#you will never say this aloud. you see too much of your other self in him. he is more na'vi than you ever will be.

[introspectivememories]

[yandere-daydreams]

i'm being forced by myself to make a proper post for this poll. may gojo reign as a codependent king for years to come.

Cuteness Aggression With The Yan!JJK Boys.

Characters: Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Toji, Mahito, and Sukuna.

TW: Kidnapping, Unhealthy Relationships, and Implied Non/Con.

Gojo is near-violent. Expect to be constantly covered in bruises from his habit of full-body tackling you whenever he notices you're wearing one of his shirts or curled up in his bed or quirking your lips in the way he's never been able to resist. Tends to hold onto you for a while, too, keeping you pressed against him while he squeals and coos about how adorable his partner is, making you sound like more of an especially beloved pet rather than a live-in captive. No amount of squirming will distract him, either - he's going to be there until someone literally pries him off of you which, because there's a good chance he's already got you locked up tight in that luxury penthouse of his, isn't going to be anytime soon.

Geto is more used to receiving affection than dulling it out, so he doesn't really know what to do with himself when he's suddenly overwhelmed with the temptation to wrap his hands around your neck and squeeze until you stop laughing in a way that makes his heart want to beat out of his chest. In the end, he sorta just,,, picks you up and starts carrying you around like a giant cat. Maybe pinches your cheek when you inevitably start complaining and ask to be put down. Cult members who ask why you've been slung over his shoulder for the past hour and a half are immediately done away with and curse-users don't fair much better.

Nanami, as the only (relatively) emotionally-regulated person on this list, takes it in-stride. He tries not to force affection onto you, so he'll settle for a few headpats and maybe a kiss to your forehead, if you aren't absolutely terrified of him at that point. If you catch him in a more vulnerable state, either injured or exhausted, he might be a little more forceful - wrapping an arm around your waist and hauling you against his chest, where he can hold you until you eventually give-in and stop struggling, but at least he tries to hold himself back. Sometimes. Maybe. If you're lucky, that day.

Toji is almost as bad as Geto, but not quite as awkward. He tends to scoop you up, drag you away from whatever you're doing, and lay you down where he can pepper your face with kisses and whine when you shove at his chest. He usually lets you go after a few minutes, but it's in your best interest not to squirm too much until he does. He'll just smirk and kiss your neck and say something about how precious his little sweetheart is being, today. The fondness-motivated aggression is short-lived. What he'll do if you give him the idea that you might need more of his affection won't be.

Mahito is twice as unhinged as Gojo and only half as self-conscious. His only saving grace is that, by the time he gets genuinely overwhelmed by something you do, you're going to be used to weathering his constant attempts to suffocate you via forty-five minute hugs. When he realizes how cutely you wince when he pokes a fresh bruise and decides he has to dig his teeth into your shoulder and refuse to let go about it, you'll probably be too used to his ""affection"" to do anything other than sigh and make sure he doesn't severe anything important, this time.

Sukuna is, in his defense, rarely gentle about anything, so you really can't expect him to have a gentle reaction when he sees what an adorable reaction you wear as you wait for him to take his first drink from the chalice you laced with you most recent poisonous fixation. You can kick and thrash all you want as two of his arms loop under yours and pull you onto his lap, as he cups your face and shoves tongue down your throat and wonders aloud if you taste as endearing as you look. He always keeps you by his side, but for the rest of the day, he won't be satisfied unless you're practically on top of him, riding on his shoulders or straddling his thigh. He'll even drink your deadly little elixir straight from the bottle, if you ask him to. It won't work, but you know, it's the thought that counts and all <3

[naughtyjjk]

just a massage (pt. 1)

characters: nanami x reader warnings: 18+, smut, massage, sexual tension, dirty talk, fingering, masturbation this fic is planned to have 3 parts. if you want to be tagged when i update (and for future posts in general) just leave a comment!

it’s not your first time coming to the massage parlor, but you still feel a little out of place, even if you know how all of this goes.

there’s no one in the room with you, yet. on the bed, you go to lie down on your stomach with only a towel tied around your waist. this is the procedure—you get undressed first, almost completely naked, stripping free of your stresses so that you're ready to fully relax and alleviate any soreness in your body. but you can’t help feeling a little self-conscious every time you start.

what you don't expect is for the masseuse to appear through the doorway completely shirtless, wearing only a pair of tight shorts. nothing is left to the imagination, so you can see everything that he has to offer. it’s hard not to stare. he’s... well, he's hot, your brain supplies unhelpfully.

you take a moment to appreciate the sight of him. the man's blond hair is stylized in a clean look, and he has sharp eyes and an even sharper jawline. his chest is toned, his abs look delicious, and his thighs are thick and strong. it's obvious that he works out regularly. and you didn’t intend to check him out so thoroughly, but your gaze drifts to his arms, the veins that are visible there, and down to his hands.

in a moment, those hands are going to be on you. all over your body. you swallow at the mere thought of it.

before you know it, the man has made his way to the massage bed, standing right next to you. he nods at you in acknowledgement and says nothing else as he grabs all the items he needs from the counter to the side.

you know that his name is nanami kento because it had showed up when you booked the appointment, but it's still a little strange that he doesn't introduce himself whatsoever. he seems to be the quiet type, but from the way he moves, there's confidence, too. he must be skilled at his job.

watching him, you find that you can't look away. it's embarrassing to admit, but you've been fighting to keep your thoughts pure this whole time, and it's quickly becoming a losing battle.

his back is turned to you and you watch his muscles flex as he moves. there are dirty thoughts swimming all through your head; you can't help it, not when there's such an attractive man in front of you on full display. you feel guilty too, because it's not like you came here for anything other than a massage, and nanami is so serious looking that you can tell he holds himself to a high degree of professionality. there's no way he would go after a client. the thought probably never even crosses his mind.

knowing this, you tell yourself to calm down. don't stare at him too much. don't let him realize how you're practically lusting after his body.

he gestures at you and that's when you finally snap out of it. he's telling you to get comfortable on the bed and you do as you’re told, sighing once you're in position. there’s gentle instrumental music playing in the background, a soothing tone that could probably lull you to sleep after a while. right now though, sleeping wouldn’t be possible, given how you’re hyperaware that nanami's full attention has turned to you. 

a second later, without any warning, you feel cool liquid hitting your back and you almost gasp aloud. following that, a pair of warm hands begin to spread it all over your skin. up and down, nanami moves slowly, rubbing across your shoulder blades, along your spine, fingers splayed out. occasionally, they’ll wrap around your ribs, tickling the sides of your breasts.

once the oil is spread out evenly, nanami focuses on your shoulders, kneading into the muscles there. he’s skilled, you can tell that much. somehow, he manages to hit all the right places, working out knots in your muscles that you didn’t even know were there.

“hmm. you have a lot of tension in this area,” nanami murmurs, pressing down. “where else do you usually feel discomfort or pain?”

he asked a question, but all you can think in the moment is, god, his voice. it's low and a bit rough and it does something to you, awakens something in the pit of your stomach.

your eyelids have fluttered shut, melting under his touch. you feel so comfortable here that you almost forget to reply. “mm… a bit lower.”

following your directions, nanami slides down to your lower back, palms dragging against your skin as if to pull all the tension away from your body. he reaches the dip where your hipbones start, rubbing the skin with his thumbs.

“here?” nanami asks, and you hum in confirmation. “let me know if it hurts, but i’m going to go a bit deeper. usually, it’s most effective when you press hard…”

somehow, the pressure is just right that it makes you let out a soft moan, entirely unintentional. embarrassed, you mumble, “s-sorry.”

“don't worry, sweetheart,” nanami reassures you, and that nickname has you melting. he presses at the same place once more. “it's better not to hold back your sounds. letting it out can help make you feel better as well.”

so, even though it still makes you slightly self-conscious, you allow yourself to freely vocalize your appreciation for nanami's work whenever he hits a particularly good spot. after a while, you hardly even notice your own noises, too engrossed in everything nanami is doing that’s making you more and more relaxed… and maybe something else, too.

you don't know if it’s caused by the increased blood flow from nanami warming up your body or what, but you start to notice something stirring inside you. something that you recognize and can only be described as getting turned on. fuck, you curse mentally. this isn’t right. nanami may be insanely attractive, and he's treating you so well, but in the end, he’s only doing his job.

“try not to move so much.” nanami holds you still, bringing your thoughts back to the present. his voice lowers in pitch, just a whisper when he adds, “i know you can be good for me.”

and that—you swallow thickly. you can’t tell if nanami said it on purpose or if you're just interpreting it the wrong way because you're starting to get all hot and bothered now, fighting to keep your growing arousal in check.

but nanami only moves on as normal. he slides both hands down one of your legs, then back up. he does the same for the other leg. again and again, he continues, alternating between the right and left sides. each time, his hands seem to move further inward until he’s fully concentrated on the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

for a brief second, nanami's hands snake under your towel, brushing against your ass. it happens so quickly that he has already retreated before you can even process it. but then it’s there again—a slight pressure on your ass, just grazing it with his fingertips. so light that it could be passed off as an accident. this time, you gasp, feeling tingles spread from the place of contact.

