quickly and climbed down the stairs just to make sure he would start washing the dirty dishes from the last dinner you had.

“Make sure to scrub them correctly,” you said as you looked at how he turned on the sink.

Ben grunted in frustration, looking at you from the corner of his eye. It was always the fucking same with you, giving him directions he already knew the whole time.

“Fuck, woman, you’re so fucking annoying. I’m no damn pussy, I can do this without your ass here.”

The way he answered made you grin, getting closer to him until your arm was pressed against his own. “Yeah, I know you’re not stupid. I’m just making sure I’m taming you well.”

Ben’s eyes widened a little, clearly surprised by your boldness but not too much. Because the one who should be taming who, was him towards you. His macho self wouldn’t let a woman treat him like that. It didn’t matter he was hitting on you since the moment he met you in the facility, like doctor and patient. Ben was pretty sure that, besides his own personal payback, you would fall for him eventually. And once you do, because he was pretty sure it’d happen sooner or later, he would give you the best fuck ever. He turned his gaze to you as you looked at him with innocent eyes.

“I’d shut my mouth if I were you, sweetheart,” Ben warned in a low voice, taking in your figure standing so close to him that your warmth could be felt all along his body. “I don’t wanna screw you yet.”

“I take that as a challenge.”

The sun was almost setting down as you drove back home. It took you more than expected to complete the second shopping trip of the week and you were getting tired and spent. Sleep was becoming a privilege at this point. The past nights you had confined yourself to the lab down the bunker, and just now, you felt the cure was ready. Almost ready. The most important component was missing and you were still considering things you might regret later.

The low sound of the radio accompanied your thoughts as you traveled on the road, and the ways you’d like to tell Soldier Boy about all the mess you were getting into under Grace’s supervision, who had just called two fucking times in days. But part of you was afraid Ben wouldn’t understand the importance of a cure. He was a supe, and without his powers, he was fucking nothing. Just like Homelander. Even if he had made it clear that he hated his own son, you doubted to trust him and you felt the same hateful feeling towards you coming from him. At this point, you knew you were just putting up a stupid act.

And you started wondering if it should’ve been easier if you just let him between your legs and take what he wanted. He was a simple man; he saw a fuckable female, he wanted her. Surely you also knew when a man, woman, or anyone was attractive, but you just didn’t want that. You didn’t want him to feel like he won this battle. It was too fucking much, and you stopped sleeping around with strangers a couple of years back. The problem was, Ben wasn’t a stranger anymore, not to you.

Suddenly, a figure landed a few feet away from you on the highway. You hit the brake of your car as fast as your reflexes allowed you to, seeing red, blue and white. Once your car stopped completely, you met with the last person you’d ever wanted to see. Homelander smiled widely as you locked eyes with him through the windshield. He surrounded the car until he came by your side, standing outside your door. You turned on the flashing lights of the car and turned the engine off, it wasn't like you could escape anyway.

“Nice to see you around, doc,” he greeted.

“Why are you following me?”

“I told you before; I have eyes on you.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing tightly the wheel between your hands. “I don't know what you want me to do.”

“Don’t be stupid. That cure won’t see the light, I’m making sure of that,” Homelander leaned on your open window and your head moved away slightly as he studied the insides of your car.  “You’re welcome by the way.”

“For what? For trying to kill me? For taking my father’s money for your stupid circus? For touching me?” you hissed.

He chuckled, straightening himself again. “For taking you out, silly.”

A long sigh escaped your lips. “So this is your plan in the end.”

“It always has been. I know every move you make, the stores you go each week, I even know where you’re living right now and how you work your ass off that stupid experiment of yours,” his words made you visibly tense and he noticed, like every little reaction coming from you. “How’s the old man doing by the way?” he asked, as if it was just another chat between friends.

“You make me sick.”

“Oh, no. I want you healthy,” Homelander placed a hand on your wrist. “Please eat well and rest enough. Don’t burn yourself out, honey, it's useless.”

You started shaking your head, confusion fogging your mind at the way he talked like he had something prepared for you. “You’re fucked, Homelander,” you whispered.

You were trying to convince yourself more than him, scared of what he would do to you, forcing you into this twisted mouse and cat game. He just smiled widely at your words, laughing under his breath.