“does it feel good?” nanami's voice is suddenly right beside you, whispering in your ear. the tone is low and sultry—seductive, even. there’s something inherently sexual about those choice of words, the way he says it, the implications behind them.

“ah—y-yeah.” you shudder making a physical effort to keep your breathing even. “feels good.”

satisfied, nanami asks, “want me to keep going?”

and, you think, is this really happening? maybe you were wrong about him. maybe he's not as serious as you thought he'd be, because he clearly knows what he's doing to you. he has to… right?

your heart is racing, and all nanami does is wait patiently for your answer. so, you shift on the bed, spreading your legs apart just the slightest, but it’s an obvious invitation that you know nanami will pick up on. “please.”

without even seeing him, you just know that nanami is smirking.

you moan when he slicks his hands with more oil and begins to run them along your thighs again. heat rushes between your legs and you hadn’t noticed until now, but there’s definitely a wetness there. and it’s not just from the oil—you're dripping, no doubt caused by nanami's sensual motions.

the rational part of you thinks, fuck. this is so inappropriate. you shouldn’t be getting aroused from this, all turned on and riled up in a massage parlor of all places. but the two of you have already gone well past what’s appropriate and there’s no denying that you want more.

“mm… n-nanami,” you try to convey with urgency.

"kento," he corrects you. "call me kento."

shuddering, you moan out, "kento."

nanami's breath hitches at the sound of his name around your lips and it's the first real sign that he's affected by all this, too.

“good girl,” he says, voice low and soothing. the praise sends shivers up your spine. “just relax and focus on my hands.”

it’s not like you can really concentrate on anything else even if you wanted to, especially with the way nanami is being so distracting. your mind is going blank more often than not, but still, you have to ask, “i-is this something you do regularly with your clients?”

“give massages? that’s kind of my job.” nanami chuckles, hands never stopping even once. he’s deliberately missing the point, even though it’s obvious that he’s aware how this is quickly veering away from being a normal session. “now, stop thinking so much and just feel.”

his hands meet in the middle where they rub along your inner thighs, brushing against the sensitive skin, sliding dangerously close to your pussy. moaning, you let himself get lost in the sensations, finally giving in.

“ngh—there,” you mumble. “o-oh… fuck…”

“that’s it, let yourself enjoy it. there’s nothing to be worried about.” nanami's movements have grown more daring, not at all matching his words. “remember, this is just a massage.”

nanami moves higher and higher, nudging the towel until it’s riding up on your hips, exposing your ass fully. he pauses as if to admire the view before warm hands caress your cheeks, rubbing in circular motions. the oil makes everything feel even better, a smooth glide across your skin as anticipation boils inside you.

it’s hard to tell how long this goes on for. nanami seems content just touching you, holding the mounds of your ass in his hands and alternating between gentle scrapes of his fingertips and hard squeezes with his palms.

soon, the rhythm of his movements begins to change, and it takes you a moment to realize that nanami is subtly spreading your pussy apart. you hold your breath as he trails a finger slowly, slowly along the outside of your opening.

“you have a nice pussy,” nanami says appreciatively, almost like he’s just making normal conversation, and you go hot at the compliment. “so wet and tight…”

fuck. you can’t help it; arousal washes through you and you have to bite back a moan as nanami continues working his magic. you're being seduced—every dirty word insinuating something more is calculated, every touch on your body is meant to break you down—and you're hardly even resisting. the sexual tension is palpable in the air. it’s no surprise that you can feel yourself getting wetter and wetter.

you swallow, mouth dry. you remind yourself to take slow, steady breaths.

it’s just a massage, you think helplessly as nanami brushes past your pussy again and again and again, merciless in his assault, leaving you trembling on the bed. without fail, your body flinches every time those skilled fingers come in contact with your most sensitive spot. it’s torturously repetitive, and you may know exactly what’s coming, but the effect it has on you is still the same.

just a massage, you think as nanami traces around your opening, applying almost enough pressure to push inside. groaning, you lift your hips subconsciously, trying to get him to go further. nanami only chuckles at how eager you are and removes his hands altogether. it's fucking agonizing.

just a massage, you think. except it’s not. not with the way nanami is playing with your pussy, feeling the wetness there. he brushes a single finger past your clit, igniting every nerve in your body, and you jolt at the sensation. you feel yourself throb with need, so fucking turned on.

“oh—mm, kento…”

“look at how much tension you have here,” nanami says. “you’re all pent up, aren’t you? is that why you’re… looking for some release?”

moaning, you're finding it increasingly harder to concentrate on anything other than the hands that are teasing you. and it is teasing—every action slow and languid like nanami has all the time in the world to take you apart. you can’t help but get impatient, frustrated at the fact that you're both still keeping up the pretense of treating this like a regular appointment.

because what you really want is for nanami to pound you into the bed already, use those skilled hands of his to slip inside you and finger you as deep as he can go. talk dirty to you as the two of you fuck while forcing yourselves to be quiet at the same time in case anyone could hear them from outside the room. god, just imagining it has you getting more wet, your pussy pulsing and begging for more of his contact.

any chance you had of holding back is gone. you're only getting more turned on by the minute, given the suggestive tone of nanami's words and the way he seems to know all of your weak spots, taking full advantage of them. fuck, nanami has made you so horny.

but nanami seems to decide that he’s done playing with your pussy for now. he goes back to rubbing your ass, then shifts to your lower back, higher until he reaches your shoulder blades. and down after that, both palms flat, drawing parallel lines on either side of your spine, over your ass, along your legs.

squirming on the spot, you wait rather impatiently for nanami to touch you where you want it again. but what he does next surprises you—he pulls at the towel and wraps it tightly around your waist, securing it in place as if nothing had happened. then he steps back and clears his throat.

nanami says, simply, “all done.”

"wh-wha—?” your eyes flutter open for the first time since you started. your head is still clouded with arousal as you turn around to try and get a look at nanami.

“your session is over,” he informs you like he didn’t purposely stop as soon as he got you all worked up. “you can get dressed and go now.”

“but i—” you pause, unsure of what to say. you don't want to leave yet. you're beyond aroused, dripping between your legs, aching for more, and you want nanami's hands back on you until you—fuck, until you come.

nanami licks his lips, eyes darkening as he takes in the desperate state you're in. “i know you might still have some… kinks you want to work out, but our time is up for today,” he says, gesturing at the clock on the wall. “please feel free to book another appointment for yourself if you'd like more of my services."

blinking, you slowly push yourself up from the bed, still processing everything. it’s true that you hadn’t exactly expected to get laid when you came for a massage, but nanami was the one who started it, and he got you to this state—so aroused and turned on that you can hardly think properly. he should take responsibility. but as it is, all nanami does is give you space to gather yourself, back turned to you as he busies himself with setting up for the next appointment.

shuffling awkwardly off the bed, you feel like you just went through one of the hottest experiences of your life only to get denied in the end. your pussy isn’t happy with it either, still throbbing between your legs, begging for attention.

"oh, one last thing," nanami says. he steps closer and closer toward you until he has you pinned against the wall, lining up your hips together and grinding into you, just once.

gasping, you throw your head back, feeling exactly how hard nanami has gotten in his pants. the contact of his erection against your aching pussy is delicious, and you let out an utterly wrecked sound, moaning openly at the much-needed friction. “ah—f-fuck—”

mouth right by you ear now, nanami whispers, “i’ll be waiting for you to come back. next time, i'll give your pussy the attention it deserves.”

as nanami steps away, you feel the muscles in your legs giving out on you. you have to hold onto the wall to stand upright. your head is swimming, dizzy with arousal from nanami's parting words, arousal reignited by his actions.

in the changing room, before putting on your clothes, you slip a hand under the towel and don't think twice as you begin to masturbate yourself, far too turned on to wait any longer. your movements are restricted, but you don't untie the towel yet because it feels more taboo this way, like you're committing a forbidden act, and it gets you off more than you'd like to admit.

the setting makes you hyperaware of your surroundings; people are constantly going back and forth in the hallway, and this is a public changeroom. someone could walk in on you at any time. fuck, the whole scenario shouldn’t be this damn hot.

you're already wet and dripping so it doesn't take much to slip a finger inside yourself, pumping it in and out, slow at first. agonizingly slow, like how nanami would do it if he were here. but even that feels so fucking good, to finally give your pussy some stimulation and relief for being pent up for so long.

breaths coming out ragged and uneven, you close your eyes and lets the desire overtake you as you add a second finger. you replay everything that nanami did during their session, the ghost of his touches still lingering on your body. warm hands up and down your back, your legs, your inner thighs… your pussy. oh, the way he deliberately didn’t give you what you wanted but still teased you, teased you, teased you. you have a lot of tension here…

and then you imagine what the two of you would do if you had more time, if you didn’t care about breaking the rules and gave yourselves over to lust completely. the heat of nanami's body flush against yours, his cock rubbing against you, penetrating you, stretching you open as he fucks you, hips moving frantically until you both inevitably come—

the visual proves to be too much and you moan, low and drawn out, free hand moving quickly to cover your mouth so that you muffle the sound of your pleasure. fuck, you want nanami so bad. you want to lie down on the bed again and spread your legs and feel those enticing fingers caress every part of your body until you're begging for his cock to go inside you. hard and rough. filthy.

your hand leaves your mouth as it trails down to circle your clit, shuddering as you play with the swollen nub there. the pace of your thrusts has sped up significantly, trembling as you lean against the wall for support. your hips rock back and forth, both hands moving in tandem as you finger yourself and pleasure your clit, chasing the high of your orgasm.

somewhere out of sight, you hear nanami talking to a stranger, a colleague, another client, maybe. it’s impossible to make out what he’s saying, but just the sound of his voice, low and sultry and so fucking seductive, is enough to send you right to the edge.