“Once I have you under my mercy,” you continued, holding his gaze. “You’re gonna be fucking nothing. I promise you that.”

His hand wrapped around your neck and for a moment you thought he would kill you right there. “I can’t wait to see you try and fail miserably, I’ll enjoy that show. Might become my favorite.”

Homelander let go of his grip roughly, allowing you to breathe again.

“Fuck you,” you spat back.

He chuckled, straightening himself and walking away from your car, giving you a last glance. “Not yet, doctor. Not yet.”

Once back in the spot where he landed, he flew away and you were left alone on the road. No cars, nor people walking could be seen, but it was better that way. Forcing your hands to stop shaking, you turned the engine on again and started to drive back home. Taking your phone out, you made a call, waiting for the other line to answer. You had to act fast and track that motherfucker down, not caring if you were already regretting what you’d do next.

“So, what’s your story?”

His question surprised you more than you could tell. After dinner nights like this were becoming a really weird habit of him talking shit about this stupid century, how things were better back then and how people got dumber with time. But you never thought Soldier Boy would insist on your past, not since the first night you ate together at the same table. You finished your glass of whisky, not sure if answering his question or not.

You shrugged. “I’m not that interesting.”

Ben drank his own liquor down before asking again. “Let me rephrase that: why do you hate Vought so much?”

“Who says I hate them?”

He studied your face for a moment. The look in your eyes told nothing, but your heart rate and your breathing was always enough for him to know you were fucking lying about it. Ben had started to think of many other things you were hiding from him. But even with all that stupid mask covering you, he wanted to have you. Countless times he tried, he wasn’t going anywhere now. Nobody could resist him, you were just another game to play and he was kind of enjoying it.

“All of you. You scream inside that you want to fuck them up,” he answered. “Believe me, I want nothing more than that.”

“Didn’t you have your own payback some months ago?”

“Yes, but you already know that from my file. I’m asking about you now.”

His intense green eyes and the grit on his words caused you to think exactly what to say. You couldn’t hide it anymore, not everything at least.

“My mom. Vought experimented on her when she was pregnant, that’s why I have powers,” you said, dry and straight to the point.

“How?”

You breathed out, closing your eyes for a moment, not believing he would force you to remember the memories you had been fighting to erase.

“She was paid a huge amount of money. And she hoped her daughter would join Vought someday; she was so wrong about that,” you gave a bittersweet chuckle. “On my eighth birthday, I finally discovered my powers. There was this huge party and a lot of my parent’s rich friends and their kids, whom I didn’t know because I had no friends, were there. And then, I just remember I got overwhelmed by all these people and the attention. I always hated that. And then, my mother couldn’t find me when it was cake time. I was in my room but she couldn’t see me there. Turned out I was invisible… It was the first and the only time I could make my clothes and my shoes disappear with me.”

Ben listened attentively, much to your surprise, as he spoke once again, locking his eyes with yours. “So your powers come from your inner wish of disappearing from your mother’s sight.”

You hummed and nodded your head. “I think that’s a great way of putting it, but yes.”

“Well, I'll take it back. They fucked your life too, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, and they’re still after you anyway.”

He scoffed. “Those fucking cocksuckers. Also, where the fuck is Grace anyway? All the CIA bullshit?” he asked, quickly changing the topic abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he demanded an answer.

“No news from her apparently, nor any agents.”

“Bullshit, your last call with her was a couple of days ago and you said nothing.”

“Why are you so invested in her? You like her?” you mocked, noticing how his resemblance switched from calm to visibly annoyed. There was no fucking way you’d tell him where she was right now.

“Y’know what I’d like? A fucking reasonable answer from you, that’d be perfect,” he snarled, and you knew he was back being stubborn and childish asking the same fucking shit all the time.

“I don’t know, but when I do I’ll tell you,” you responded after remaining silent under his angry stare.

“You’ve been saying the same shit over and over—”

“Okay, so tell me what you want. You want Homelander. Good, and then what?”

He held your stare, you noticed he was trying to keep himself down. “The kid.”

“Ryan?”

“Yes, the fucking brat.”

His hard eyes were not lying and you argued back on it.

“You can’t do that, there has to be another way.”

“Fucking tell me where it is. ‘Cause I see nothing!” he shouted, his voice booming all over the room. “That fucking pussy and his fucking team, they all had him right there. And in a second, Butcher just backed up! I could’ve done it already and we wouldn’t be here, playing dollhouse.”

Spilling the truth was no option right now. He was stupidly pissed right now. But you knew it was cruel to hunt a kid down just because his father had put him into the spotlight thanks to his powers. Ben, on the other hand, was blinded by his hatred towards Homelander, and you knew he was a man of his word. He was more than able to kill Homelander and the boy for a deal, one that was broken because of a weak moment coming from Butcher. Even for your morally gray head, killing Ryan was not an option. At least not now. You hated Homelander, but you probably understood Butcher more than you’d like to admit. Soon, you would think about a plan; where to put the kid after injecting the anti V.

“Let me give you a lead when I can,” you said.

“Tell me why should I trust you.”

“It’s your choice, honestly. Probably you shouldn’t, but I may give you something sooner or later.”

Without waiting for his response, you took the empty dishes to the sink, and Ben followed you with his eyes, taking in the softness of your exposed skin through the short summer dress. He liked the way the fabric hugged your curves and how it fell over your legs, inviting him to have a taste. Ben noticed you putting on shorts and dresses more often the last few days, and he was thankful for the hot weather to be able to see you like this. The past nights, he had jerked off with you in mind, wondering when he’d be the man to put you in place. Perhaps he just needed to try again.

He got on his feet as you talked, but none of the things coming out of your mouth were important as he put his weight behind your body, his hands roaming over your arms before you got to start washing the dirty plates.

“Do you not get tired of trying?” you breathed out.

You felt his rough hands caressing your arms, before moving down your waist, pressing your ass against the bulge growing on his pants. He smiled to himself once he heard the loud gasp coming from your mouth.

“Just tell me you haven’t thought about it,” he whispered, placing his lips down your neck, nipping softly at your sensitive skin, as he massaged your flesh, going to the curve of your ass.

“And when you get this, what?” you asked, turning around to meet his dark eyes. He was practically devouring you with his stare. You’d be lying if you didn’t find him hot, looking at you like that, as if you were the last and only meal that could end his greedy hunger.

He smiled, and whispered cockily against your lips. “You can always ask me for a second round.”

Fuck it.

You captured his lips in an impatient kiss, nibbling at his bottom lip with urgency as you tasted the whisky from his mouth, your breaths mixing and panting as he lifted you up without further effort. Ben walked towards the countertop in the middle of your kitchen, placing you on the surface as he spread your legs. You welcomed him closer, feeling his hands traveling freely under the thin fabric of your dress, feeling the softness of your legs, your inner thighs, until he rubbed over your panties. You let out a moan against his mouth when his fingers found your folds and you held tightly against the corner of the countertop.

“You’re dripping, sweetheart,” he growled, breaking the kiss.

“It’s been a while, ohfuck!”

A shiver ran down your spine as he stretched your pussy with one thick finger, his lips trailed down your neck to your collarbone, sucking and nipping on your skin. Your walls fluttered as he pumped in and out, and your hips set a move on its own. He hissed against your skin as he worked you open and ready for his hard cock, growing excitedly in his pants. A second finger slipped in and you clenched.

Ben smirked and you felt the burning feeling of his beard as he kissed your shoulder. You wondered how he’d feel between your legs, bruising your inner thighs with his big hands and the burning of his facial hair. The frantic fucking from his fingers pushed you to the edge, moaning and panting for air as his thumb played with your clit. You gripped on his forearms, looking for something to hold on tight as you reached that sweet high.

“Fuck, you did so well,” he praised, pulling his fingers out of your pussy, leaving you empty. He brought his wet fingers to your lips and you complied, opening your mouth. You licked his fingers, locking your eyes with his. “Wonder what twirls your pretty mouth has for me,” Ben pushed his fingers further, making you gag for a bit. “I’ve been thinking of hundreds of ways of finally holding your tongue with my cock.”

His other hand wrapped your neck, as he forced you to suck his fingers harder, hitting your gag reflex over and over. He discovered he loved hearing your breathy sounds and the dirty look in your eyes while you sucked his digits. When he pulled out his fingers from your mouth, you took in a deep breath, but the grip on your neck grew tighter as he pressed his forehead against yours.

“You’ll have to go down on me first if you want my mouth,” you whispered against his lips.