“k-kento…” you moan. god, he’s right there, on the other side of the wall. and it’s more than likely that he could hear you if you're too loud, if you lose yourself and fuck, you might as well admit it: you want nanami to hear you. you want nanami to know that you couldn’t even wait to go home because the session had been unbearable for you and you're just that horny. you would give anything to drag him in here and beg him to make you come.

and it’s coming, your release; you're really feeling it now. your pussy is throbbing hard and fuck, fuck, you're close. so dangerously close. moans spill out of your mouth, panting as you thrust into yourself even faster. you can’t take it anymore. you can’t hold on any longer. your hand draws tight circles around your clit, and a jolt of pleasure shoots up your spine, and then your hips are stuttering, head thrown back, mouth falling open as it all rushes through you at once. o-oh, fuck—

you come to the image of nanami fucking you hard in your mind, smooth rolls of his hips as his cock pushes deep into you, again and again. you come all over your hand, your arousal dripping down your leg, onto the floor. the noise that slips past your lips would be embarrassing if it didn’t feel so fucking good.

slowly regaining your breath and returning to your senses, you look down at the mess you've made, a puddle of your wetness beneath you. you clean yourself up as best as you can and quickly get dressed, grabbing all of your belongings and heading to the door.

as soon as you step outside the changing room, you stop in your tracks. because waiting by the entrance is nanami, alone. the other person must have left already. nanami isn’t saying anything, but the expression on his face tells you that he knows exactly what you've done.

swallowing hard, you walk past him, all the way to the main lobby and out the door of the massage parlor. your pussy is still throbbing faintly in your pants, a lingering echo of your orgasm. you think about the towel and the wetness on the floor you left behind in the changing room for nanami to find, proof of your desire and lust. the self-pleasure you indulged in while fantasizing about nanami.

next time, you think with resolve, you won’t be getting off on your own in a locked room. you're going to have the real thing. 

next time… you’ll make sure that nanami won’t be able to resist fucking you.

.

after you’ve left, nanami runs a hand through his hair and lets out a shaky breath, cursing. he doesn’t know what came over him. as part of his job, he sees a lot of naked bodies, but he’s always been able to keep a distance and maintain a sense of professionalism. but you—the minute he first saw you, he couldn’t deny his attraction to your body, and that feeling only grew over time as he got started on your massage.

he loved the feeling of lathering oil all over your body, running his hands over your smooth skin and around your curves like he couldn’t get enough of you. he loved watching as you relaxed under his touch, as you undeniably became more and more turned on when he took his time teasing you.

just thinking about it again has him groaning. he glances down at his shorts, at the obvious tent between his legs. the bulge there is obscene, fabric stretched to its limit, and he feels like he could burst at any moment. there’s a wet spot where the tip is and and the fabric shifts as he twitches. he doesn’t remember the last time he had been this painfully hard.

and nanami tries to resist, he really does, but he can’t take it anymore. he’s so fucking aroused that he can’t think straight at all. pushing down his pants, he lets out a sigh once his cock is finally free, springing up now that it’s no longer restricted within its confines.

it stands tall between his legs, rigid and rock hard, curving upward. the veins are prominent and he’s leaking uncontrollably, precum pooling at the head and spilling down his shaft in a steady stream. 

standing by the bed where you had been lying not long ago, nanami closes his eyes and thinks of you in his mind. he doesn’t touch himself yet; instead, his hands start on his neck, trailing down to his collarbones and chest, pausing to play with his nipples. the jolt of pleasure there causes his cock to twitch in anticipation. then he goes further, down his stomach to his hips, brushing against the base of his cock... 

his hips thrust forward into the air, into nothing, as he imagines himself climbing on top of you on the bed, pinning your hands so that you can’t escape. he lines up his cock with your pussy and pushes into your entrance slowly, slowly.

here, nanami finally allows a hand to touch himself. he’s waited long enough; he’s about to go crazy with arousal and can’t fucking take it anymore. fingers wrapping around his length, he gives himself a firm squeeze, moaning, feeling his cock throbbing hard in return. 

and then he snaps, the last bit of his self-control withering away. he pumps his cock with purpose, fast, faster, until his hips start moving in time with his hand, bucking forward at every stroke. he’s fucking you, fucking into that tight pussy of yours, watching as you squirm and tremble and moan beneath him.

breathing hard, nanami twists his hand and circles his cockhead. the action makes his hips stutter, a rush of pleasure washing over him. his whole body is burning hot. he’s getting close, working himself right up to the edge, so close to coming now—

his balls feel so heavy and full. he has to use his free hand to hold onto the side of the bed as he feels his knees going weak, stroking steadily, never stopping or slowing down. his cock aches, throbbing in his grasp. one finger swipes over his slit and his mouth falls open, head thrown back as he whines and cries out. 

he thinks about what you’d look like when you come, begging him for your release. p-please, kento, fuck me harder—i need your cock—i-i’m so close, i’m gonna—gonna come—

“f-fuck,” he grunts. and nanami is coming with you, choking out a broken moan as his cock pulses and pulses. with two more strokes, all the tension in his body is released at once, ropes of white splattering in front of him. he comes in spurts, emptying everything he has all over the massage bed, and it’s absolutely filthy. 

he’s still panting by the time he’s done, coming down from the high of his orgasm. looking around, he remembers where he is and feels dirty for jerking himself off at work. quickly, nanami cleans up the evidence, wiping and sanitizing the bed so that it’ll be presentable for future appointments.

looking at the door, he’s grateful that no one walked in on him because he’s not sure whether or not he would’ve been able to stop in the moment. it had felt so good. he had been so fucking horny, all because of you.

he doesn’t regret doing it. he just can’t let it happen again.

.

part 2 and 3 coming soon!

tag list: @megumisdivinedogs @urlilwhore @l0rdgeosupport3rr @purple-obsidian

(comment to be added)

[s-4pphics]

dial. 3 (e.w.)

wc;cw: 3.4K, fratadjacent!ellie, all ocs r black coded<3, angst😞, oc being an empath, self-esteem issues, mentions anxiety and panic attacks, ellie ain’t shit, alcohol, mentions of smoking

playlist :p

It’s been three days since you’ve heard from Ellie. 

She left you on read when you reached out the next morning after the party. You tried to get some information out of Dina on her whereabouts, but she shut you down, practically begging you to let you and Ellie’s disastrous relationship rest for your sake. Niah said that she was ready to jump at any moment, but you didn’t want her— or anyone else— in the middle of your conflict. You made a mistake looking to Ellie for approval and you had to deal with it. 

But there was some part of you that couldn’t let this go. You’ve been embarrassed by a good number of people in your lifetime, and you wanted nothing more than to crawl into the deepest hole imaginable and never come out whenever it happened, but you’re an adult now. So why is it hitting harder than ever before? 

You never understood why people were so put off by your personality. You always craved companionship and were so giving with your heart, but people just can’t… stand you, you’ve realized. A portion of your heart dies whenever you get blasted for being too much, but you can’t help how you feel. All you wanted to do was make people happy and keep them close, but you’ve only managed to scare them off. 

You talk a lot, and I don’t think you realize it. 

Are you always this… touchy?

Please. Just stop talking for a second. 

It comes off really annoying, not gonna lie. 

You’re really nice but… I dunno, you’re just a lot sometimes. Just ease up. 

You hated that your mom was wrong; kindness, in fact, doesn’t get you where you need to go. 

At least you have your aunt. And Niah. They both accept your clinginess with no grudges. 

You’ve kept your head down on campus, only going to the library to study and back to your dorm. You cut your usual Starbucks visits completely; Reading without caffeine was killing you, but it was better than seeing and hearing Ellie. Plus, you couldn’t shake the feeling that everybody was staring at you, waiting for you to fuck up so they could get a good laugh. 