Ben could hear your heart racing, and he was sure you got all dizzy and bothered just by his hand. “Oh, is that so?” he rasped.

You rolled your eyes, growing impatient. “Why don’t you shut up and fuck me hard?”

And there it was. They’d always beg for him in the end. He smiled down at you, loosening the grip around your throat. “With pleasure.”

His hands wasted no time in getting rid of your dress, discarding your panties and your bra ripping them in half. You moaned when his palms groped on your tits, playing with your nipples and squeezing them harshly. God, you were getting wet again just by the feeling of his mouth biting on your soft buds. Quickly, you reached for his pants, touching his hard cock over the fabric. Ben growled, feeling the softness of your palm stroking him gently. Good choice not wearing anything underneath. Your other hand tugged at his shirt until it was discarded over the floor, his pants following after.

He got you off the countertop so your feet were on the ground, and turned you swiftly, laying you down on your chest on the cold surface. He massaged the sides of your hips, running down his palms over your ass with a hiss.

“Now this is quite a view.”

You moaned as his fingers played with your entrance. “Fuck, Ben, just do it already.”

“Shit, doll, I love when you beg.”

He stroked his cock with your juices before aligning with your pussy, slowly sliding in your wet heat. He stretched you out inch by inch, and you became a whimpering mess. After a moment of staying still balls deep in your wet core, he snapped his hips against your ass, setting a brutal pace. Loud moans and screams escaped your throat. You couldn’t hold it back anymore. You knew your fingers stopped being enough each time you needed sweet release, and probably you would regret him fucking you later, but right now you didn’t care. His fingers inside your cunt, the way he would handle your body like a feather just for his disposition and to get off with, and now his cock filling you up was becoming too much. But you loved it.

Soldier Boy felt too good inside you, fucking your brains over and over. His hands bruising your hips, groping the flesh of your ass and breasts, as he pounded into you, everything was like heaven and you were sure you’d be spent once it was over. His dark, lusty eyes memorized every inch of your body and the way your pussy engulfed his dick with each thrust. The kitchen was filled with your whimpers and his animalistic growls, mixed with the sound of his skin hitting against your own. He hit on that sweet spot repeatedly, making your walls clench around his cock.

“Jesus, you’re coming pretty quickly today,” Ben teased under his breath, his fingers tangling in your hair pulling your back against his muscular chest. “Wait for me, doll,” he whispered in your ear, satisfied on how fucked out and desperate you were underneath.

“Do it fast, you asshole! Fuck!”

Your pussy fluttered and clenched on his cock as he hit your spot again. With a loud moan, you finally reached the climax you longed for so long, and took his deep, rough thrusts as he fucked you through bliss. His name escaped your throat countless times, coming down from your high. Ben growled, your orgasm and the spasms of your cunt triggered his own, and he finally released himself inside your tight pussy.

And how good it felt to finally have you there, begging and crying for his cock. It was so much better than his own imagination, and he took in great pleasure on fucking the brat out of you. He continued bucking his hips until his white seed started leaking down your thighs, and finally stopped. The only sound in the room being your tired breaths.

“Oh, shit,” you gasped, feeling his grip on your scalp softening.

He sucked on your neck one last time with a cocky grin on his lips. “I told you I’d be a great fuck, sweetheart.”

“I wish you could shut up for once,” you answered back, looking at him from your side, and feeling his cock softening inside you. “I might have my methods.”

He bucked his hips one more time. A whimper escaped past your lips as he pulled you back against his chest in a swift motion, his fingers traced your neckline. “So do I, doll.”

Next Part >>>

[thelastofhyde]

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

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 15k

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

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

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

The mirror is not clean enough to see yourself.

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

It’s something new to fidget with.

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

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

If you do, you’ll blame him.

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

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

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

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

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

You were careful all night to never speak of him.

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

And then it happened.

You didn’t say his name, no.

Not aloud.

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

But it was enough to make you want to leave.

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

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

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

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

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

There were usually three of them.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t have an answer.

You didn’t get to give an answer.

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

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

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

Javier Peña was none of that.

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

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

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

It was like, nothing.

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

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

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

That was never part of the plan.

Neither was skipping dinner, though.

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

His hair, freshly cut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you stumble to the elevator.