It was the last day of finals, and you couldn’t wait to go the fuck home. You were sick of being on campus and your self-esteem was at an all-time low. You needed your auntie’s food for revival. 

You were desperate for an awfully long break. Hopefully something positive will come of it. 

“Take a break from paaacking. Come eat with me, please, I’m starving!”

Your eyes rolled at Niah’s incessant whines. She knew how tedious you were with your luggage; She couldn’t wait another five minutes? —

“I know you’re cussing me out in your head. Your thoughts are loud, remember that!” She squinted at you while kicking her feet like a child throwing a tantrum. 

You groaned and threw the sweatshirt you’d been folding back into the drawer. How the fuck did universities get away with giving students two days to pack all their essentials right after finals. As if you had any remaining brain cells to wash and fold your laundry. They’re going to hell, for sure!

“Whatchu wanna eat?” You stretched your arms over your head and stood from the floor.

Niah smirked at you, “Arby’s.” 

“… Go to hell— “

She laughed aloud, rolling on her back in her bed, “I wanna fuckin’ sandwich, bro! I dunno why.” 

“This is the worst pre-Christmas goodbye dinner we’ve ever had,” you stared at her blankly. 

“Bitch, we’ve only had two, stop,” she flipped you off, “Dee would support me, ask her to come.” 

You walked over to your desk to pull your phone off the charger, “If she says yes, I’m not going.” 

“Yes the fuck you ar— “

“Shut up, it’s ringing,” the dial tone blared in your ear before Dina answered with a blood curdling scream. You instantly put her on speaker phone. 

You and Niah looked at each other in concern before Dina calmly said, “Hi.” 

“Are you fucking okay? What the hell was that?” Niah shouted. 

“… I can’t be excited that the sem’s over?” 

“… Girl, I swear to god— “

You interrupted your best friend, “Wanna come to Arby’s with us, friend?” 

“…” 

You snickered at her silence and Niah screamed, “Fuck both of y’all! Arby’s is top tier— “

“… Is she fucking serious right now?” 

“Just come so I don’t have to suffer the meat alone,” you begged. 

She scoffed, “… I never thought your gay ass would say that— “ 

“Please just come with us!” 

“Okay! I’m not buying shit, though.” 

“You really think I’m about t’pay for my own meal?! Bring your wallet, suga mama!” Niah beckoned. 

And Dina hung up on you. This was the loudest you’ve laughed in days. 

“On a scale from one to ten: how much d’you hate yourself right now?” 

“Negative forty.” 

Niah was tearing up her curly fries and smokehouse brisket sandwich like no tomorrow. She looks happy; That's all that mattered, you suppose. 

Dina gave Niah her private time with her sandwich and laid her head on your shoulder, whispering, “How are you doing, hon?” 

You shrugged lightly, “I’m alright, I guess. I dunno. I’ll get over it at some point.” 

“You know I never wanted to see you upset over something like this. I’ve known her for so long and love her a lot but… she’s awful sometimes,” she nuzzled closer and your heart warmed. 

“I’ll be okay! I should’ve just listened when you told me,” She didn’t need to know how many times you’ve cried over this recurring situation. 

She sighed and let it go, kissing your clothed shoulder, “Jesse wanted to come but he said fuck arby’s.” 

“Y’all are gonna stop talkin’ shit about my fav— “

“ANYWAYS!” Dina spoke over Niah. “He said he wants his goodbye hug before we all head out tomorrow.” 

“He knows I’ll give him one! I gotta give him his notebook back anyway,” you peered down at her, “Did you know that he doodles you when he’s notetaking? I wanted to cry; they were so fucking cute!” 

She sat up to look at you, “No fucking way!” 

“Yes way!” Niah concurred, “He wants to get you preg— “

You kicked Niah under the table, and she exploded into a fit of giggles while Dina blushed and twiddled her thumbs. 

“… I’ll give him a baby, I guess,” she whispered sheepishly while her cheeks burned. 

You and Niah squealed in excitement. Seeing your friends happy and in love made your heart beam with joy. 

Finals were finally fucking over! 

This was, by far, the sloppiest you’ve ever packed for anything, but you couldn’t wait to see your auntie. You loved being around your friends every day, but you needed your personal schedule back. It’s been so long since you’ve had a self-care day! Your aunt already purchased foot baths and vanilla-scented exfoliant. 

You always get a little teary-eyed whenever you have to say goodbye to Niah even though you were only going to be separated for a month. Being apart from your favorite person is always a bit soul-crushing! 

You made sure she got on her train safely before powerwalking back to your dorm building. You quickly snatched your bag that held two of Jesse’s physics notebooks before catching the bus to his apartment building. You hoped you could catch him before you go to the airport; You still want a hug!

When you got to the front of his complex, you caught a glimpse of Abby hauling her luggage out of the door with an older couple. Probably her parents!

Since when did she live here? Why have you never seen her around? 

Too busy being a whore! 

You wanted to apologize for not reuniting with her at the party, but she most likely didn’t remember you. Everybody was lit, and she seemed eager to mingle—

Your racing thoughts were caught off at the light shout of your name. Abby sat her bags down to wave you over, and a large smile grew on your face. You scurried over to where she was and moved to shake her hand, but she gently pushed it away to pull you in for a hug. 

“You were really gonna greet me like a fucking grandma?” she laughed quietly in your ear. You shuddered; Even with her coat on, you could feel how strong she was! 

“Sorry! I, uh— “

“S’fine,” she pulled away, smiling just as brightly, her cheeks dusted red and snowflakes dusting her lashes, “Missed you at the party.”

You cringed inwardly, “I’m so sorry! I really didn’t mean to leave you like that; I got caught up with… Dina! With Dina— “

“Mhm,” Her eyes were moving over your face like water. “I was gonna— “

“Abby! Who’s this!” 

You gazed at the cheesing couple behind her before waving ecstatically at them. They seemed sweet with their joyous tones! And wealthy; You peeped her father’s Gucci puffer. Abby’s blush deepened and she sighed. 

“Aren’t you adorable! We’re Abby’s parents— “

You were pulled into warm hugs and given bright greetings while Abby awkwardly shuffled in the corner. You matched their vibrancy, introducing yourself with a genuine grin. You listened intensely while they bragged about Abby being on the Dean’s List two years in a row and how she was going to enroll in the honor roll program. 

But Abby had enough of the boasting, “You guys mind putting this in the car for me?” 

She gently pushed her carry-on into her dad’s arms, and they both departed with merry goodbyes. 

“Sorry, they’re so… yeah.” 

“No, oh my god, they seem so sweet!” 

She shook her head with a bashful grin. She looked so pretty in the snow. 

“I, um…” You started, putting yourself in the hot seat. “I’m really sorry about flaking at the party. I hope we’re… okay?” 

“More than okay,” Her tone quieted. “Just as long as you promise to spark with me next time?” 

Butterflies exploded in your chest and tummy. You promised to do so with glossy eyes. 

“Good,” she smirked before pointing towards her complex. “Needa be checked in?” 

“No, just buzzed, if you don’t mind? I’ll only be a couple minutes.” 

“Course, c’mon.” 

You tried to ignore the fluttering of your heart at Abby’s hand at the small of your back as you trailed through the snow. 

Abby ensured you got her number before seeing you onto the elevator. She made her leave with one last weighted gaze at your appearance. The small space was burning up with you in here! 

The second you stepped off the elevator, your ears were filled with booming voices from down the hall. The floor was quiet due to its decreased occupancy, so you could hear Dina’s screaming clearly. What the fuck is going on! 

You bustled down the pathway until you reached Jesse and Ellie’s front door, and you instantly regretted coming to return his belongings. 

“You’re being a fucking cunt, that’s why!” 

“I don’t give a fuck!” 

Ellie’s angered timbre made you pause at the entrance of their residence. You could’ve sworn she went home already. Why the hell were they fighting! 

“She literally did nothing wrong! Why the fuck did you even pursue her in the fucking first place! I told you how she is and now you’re acting surprised that her feelings are hurt!” 

The shaky breath you'd been holding left you with the last bit of your dignity. There was no way they were talking about you. 

“That’s not my fucking problem! I was clear about my intentions when we first started fucking just like everyone else. She has to deal with that shit on her own time, I’m not a fucking babysitter.” 

“It’s not about babysitting! It’s about being a decent human being! Maybe stop leading her on and making her seem like you— “

“I’m not making her seem like shit! She’s clingy as fuck on her own. She would’ve gotten attached regardless.” 

The more their argument pursued, the more upset you got. You didn’t realize how tight your fists were clenched until you felt your nails pierce the skin of your palms, but you hardly cared. Your heart was crumbling to pieces and the shards were slicing you open, and the pain overtook your sadness. And fury. You could almost hear your mother scolding about emotional control.

Your breaths got heavier the more you tried to steady them, tears jerking in your eyes while they went back and forth about you. 