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

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

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

“Déjame. (Let me.)”

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

He catches you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m glad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thud against the nightstand.

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

The undressing is gentle and so unlike his usual impatience.

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

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

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

He looks like he wants to.

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

Against your forehead, lips that linger.

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

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

Vermont, ‘98.

That’s where it all began.

Your dad, turning fifty.

Javi just hit forty.

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

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

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

Wrong.

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

Textbooks on the table, glasses on your face.

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

Peaceful and quaint, until it wasn’t.

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

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

You put your head down, breathed more subtly.

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

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

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

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

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

Inching towards the exit, footsteps light as a feather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not in the mood.”

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

“I have an early flight.”

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

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

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

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

“I ain’t done talkin’ to you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t remember which direction you turned.

“Quit running, you bitch!”

He was still following, how was he still following?

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

He was getting faster. Maybe you were getting slower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thumb swiped over your palm.

Your mouth winced, your arm pulled back.

He held you in place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was instinctual, no thought placed behind his action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took you back to his own cabin instead.

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

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

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

Late june brings nothing but gloom.

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

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

Tonight, you’re appeasing them.

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

Truth be told, you don’t want to go.

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

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

In the mirror, it’s still lopsided.

The clock sits at eight forty-seven.

They’re 2 minutes late.

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

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

Dive back in, search again.

An empty tube of lipbalm.

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

A broken earring.

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

Bile burns the back of your throat.

He opens on the fifth knock.

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

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

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

The air’s uncomfortably quiet.

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

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

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

The silence returns.

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

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

You notice his bedroom door is shut.

It’s never been shut before.

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

He blinks, slowly.

It’s hard to tell if it’s from guilt.

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

He doesn’t answer.

You keep talking.

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

“This needs to stop.”

You don’t have to question it.

You do, anyway.

“What?”

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

“I don’t underst-”

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

He’s stern.

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

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

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

Everything, you want to tell him.

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

“I just thought-”

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

I know, you mouth.

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

When he calls to make sure you got home safe.

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

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

Javier Peña is not your boyfriend.

So why does he act like it?

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

Kid.

That makes you angry.

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

“Don’t call me kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, the back-and-forth stops.

Silence.

You take the lead.

“So, what? That’s it just... over?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too late, you want to say.

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

“Corazón, I’m so sor-”

The car honks, again.

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

Another honk.

You never make it to the line dance.

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

Love’s a verb And not a bandage

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

A promise of casual, turned into something fragile.

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

All you remember is a pounding at your front door.

1 am. Too late to be causing ruckus.

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

Pause.

This could be anyone, anything.

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

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

You let him invade your senses.

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

You pull back. He follows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, you do trip over them.

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

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

The gold of his skin shines brighter.

The red on his skin appears darker.

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

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

Later with Javi never seems to come.

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

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

‘I’ll get these back to you later.’

He’d never made you that dinner.

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

You’d never gotten those panties back.

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

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

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

Distractions are not welcomed, your patient needs tending to.

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

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

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

It does the trick, unlocks his tongue.

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

He hisses.

You’re pressing too hard on his fragile lip.

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

A splotch of red stains your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

Javi sighs, gives in.

He always gives in, to you, eventually.

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

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

He doesn’t need to.

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

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

He’s rambling.

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

You listen closely, swallow up every morsel he offers.

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

He chokes.

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

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

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

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

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

He nods.

“Did you help her?”

Another nod.

“Did you get her someplace safe?”

This time, a reply.

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

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

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

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

“What more could you have done?”

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

You whine out his name.

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

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

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

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

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

The words catch in your throat.

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

But mostly because he kisses you.

Desperate, hungry. Groaning into your willing mouth.

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

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

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

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

When Javi fucks you, he fucks with purpose.

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

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

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

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

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

When did Javier Peña stop wanting you?

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

By July, things change.

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

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

Boredom leads to hobbies.

At first, you try pottery.

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

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

You hate it, running.

You sweat, you ache, you exhaust.

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

The heartache.

The headache.

The agent.

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

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

The pink shirt still lives on one of your hangers.

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

Not right now.

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

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

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

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

Today, however, it’s more challenging.

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

You have to come, kiddo.

The phone-call still echos through your thoughts.

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

You’d wanted a better explanation than that.

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

You had no plans.