You didn’t even have time to register how insane you must’ve looked standing at their front door crying before booking it down the hallway, frantically pressing the elevator button so you could get the fuck out of here. You tried to bring yourself back down on the ride to the first floor, but your techniques weren’t working. Your heaves were erratic and coarse, your lungs burning with each harsh exhale through your nose. 

The elevator door opened, and you left in a rush, pushing through all the exit doors of the building until you rushed into a larger frame. 

You could hear Jesse calling out your name, asking if you were all right and what happened, but you pushed him off you and bolted for the main entrance. You ignored the calls of his name and shoved the doors open, not even bothering to wait for the last bus pick-up. You need to get home now; Your flight wasn’t for another six hours, but you couldn’t stand to be here a second longer. 

The tears on your face frosted over as every ridicule from your past and present came crashing down on you on your way to the dorm. The mockery, the bullying, the lies from people you trusted.

No matter where you go, it all follows you like a shadow. 

You turned your phone off the second you arrived at the airport. 

Going through TSA was such a hassle; You were so disoriented that the security had begun to get suspicious and asked if you had anything to drink before you arrived. And people were staring. Does the humiliation ever stop!

You shut your phone off when you arrived, ignoring the multiple calls from Dina and Jesse, and sent one last message to your auntie about how you couldn’t wait to see her; Ellie even sent you one before your screen went dark. Fuck her apparent guilt; You swore to block her the second you touched down. 

You made yourself as comfortable as you could in the airport chairs since you were going to be here a while, and just cried. Your tears fell from the remaining wait hours until boarding. 

You calmed a bit when the plane took off, silently thanking your aunt for booking you a window seat. The clouds were always gorgeous during winter. 

You felt a little hand gently tap your forearm, and you turned to see a little boy holding a tissue in his hand for you. You cried harder and accepted, bumping your fist against his smaller one as a thank you. 

You didn’t sleep the entire plane ride home. 

You hugged your aunt like you hadn’t seen her in years. 

Shhh, it’s gonna be okay, baby. I promise. 

You sobbed into her shoulder the second she stepped out of her car and just held her. And she held you back. 

Until the fucking security complained about her blocking traffic. She gave your head dozens of kisses before grabbing your bags to throw into the back seat. 

You both scurried into the car and she pulled out driving onto the nearly empty road and parked her car. 

“Talk to me. What happened.” 

Your breaths were still trembling, but you made one request. 

“C-Can,” you cleared your throat when it cracked, “Can we reschedule our self-care day?” 

“Of course we can, baby. When do you wanna do it?” Her brows pulled down as she cooed. 

“W-When we get home?” 

Your aunt flew down the freeway like a bat out of hell. 

“I just don’t understand why this keeps happening to me,” you’re going to cry again. 

“People just fucking suck. There doesn’t have to be a reason.”

It was three in the morning, and you were still going on about everything that’s happened: how you met Ellie, what you two did over the past couple of weeks, how she talked about you behind your back. You watched your aunt’s hands as she filed your nails to perfection under the beaming lamp while you babysat your mimosa, recalling all the events that happened twelve hours ago. 

“Y’know,” she shook her head as she buffed your nails, “Your parents told me they were scared of this happening to you. You’re too fucking sweet for your own good.” 

“Because that’s how they raised me! They always wanted me to be the bigger person when something happens.” 

Hold your head high and turn the other cheek. All the benefits of that will come later, even if you don’t think they will. 

Your dad’s repeated mantra always made you feel lighter when you were young and needed comfort. But now, it’s starting to make you feel guilty because… frankly, you’re still fucking pissed. 

Your aunt paused her work to down the rest of her mimosa, shaking her head when she sat the glass down, her eyes boring into your soul. 

“I never wanna steer you in the wrong direction, but at some point, enough is enough. People have shit all over you for years, and you allowed it. Did you not confront them when it happened?” 

… You stayed silent. She sighed. 

You knew your aunt was insightful, but she was never this serious. You always enjoyed being around her because she was fun and allowed you an outlet: the cool aunt who didn’t have rules, but the burning look in her eyes confirmed that she meant every word. 

Everyone makes revenge seem negative, but to me… It got me and mom through a lot of shit. Maybe that’s why she never wanted you to think of it as a problem solver. 

You recall your aunt sneaking stories about how she and your mom used to jump bullies at school whenever you came home with tears in your eyes from people messing with you, but you never knew the extent of their retaliations. You remember being in disbelief envisioning your mom hurting somebody, even if they deserved it. 

“But you’re an adult… you can make your own decision— “

“What’d you have in mind?” 

Your aunt’s eyes met yours with an arched brow, the glasses on her face shifting with every twitch of her nose. You shocked yourself. 

The corner of her lips came up into a devilish smile. Her shoulders lifted in a cocky shrug. 

“I gotta couple.” 

You didn’t touch your phone until after the holidays. You and your aunt were having a ball, going shopping and sipping Moscato while you both schemed, and you didn’t want to disrupt the peace with negativity. 

When your screen came back to life, an influx of text and missed call notifications rushed through with alarm alerts. Most were from Niah and Dina begging you to return their calls, but you had one… one text from the only person you didn’t want to talk to. 

You made sure to answer Niah first. 

And then Dina. 

You took a deep before opening Ellie’s message and… what the fuck is this—

…

That’s the apology? 

She shouldn’t have said all that? Is she fucking serious? Everyone already knows that; She probably never gave a proper apology in her fucking life!

You finally, after years of being tormented and belittled, allowed anger to overtake the graciousness that your parents instilled ever since you were in second grade. Your fingers tapped the keyboard, expression turned in aggravation. 

The second you tried to block her, the text bubble popped up. 

You nearly snapped your device in two. 

The fucking audacity! Your fingers typed out words that you never even said aloud before you paused. 

Why the fuck are you wasting your time? She never cared about anything you had to say, anyway. She would ghost you for days, only reaching out to ask if she could smoke you out. You closed your conversation with her, and sparked one with someone who you knew would be of service. 

Your heart pounded in your chest when she answered. You suddenly couldn't wait to get back to campus.

hi yall omg

cant wait 2 write p4 LOOOOOL

squirting contest?

taggie waggies love yall down :3 @dyk3ang3l @iced-metal @sawaagyapong @kittnii @mariefilms @villainousbear @pick-me-up-im-scared @dragonasflowercrown @elsmissingfingers @bugaboodarling @freakumfilm @robinismywifee @ohitsjordynn @womenofarcane @inf3ct3dd @nil-eena @kaispaws @letsreadsomesins-shallwe @yuckyfucky @machetegirl109 @ximtiredx @mattm1964 @liabadoobee @tfuuka

teaser, 1, 2, four, five

[krewekreep]

2.6K Words. College AU, Study Partner to Lovers AU, GoldenRetriever!BF, Dumbo Hot Boy needs study help.

When he is the kid in school who just can’t keep up. And not for trying but the fact for whatever reason school just isn’t on his side. You end up being in the class he has the most struggle in. The professor now avoids him cause of all the after class conversation and visits to office hour. He’s more endearing than annoying but his persistance gets grating. He watched over time as you’d receive your results and praise yourself silently. Over time he became curious how well you actually had to be doing for the professor to always smile happily at your raised hand and responses. He began to sit behind you and almost laughed aloud in self contempt seeing your Canvas sitting with a huge 98% in the center. That meant every class you could’ve been signed up for you were practically ace-ing. He knew it best to seek further assistance and the bounce of your breasts at continually doing well made his dick harden the slightest. He mustered up the strength after class and fumbled his way into a conversation you were having with other classmates, shyly scratching the back of his head agreeing with the displeased about how hard it seemed to get higher scores.

He mentioned he just seemed to continually get stuck on three of the topics closest to mid-terms. The defeat in the fall of his head and his almost eerie stare at the ground made you pity him. “Hey, I know that’s stressful, I’ve been doing pretty well with those parts of the curriculum and I’m down to study with you if you wanted?” His entire demeanor switches. “Really!?” He’s a glowing bubbly awkward mess and a flush rises up your neck. You quickly turn into your phone pulling up your messaging app. “Here. Just give me your number and we’ll coordinate a time, okay?” When you look up to pass your phone his smile is ear to ear, eyes squinted, and his hair bouncing. Golden Retriever. Your stomach almost explodes. You shake away the growing feelings of a crush at first site. And lowkey thank whatever God made him this bad at the class work.

When you met up it was the Friday of the same week you both agreed to become study partners. Both of you a bit eager to become acquainted. When you arrived at the library he was leaned against the wall near the entrance asleep. You were able to absorb his physique more with his height extended and his arms crossed. His loose t-shirt flexed around his biceps and torso. You couldn’t say you ever paid much attention to him before but you kinda kicked yourself he had been sitting in class for so long, looking this good, struggling while your ace-ing, and only now you saw the opportune time to see what he was about. You walked up to him and he must’ve sensed you somehow because before you could say anything he slowly opened one eye and stretched groaning loudly as his shirt rose to show his hip bones, lower abs, and belly button. Oh wow.

You guys walked to the study room he reserved and for the first couple sessions you guys just got to know each other and where he had the most trouble. He began to get the hang of things and you realized he’s just the type who has to be more confident in his knowledge. You learned he was an athlete on scholarship and didn’t come from much. He really had had only himself especially for critical moments of development. Everything you learned of him made his frustrated chuckles, flurry of apologies, and tendency to glance over at you for approval all the more heart-melting.

He became your little student. Obedient and ever willing to make you as happy as you wanted. You were never the kind to indulge in that behavior, it seemed belittling and mean. Yet, a sliver of dominance would color your tone when you corrected him. When he’d get too many in a row wrong (more times than not simply his nervousness or psyching himself out) you would reprimand him with a soft hit of your pen against his hand. The little twitch of his fingers turned you on and he wouldn’t admit your commitment to his improvement made him want to prove himself to you more. You weren’t known for initiating much of anything but his willing and nervous energy was something of a turn on you unlocked the more you toyed with him. He got another answer wrong and you both know he knew it. Teasingly you said, “Now you know you know this,” reaching for his thigh and giving it a soft but assertive squeeze. He jumped and his leg began to shake uncontrollably. You laughed aloud at him and he flushed red. “I’m- im sorry.” You rubbed his thigh and his leg was over the moon. You leaned your head into your free hand pouting at him. “Now how are you supposed to pass if you keep doubting yourself?”

Although you were sending him sultry eyes you had to hold your gaze against his as it was no longer nervous or self-conscious. They were lidded and low, peering what seemed farther into you than you could ever do to him. Your stomach rattled and you wanted to falter but without a word he closed the distance with kiss. You gasped a bit before he met your lips and the gap was enough for him to solicit your tongue which you gave him eagerly. Both you wrestled in your seats fighting for dominance until he became frustrated with the conflict. He grabbed your legs firmly lifting them enough be on either of his sides. It caused you to need to support yourself so you wouldn’t fall back. With your hands busy, he pulled you flush to his lower abdomen. You were warm and slightly dazed. His grip on your lower thighs sent hot pulses to your pussy. He was as eager as you letting his grip move closer to your ass. You don’t know how far it would’ve gone had it not been for the attendant that loudly and profusely knocked on the glass showing the both of you to the rest of the lounge. You hid your head in his shoulder as he laughed sheepishly pulling the blinders down. Without a word you packed your things and left together. You weren’t ashamed just embarrassed (and kinda still in the mood). You got a few blocks away before he burst into laughter. You joined him. And as the air cleared he looked over at your disheveled clothes. “Hey,” his dick grew hard (never really went soft) when your doll eyes looked up at him all lusty. “Back to your place?”

After that every study session was had in your respective dorm rooms. Always ending in fucking each other brainless. He was loud and a bit clumsy but you’d come even harder once his thrusts knew how to hit your core bringing you to loud crescendos that made your roommates make last minute plans every time either of you walked through the door. Neither of you had much experience (and for him lowkey too many weird ones) so you ended up studying how to fuck too. His confidence grew immensely as you praised him for how good he fucked you. “Baby—Ah,” your hips rocked together seamlessly. He had a bad habit of staring right into your face wanting to soak in every bit of how gone he had you. “You feel so good. Please keep fucking me like this.” You threw your head back as your pussy began to tingle building towards an orgasm you wanted to achieve badly. “Oh my—please.” His moans grew louder but his gaze on you never wavered. “Tell me how good I feel beautiful.”

He slowed down to position his hips so his dick drove the farthest he had ever been. You yelped clawing into his upper back. “Too much?!” But before he could shift to anything softer you bounced against him. Different feeling than when he moved as your pussy felt sweet gliding up and down his cock. A shock of pleasure caused you to lightly convulse and his abs flexed inwardly so hard it seemed it hurt. “Relax baby.” You repositioned widening your legs, accepting the spread of his girth as your pussy muscled around him abundantly wet and barely able to keep him in. “I got you.” You took hold of his face bringing him into a kiss as you rocked up and down on him. He met your thrusts with his own and a sloppy sound filled the room as he became so undone his groaning and pleading almost drowned you out. “Baby doll I need to cum.” He sounded so innocent and ready. “I really need to cum—uh,” his pace almost stalled as his arms shook, his waist buckled, and he shot his load into you. Feeling his cum squirt all in you made you claw into his back. His cum was so warm it made you feel full and visceral. He went to pull out but you halted him “Baby, can we cuddle?” He beamed so hard at you. “You don’t want me to pull out?” He felt concerned about any roughness and the elephant in the room of him not using protection. “Eh,” you shrugged. “We already have been pretty irresponsible, and I like feeling you in me. Youre…still hard?” He and his entire face and neck went red. “It’s okay,” you laughed. “But I am a bit worn out.”

“Of course, I’m just—I really like this…thing we have going on.” He hid his face with his hair at the admission, turning away futilely. Neither of you mentioned labels out of a deep fear of rejection, only really stalling the inevitable. But in this moment you pulled him to your chest. He had to pull out a bit to readjust and upon inserting himself to the hilt both of you began to slowly rock back. You really did want him again but a sliver of pain pierced you. Your face contorted and he stopped again immediately. “I’m so sorry Y/N.” This time he did pull out, slowly. And pulled you into a cuddle where your head rested on his arm and you felt the fullness of his pillow-like muscle. You began to drift to sleep pretty soon after. Before finally succumbing to your exhaustion he whispered against your neck: “Thank you for everything.” His breath low indicating he also was soon about to fall asleep. “I’ll let you keep me warm another time.” He placed a kiss to the back of your neck sending a sensitive ripple of pleasure through you. You hummed in agreement then you both, bare and fulfilled didn’t awake until his early practice alarm went off.

Midterms came and went. There was no doubt in your mind both of you passed but he sat nerve wracked until the results came in. Not only did he pass he had actually scored higher than you. He felt guilty that you spent so much time worrying about him you didn’t focus on yourself because you obviously deserved the better grade. Upon telling you this you grabbed him by the wrist without a word and led him into a bathroom towards the end of the building. You knew that hey if it wasn’t occupied there’d only be one or two people and you didn’t quite care at all. You brought him into the empty bathroom (thankful something somewhere was okay with you getting your rocks off) and into the farthest, largest stall. He did nothing but submit the entire time and only yelped when you set him against the wall, untying his sweatpants. He grabbed your arm when he saw you beginning to kneel but you looked up at him with an intensity that scared him in the sluttiest way possible. He then assisted you pulling his attire down until his cock somewhat swung up hitting him against his lower sternum. His length was intimidating but you gleefully took him into your mouth.

Although your first time you asked your friends and watched videos. Practicing was a bit embarrassing but you ended up getting into it thinking how well you’d draw all of him into your mouth. You were so excited you had to remember to watch for your teeth but surprisingly he muttered “Mmm what the Fuck. Bite me baby.” You had to swallow a genuine laugh cause this man was really weird sometimes. But you flattened your tongue against the bottom of your mouth bobbing your head with an amateur but passionate pace. “Hey,” you looked up to him peering at you with lust consumed eyes. “Can I help you? Put your hands on my thighs.” You put your hands on either of his thighs, shifting your kneeling to a squat. “Smart girl.” He set his hand reassuringly against the back of your head, leaning his hips up from the wall so his dick was more comfortably set for you. Given he had an angle he knew better than you that continually hitting your cheek like that might become bad feeling. “Take your time, I can be quiet.” With one hand on the back of your head and the fingers on his other hand lovingly gripping either side of your chin he guided you with a knowing pace. He choked on his moans but never broke eye contact.

Something in you expanded as you felt bold enough to reach a hand under to cup his balls. “Waa-where did you learn that?!” You paid him no mind determined to bring him to climax. You’re awkward relationship developments seemed to always lead to public displays of affection. You were especially dismissive towards shame once your eyes soaked up enough of his image, it was almost compulsive how dire you had to get him between your fingers. You finally defeated him as his head fell back and his eyes shut. His Adam’s Apple bulging and flexing as his grip tightened in your hair. You knew he was about to cum. So you bobbed on him with more intensity, letting his tip meet the back of your mouth entering your throat the slightest bit. He became an undone mess of moans. “Y/N you feel so fucking good. So fucking—“ his breath hitched when a rougher mindless thrust had him slip down and gag you ever so slight. A sensation to gag was overcome as he soon came filling the bathroom with expletives and thank you’s.

When you released with a loud pop of your mouth, you looked up at eyes that declared you owned him now. He pulled you up surprisingly aggressive slipping his tongue into your mouth sharing his taste with you. “We need to get out here.” He says with a dark glint in his eye. He threw his hoodie over your head and walked out as if it was nothing. The girls in the bathroom could only snicker and blush, confused and jealous at the hot boy hiding you from exposing yourself. Once out of the bathroom and outside he tells you to keep his hoodie until he sees you again. He kisses you on the forehead. “Umm,” he says rubbing the back of his head. “So we are like? Dating now, right?”