Bring your friends then! The more the merrier!

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

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

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

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

He said it, like that would persuade you.

Keep asking about ya, the whole lot of them.

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

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

You’d hung up.

Immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

Until you come to a screeching halt.

Double over.

Place your hands on your knees.

Dry heave.

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

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

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

You’ll have to see him.

Spend time near him.

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

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

For not quitting the force.

For being your dad’s friend.

For not wanting you the same you wanted him.

Want him.

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

You’re usually more careful.

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

You pick your pace back up.

Manage only a handful-or-two steps.

Your feet fly out in front of you.

Land ass-first on the gravel below.

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

You groan and prepare to get back on your feet.

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

Big mistake.

The hand tugs you.

You glance up.

And meet the eyes of Javier Peña.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You come up empty handed.

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

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

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

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

Wedding attire, a post-party glow.

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

Had he smiled, then?

Had he even been there?

Or was he merely a product of martinis and negronnis-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I- What?” Confussion.

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

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

Adjusts your piercing, swipes his thumb over your cheek.

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

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

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

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

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

Or both.

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

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

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

Your father’s voice.

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

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

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

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

Maybe it’s sadness you see.

There’s definitely remorse.

Guilt, too.

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

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

But none of that matter, anymore.

You’re already walking away.

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

He calls out your name, loudly.

Attracts the nosy eyes of people around.

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

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

He reaches out for your hand.

And quickly gives up on the thought of holding it.

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

He knows the answer.

You still give him it, “yes.”

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

You feel his eyes on you.

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

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

You’re laughing but it’s mostly fake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not her fault. You know.

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

Your dad is.

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

Even from here, you can hear him bragging.

So then Peña’s on his ass.

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

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

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

He’s exaggerating.

The guy was barely going 5 miles an hour!

He stepped out the vehicle at his own will.

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

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

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

If you step inside the frame, it cracks.

Shatters.

And maybe he knows that.

Knew it all along.

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

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

The feeling lasts all but four seconds.

“Kiddo!”

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

It takes a moment, but you wave.

“Come over ‘ere!”

Not the response you were hoping for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not a sight you want to see.

It fills you with dread.

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

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

“London.”

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

All eyes snap to him.

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

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

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

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

That peaks your interest.

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

“Really?”

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

With Javi, friends could mean anything.

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

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

So it’s best you don’t inquire on it.

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

“Mr... Bond?”

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

You can practically hear it, in his voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His lips press against your hairline before speaking again.

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

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

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

It’s too late though.

You’re already snoring against his skin.

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

For a minute, it feels like she knows.

She knows why Javi knows.

You should be panicking.

Both of you should.

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

But you aren’t. Neither of you are.

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

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

Your dad gives an unceremonious oh.

Your mom rolls her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pulls her close, kisses her shoulder.

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

Open, celebrated, acknowledged.

Not secretive, dirty, scandalous.

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

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

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

Your heart drops.

Javi’s seems to do the same.

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

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

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

But I’m actually bloody Motherfucking batshit crazy

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

You’ve lived plenty of such moments.

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

And all because you heard his voice.

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

He’s facing a woman.

She’s pretty.

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

And a well-rounded belly.

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

You’ve never seen her before.

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

She’s a total stranger, to you.

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

A very pregnant, non-stranger.

“We gotta get this kid some better taste.”

His hand rests on her bump.

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

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

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

You won’t let it fester.

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

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

Was she the reason things between you and him ended?

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

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

Surely, he couldn’t have.

But, then, why couldn’t he have?

You were never exclusive.

You were never anything.

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

Your heart’s palpitating.

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

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

Because, how could he do this to you?

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

Love you so deeply and leave you so easily?

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

“He’s a real kicker, ain’t he?”

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

But, no, it’s too distant. Too far.

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

He’s handsome, in the typical sense.

Blonde haired, a nice smile.

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

“He?” It’s Javi who echoes.

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

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

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

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

The bile in your throat burns more than ever before.

The misplaced anger bleeds into sadness, shame, embarrassment.

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

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

Friends his own age.

Worlds apart, yet nothing but a shelf between you.

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

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

The little girl perks right up at that.

Eyes widened, head off her father’s shoulder.

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

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

“Quit lying to my kid, Peña.”

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

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

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

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

Your breathing stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flicker up to the shelf and-

He’s no longer standing on the other side.

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

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

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

You wake up early.

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

Making the most out of your time upon foreign land.

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

The truth lies in that you can not sleep.

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

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

A quarter past six.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your ringtone is the culprit.

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

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

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

“Corazón.”

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

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

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

Sadness that it sounds so broken down the line.

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

“I’m here,” it’s only a whisper.

It’s enough to shut him up.

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

“You’re in London,” he states.

“I am,” you affirm.

He hums, sips something.

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

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

“Yeah,” you spare him the details.

The truth.

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

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

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

You sure felt alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For answers, for clarity, for closure

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

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

Even then, it kills you to do so.

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

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

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

“What answer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The image doesn’t quite form.

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

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

Refuge he’s willing to share with you.

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

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

“Promise me you’ll go, corazón.”

Your reply is instant, “I promise.”

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

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

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

“How you feeling, kiddo?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of them have, really.

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

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

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

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

“You’re literally in my room!”

“Which is literally in my house!”

Downstairs, your mother yells something unintelligible.

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

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

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

Tupperware, clasped in his hand.

The contents are hard to decipher.

Luckily, your father spots you eyeing it.

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

Your stomach growls, hungry and unfed.

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

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

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

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

Immediately, you spot chicken.

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

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

Your father continues, practically talking to himself.

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

“Cazuela de ave.”

A change into warmer, drier clothes.

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

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

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

And that fact is partly what warms your insides.

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

Objectively, you think, he’s gorgeous.

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

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

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

The scent alone is enough to have you salivating. 

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

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

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

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

A real date.

Only, this isn’t even a fake date.

You guys don’t do that.

“It’s- It was my mom’s recipe.”

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

He’s never mentioned his mother.

Or much about his family, really.

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

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

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

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

Open.

His eyes, his mind, his heart.

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

“Was she a good cook?”

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

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

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

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

It’s disturbingly beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know what to say.

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

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

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

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

Both of you settle back in your seats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She would have liked you.”

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

They’re as open as before.

“Really?”

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

“Kiddo?”

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

“Hmm?” 

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

“I’m- Yeah, just tired, s’all.”

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

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

[raayllum]

Amaya's arc (S1-S5)

On the surface, Amaya can come off as a very flawless character.

She's a total badass, she's gay and pretty, she sees through Viren's bullshit (er, droppings?), she's kind to those in her employ, she's loyal and forthcoming, she loves her nephews and her sister, and she's not unreasonable in her elf prejudice in addition to letting go of it fairly quickly. She's also Deaf / perceived as disabled (noted here as many Deaf people do not view themselves as disabled) and, in addition to being gay, that can sometimes make people overly sanitize a character due to notions of disability making someone (particularly women) more 'innocent' or 'pure' due to infantilization.

However, I've touched briefly on her main flaw of being callous and dismissive in the past, and I've always wanted to talk more about Amaya's general arc, specifically in how she grows in empathy throughout the seasons. So let's talk about it

Just a quick disclaimer: S2 will not be really touched on as she only appears in two episodes, and they mostly serve as plot set up for S3 rather than doing any real emotional work or characterization for her. Cool? Cool

Cyclical Limbo

Amaya in S1 both perpetuates the Cycle, and she doesn't. On the one hand, like Viren, she's deeply concerned with the safety of the Breach, enough so that she's willing to return to it and delegate the search mission to Gren rather than insist upon undertaking it herself.

She hates elves and considers them monsters, much the way Claudia does in S1. In spite of a lifetime of fighting Sunfire elves at the Breach, she considers Moonshadow elves to be "the worst kind" of elf, like a monolith of loathing and fear (perhaps because of their sneaky ways or associations with death).

At the same time, she's not purely an antagonistic force to anyone. Corvus, her trusted tracker, offers Rayla a deal that shows reason ("Give me the boys peacefully and I'll let you go") and, more importantly, she foils Viren's plans to be king with her entry and reaffirmation in 1x04 and 1x05. This leads to him not having the throne all the way until two seasons later, and is undeniably a good thing.

So while Amaya is an ally to the boys and an antagonist to Viren, this plants her firmly in the middle, of both perpetuating the cycle and helping to stop others from perpetuating it. We see her increased antagonism with the Sunfire elves in s2 lean along the former vein as well.