Who: DENJI, NARUTO, Jean, Tamaki, YUUJI, CHOSO, ARMIN (I think him more nervous if anything ), ICHIGO + any other sweet idiots.

[thelastofhyde]

you cut your hair, and take some space.

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 15k

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

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

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

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

The mirror is not clean enough to see yourself.

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

It’s something new to fidget with.

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

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

If you do, you’ll blame him.

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

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

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

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

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

You were careful all night to never speak of him.

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

And then it happened.

You didn’t say his name, no.

Not aloud.

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

But it was enough to make you want to leave.

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

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

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

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

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

There were usually three of them.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t have an answer.

You didn’t get to give an answer.

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

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

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

Javier Peña was none of that.

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

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

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

It was like, nothing.

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

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

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

That was never part of the plan.

Neither was skipping dinner, though.

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

His hair, freshly cut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you stumble to the elevator.

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

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

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

“Déjame. (Let me.)”

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

He catches you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m glad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thud against the nightstand.

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

The undressing is gentle and so unlike his usual impatience.

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

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

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

He looks like he wants to.

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

Against your forehead, lips that linger.

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

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

Vermont, ‘98.

That’s where it all began.

Your dad, turning fifty.

Javi just hit forty.

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

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

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

Wrong.

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

Textbooks on the table, glasses on your face.

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

Peaceful and quaint, until it wasn’t.

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

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

You put your head down, breathed more subtly.

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

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

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

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

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

Inching towards the exit, footsteps light as a feather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not in the mood.”

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

“I have an early flight.”

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

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

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

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

“I ain’t done talkin’ to you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t remember which direction you turned.

“Quit running, you bitch!”

He was still following, how was he still following?

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

He was getting faster. Maybe you were getting slower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thumb swiped over your palm.

Your mouth winced, your arm pulled back.

He held you in place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was instinctual, no thought placed behind his action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took you back to his own cabin instead.

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

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

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

Late june brings nothing but gloom.

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

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

Tonight, you’re appeasing them.

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

Truth be told, you don’t want to go.

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

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

In the mirror, it’s still lopsided.

The clock sits at eight forty-seven.

They’re 2 minutes late.

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

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

Dive back in, search again.

An empty tube of lipbalm.

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

A broken earring.

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

Bile burns the back of your throat.

He opens on the fifth knock.

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

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

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

The air’s uncomfortably quiet.

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

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

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

The silence returns.

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

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

You notice his bedroom door is shut.

It’s never been shut before.

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

He blinks, slowly.

It’s hard to tell if it’s from guilt.

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

He doesn’t answer.

You keep talking.

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

“This needs to stop.”

You don’t have to question it.

You do, anyway.

“What?”

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

“I don’t underst-”

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

He’s stern.

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

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

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

Everything, you want to tell him.

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

“I just thought-”

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

I know, you mouth.

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

When he calls to make sure you got home safe.

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

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

Javier Peña is not your boyfriend.

So why does he act like it?

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

Kid.

That makes you angry.

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

“Don’t call me kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, the back-and-forth stops.

Silence.

You take the lead.

“So, what? That’s it just... over?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too late, you want to say.

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

“Corazón, I’m so sor-”

The car honks, again.

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

Another honk.

You never make it to the line dance.

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

Love’s a verb And not a bandage

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

A promise of casual, turned into something fragile.

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

All you remember is a pounding at your front door.

1 am. Too late to be causing ruckus.

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

Pause.

This could be anyone, anything.

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

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

You let him invade your senses.

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

You pull back. He follows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, you do trip over them.

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

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

The gold of his skin shines brighter.

The red on his skin appears darker.

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

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

Later with Javi never seems to come.

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

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

‘I’ll get these back to you later.’

He’d never made you that dinner.

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

You’d never gotten those panties back.

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

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

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

Distractions are not welcomed, your patient needs tending to.

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

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

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

It does the trick, unlocks his tongue.

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

He hisses.

You’re pressing too hard on his fragile lip.

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

A splotch of red stains your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

Javi sighs, gives in.

He always gives in, to you, eventually.

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

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

He doesn’t need to.

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

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

He’s rambling.

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

You listen closely, swallow up every morsel he offers.

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

He chokes.

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

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

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

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

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

He nods.

“Did you help her?”

Another nod.

“Did you get her someplace safe?”

This time, a reply.

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

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

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

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

“What more could you have done?”

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

You whine out his name.

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

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

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

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

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

The words catch in your throat.

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

But mostly because he kisses you.

Desperate, hungry. Groaning into your willing mouth.

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

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

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

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

When Javi fucks you, he fucks with purpose.

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

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

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

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

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

When did Javier Peña stop wanting you?

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

By July, things change.

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

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

Boredom leads to hobbies.

At first, you try pottery.

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

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

You hate it, running.

You sweat, you ache, you exhaust.

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

The heartache.

The headache.

The agent.

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

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

The pink shirt still lives on one of your hangers.

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

Not right now.

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

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

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

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

Today, however, it’s more challenging.

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

You have to come, kiddo.

The phone-call still echos through your thoughts.

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

You’d wanted a better explanation than that.

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

You had no plans.

Bring your friends then! The more the merrier!

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

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

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

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

He said it, like that would persuade you.

Keep asking about ya, the whole lot of them.

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

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

You’d hung up.

Immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

Until you come to a screeching halt.

Double over.

Place your hands on your knees.

Dry heave.

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

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

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

You’ll have to see him.

Spend time near him.

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

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

For not quitting the force.

For being your dad’s friend.

For not wanting you the same you wanted him.

Want him.

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

You’re usually more careful.

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

You pick your pace back up.

Manage only a handful-or-two steps.

Your feet fly out in front of you.

Land ass-first on the gravel below.

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

You groan and prepare to get back on your feet.

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

Big mistake.

The hand tugs you.

You glance up.

And meet the eyes of Javier Peña.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You come up empty handed.

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

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

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

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

Wedding attire, a post-party glow.

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

Had he smiled, then?

Had he even been there?

Or was he merely a product of martinis and negronnis-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I- What?” Confussion.

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

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

Adjusts your piercing, swipes his thumb over your cheek.

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

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

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

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

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

Or both.

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

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

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

Your father’s voice.

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

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

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

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

Maybe it’s sadness you see.

There’s definitely remorse.

Guilt, too.

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

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

But none of that matter, anymore.

You’re already walking away.

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

He calls out your name, loudly.

Attracts the nosy eyes of people around.

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

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

He reaches out for your hand.

And quickly gives up on the thought of holding it.

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

He knows the answer.

You still give him it, “yes.”

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

You feel his eyes on you.

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

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

You’re laughing but it’s mostly fake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not her fault. You know.

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

Your dad is.

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

Even from here, you can hear him bragging.

So then Peña’s on his ass.

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

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

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

He’s exaggerating.

The guy was barely going 5 miles an hour!

He stepped out the vehicle at his own will.

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

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

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

If you step inside the frame, it cracks.

Shatters.

And maybe he knows that.

Knew it all along.

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

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

The feeling lasts all but four seconds.

“Kiddo!”

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

It takes a moment, but you wave.

“Come over ‘ere!”

Not the response you were hoping for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not a sight you want to see.

It fills you with dread.

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

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

“London.”

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

All eyes snap to him.

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

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

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

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

That peaks your interest.

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

“Really?”

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

With Javi, friends could mean anything.

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

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

So it’s best you don’t inquire on it.

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

“Mr... Bond?”

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

You can practically hear it, in his voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His lips press against your hairline before speaking again.

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

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

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

It’s too late though.

You’re already snoring against his skin.

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

For a minute, it feels like she knows.

She knows why Javi knows.

You should be panicking.

Both of you should.

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

But you aren’t. Neither of you are.

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

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

Your dad gives an unceremonious oh.

Your mom rolls her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pulls her close, kisses her shoulder.

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

Open, celebrated, acknowledged.

Not secretive, dirty, scandalous.

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

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

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

Your heart drops.

Javi’s seems to do the same.

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

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

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

But I’m actually bloody Motherfucking batshit crazy

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

You’ve lived plenty of such moments.

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

And all because you heard his voice.

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

He’s facing a woman.

She’s pretty.

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

And a well-rounded belly.

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

You’ve never seen her before.

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

She’s a total stranger, to you.

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

A very pregnant, non-stranger.

“We gotta get this kid some better taste.”

His hand rests on her bump.

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

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

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

You won’t let it fester.

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

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

Was she the reason things between you and him ended?

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

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

Surely, he couldn’t have.

But, then, why couldn’t he have?

You were never exclusive.

You were never anything.

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

Your heart’s palpitating.

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

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

Because, how could he do this to you?

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

Love you so deeply and leave you so easily?

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

“He’s a real kicker, ain’t he?”