Until of course, we don't, and we get to the heart of Amaya's arc:

Seeing Yourself In Your Enemy

This is most evident in some ways in season three and season five, with season four being an effective turning point in a dual sort of way. We see this most clearly in her bond with Janai, as Amaya sees a fellow warrior in her and that encourages Janai "to do the same" over warrior's honour. The show ramps this up in 3x07, as Amaya witnesses and comforts Janai through the most devastating loss in Amaya's loss: that of a sister.

A: When I was growing up, my big sister Sarai was the smartest, strongest, bravest person I knew. When she died, I felt lost and weak without her. I hated feeling that way, so I learned to be strong alone. Stoic, strong, and lonely.

From this point onwards, her and Janai are allies in going to the Storm Spire and in fighting Viren. It's worth noting that Amaya had no knowledge of or reason to expect finding the boys when she arrived there, so she'd clearly decided to throw her lot in entirely with Janai and her troops and fight "until the last [person] standing" alongside them.

However, Amaya's expanding heart and loyalty doesn't mean all her elf related biases disappear overnight (the same Karim's reservations about humans don't), and this is where we get to season four. Much like in season one, Amaya here stands in a limbo position. She's marrying into the elven royal family, but isn't aligned with all their traditions, most notably the full significance of the Soul Candle and initially foreshadowed due to the messed up proposal dance.

Amaya is at first solely on Lucia's side, which makes sense; Amaya is more practical than not, and this is part of the reason she can make quick and fast but strong alliances and see through Viren's bullshit.

However, her old flaw of being dismissive and sometimes insensitive also comes back.

A: What do you mean 'injustice'? All Lucia has done is put out a candle. And she was the one who was burned. K: She profaned a sacred rite. What would the punishment be in the human kingdoms? A: For blowing out a candle? Usually come clapping, followed by a slice of birthday cake. K: You see? This is the problem! Like all the other humans, even your wife-to-be thinks this is a joke.

That said, it's not as though Amaya is wrong; we are, of course, supposed to understand immediately as audience members that while what Lucia did was wrong, sentencing her to death over it is also wrong and to root for her to live (even if, at this point, she likewise doesn't think she's done anything wrong).

I think it's doubly worth noting then, her speech at the trial that she gives for Lucia, and about herself:

I came here to defend Lucia, but now I see that I cannot. She is not innocent. Prince Karim is correct: she had every opportunity to consider the pain she could cause, and she did not. She was callous. She was careless. She was cruel. And in truth...

She places herself in Lucia's shoes. This is her amends to Karim for her insensitivity, and an extension of both support and consideration for the position Jana is in, as well as a plea.

But all I ask is that your justice is compassionate. Death is not the answer. We gain nothing if we throw away the chance to learn and grow.

This is, of course, a lesson Amaya has learned personally, through her relationship with Janai — first as an enemy turned friend, then as a lover turned wife — but, of course, through her relationship with Rayla, which she first hand acknowledges in S5:

But her arc with this general theme of empathy doesn't stop there. Not only is there a nice piece of irony with Amaya initially not believing Rayla's assertion that she's alone (even when Rayla arguably does):

A: 'We'? How many of you are there? R: It's just me. I'm alone. A: Liar.

5x04 gives the two women a chance to talk and reconcile beyond that, with Amaya reminding Rayla that she doesn't have to be alone, and that she can rely on the people around her. Namely, the very nephew Amaya once attacked Rayla to protect.

A: Love and trust grow a kind of strength that is much bigger than we each possess. To have that kind of strength, it is not enough to love someone. You have to trust them to share the burdens you carry.

Likewise, this scene also brings Amaya's arc of seeing herself in others full circle, as this parallel makes plain, as well as it being a parallel that Rayla is not only able to acknowledge, but it gets through to her:

R: That does sound like me sometimes. [...] Thank you.

While Amaya can still be coarse and is undeniably clever, she's softer, more open, and more compassionate than she was two years ago. Elves are no longer monsters. People are far more capable of change, herself included, her adaptability to life and its sudden swerves in many ways one of her greatest strengths. Amaya is a warrior yes, but more than that — like her friends and family, the people she surrounds herself with — she has an even bigger heart, when given the chance.