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

But, no, it’s too distant. Too far.

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

He’s handsome, in the typical sense.

Blonde haired, a nice smile.

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

“He?” It’s Javi who echoes.

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

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

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

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

The bile in your throat burns more than ever before.

The misplaced anger bleeds into sadness, shame, embarrassment.

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

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

Friends his own age.

Worlds apart, yet nothing but a shelf between you.

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

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

The little girl perks right up at that.

Eyes widened, head off her father’s shoulder.

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

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

“Quit lying to my kid, Peña.”

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

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

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

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

Your breathing stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flicker up to the shelf and-

He’s no longer standing on the other side.

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

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

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

You wake up early.

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

Making the most out of your time upon foreign land.

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

The truth lies in that you can not sleep.

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

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

A quarter past six.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your ringtone is the culprit.

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

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

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

“Corazón.”

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

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

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

Sadness that it sounds so broken down the line.

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

“I’m here,” it’s only a whisper.

It’s enough to shut him up.

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

“You’re in London,” he states.

“I am,” you affirm.

He hums, sips something.

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

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

“Yeah,” you spare him the details.

The truth.

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

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

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

You sure felt alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For answers, for clarity, for closure

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

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

Even then, it kills you to do so.

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

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

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

“What answer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The image doesn’t quite form.

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

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

Refuge he’s willing to share with you.

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

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

“Promise me you’ll go, corazón.”

Your reply is instant, “I promise.”

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

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

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

“How you feeling, kiddo?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of them have, really.

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

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

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

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

“You’re literally in my room!”

“Which is literally in my house!”

Downstairs, your mother yells something unintelligible.

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

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

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

Tupperware, clasped in his hand.

The contents are hard to decipher.

Luckily, your father spots you eyeing it.

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

Your stomach growls, hungry and unfed.

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

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

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

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

Immediately, you spot chicken.

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

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

Your father continues, practically talking to himself.

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

“Cazuela de ave.”

A change into warmer, drier clothes.

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

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

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

And that fact is partly what warms your insides.

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

Objectively, you think, he’s gorgeous.

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

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

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

The scent alone is enough to have you salivating. 

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

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

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

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

A real date.

Only, this isn’t even a fake date.

You guys don’t do that.

“It’s- It was my mom’s recipe.”

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

He’s never mentioned his mother.

Or much about his family, really.

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

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

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

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

Open.

His eyes, his mind, his heart.

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

“Was she a good cook?”

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

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

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

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

It’s disturbingly beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know what to say.

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

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

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

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

Both of you settle back in your seats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She would have liked you.”

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

They’re as open as before.

“Really?”

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

“Kiddo?”

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

“Hmm?” 

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

“I’m- Yeah, just tired, s’all.”

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

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

[sunshine-and-moonshine]

COD Men with a mentally ill/disordered S/O

Requested: No

Warnings: OCD, ADHD, Anxiety, and Depression, Panic attacks

A/N: I cried while writing this so enjoy the fruit of my tears

Ghost - OCD

Ghost can’t say that he understands your need for cleanliness, in your home and in your mind, the way you think just doesn’t make sense to him. He knows that, logically, you checking the knob of the front door exactly 3 times in a row, doing your goodnight chant at the exact same pitch and volume every night as you back into your room, checking every single thing in your area before you can even think of touching the bed, does not influence anything but your mind. But he knows that you not doing it will only put you into a frenzy, practically hyperventilating about how much everything would go wrong because you didn’t do it right. Because now everything is filthy because you broke the pattern. You never say it aloud, afraid he’d think you as crazy as you already think of yourself, but he already knows. It’s written all across your face, the tears in your eyes, the way you look like you want to claw your skin off just to get to the filth that you know is underneath.

filthy filthy filthy FILTHY

No, you never have to say a word. But Ghost will always know, and he’ll always try to help, even if it’s entirely in vain as you sink deeper and deeper into your head, giving in to the voices. He’ll always be there for you, your medicine in one hand and a drink in the other, always.

Soap - ADHD

Soap thinks a lot of your little habits are cute at first. Sure you do some pretty strange things but he doesn’t think it’s anything drastic. You’re just his strange little goofball. But that changes when he gets to know you better and sees all the negative ways you are affected. The way you struggle with time, how you often have trouble remembering even important things, and your inability to properly communicate with people who aren’t in your day to day life. Not to mention your guilt on top of all those things and how it affects your self worth.

Soap can’t help with many of those things but something he can help with is the executive dysfunction. Bringing you food and drinks when you get so absorbed into a task that everything else just falls away and you don’t even notice your stomach’s rumbling until it hurts. Subtly snapping you out of your daydreams when you unintentionally start zoning out during something important. Helping you manage impulse control, starting boring or difficult tasks, or keeping your attention on something important when you get distracted for the umpteenth time.

He’ll always be there for you, ready to assist you however he can, even if he can’t always be a great help.

König - Anxiety

Ah yes, an experience that König is all too familiar with. Although he does find it all kinds of strange to be seeing his own mannerisms from the outside instead of just experiencing them. The way you shrink in on yourself when someone approaches you about something serious, or how you look like you’re on the verge of a panic attack when you have to go into a crowd or to the store during busy hours. And unfortunately a lifetime of living with the same mental illness does not help him comfort you at all. He can try his best but your anxiety feeds into his own, making him teary eyed.

But that doesn’t stop him. König doesn't want to just sit by and watch you delve further into panic. So he worked on being braver, on withstanding his own panic so he could help you through yours. It wasn’t easy, his legs practically jelly as he tried to talk you through an anxiety attack, helping you get your breathing steady again, his voice echoing in your ears as he tries to soothe away all the voices in your head. He knows it’s not going to help all that much, but he hopes it at least helps some.

He just wants to help you feel better, Little Majestät.

Alejandro - Depression

Alejandro is no stranger to the absolute messes that people can become when their inner demons take control. He’s seen his fair share of soldiers lose themselves to PTSD and the like, drowning in their sorrows. It’s not something he’d wish upon anyone, let alone you. Someone he cherishes so much, so close to his heart that seeing you upset makes him almost physically ill. And this level of pain you are in, unable to move from your bed, just staring at the wall like some hallowed husk of the person he loves, it hurts him so badly.

He will do his best for you, gently encouraging you to drink water or to eat something, bringing these things to you if you truly cannot convince you to come out of bed with him. He’ll whisper to you how much he loves you, words of encouragement and praise for everything you manage to do, even if it’s as simple as getting out of bed to perform basic hygiene or throwing out a piece of trash. His smile will be so big when you finally do manage to get out of bed, pressing sweet kisses to your face as he asks you quietly if you’d like to join him in the living room for a bit. Trying to encourage you while not pushing you too far.

Alejandro would kill, just to see you out of your bed and even just the slightest bit happier.

[sukunasweetheart]

sukuna isn’t one for much verbal affection. the thought of it brings heat to his cheeks, burning with embarrassment. he isn’t embarrassed about loving you, but he just can’t bring himself to say those accursed words, even when he tries practicing in the mirror sometimes.

you, on the other hand, have no problem with it. verbal and physical, there is no hesitation when you express your romance towards him. and he wonders how you do it; he really does.

he might not say it out loud, but oftentimes, he finds himself thinking it instead.

on the couch, you lie down and rest your head against his thigh, looking up at him with your glossy eyes and warm smile. bringing sukuna’s large hand to your lips, you give it a kiss before placing it upon your collarbone, so it’s easier for you to nuzzle into.

i love you.

on days when he’s exhausted, you bring a chair to the bathroom to shampoo his hair and give him a simple scalp massage. and before you begin, you always offer him an upside down kiss. sukuna opens his eyes, and sees the same smile you have whenever you’re with him. he loves being in the centre of your affectionate gaze.

i love you.

so eager to cater to his needs and wants-- it never occurred to him how much he actually likes being spoiled. he’s gotten so needy ever since he started dating you, but he can’t stop himself even when he is completely self aware. bothering you when you’re busy in the kitchen, getting as close to you as he can in bed and in the living room. arms wrapped around your waist, face buried into your neck.

i love you.

feverish kissing, hands locked against the mattress - sukuna enjoys being on top of you. the sound of the rain tapping against the window accompanies the creaking of his and your bed. you whimper as he suckles on a sensitive patch of your skin, and you hold his hand tighter.

“i love you,” he mumbles, observing your teary, tender eyes. the words have already left his lips by the time he realises in soft awe, that he’d said them aloud.

after a brief silence, you merely give him a coy smile before saying:

“i knew that. i love you too.”

he hadn’t noticed-- that he’d been expressing his love for you flawlessly, all this time. but still, it’s nice to hear it out loud for once.

Masterlist

[amberlynnmurdock]

Blind Faith

Chapter 4: My Accomplice 

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Chapter Summary: The Devil of Hell's Kitchen makes you his accomplice. He doesn't like when you joke about danger.

A/N: No warnings for this chapter, unless you count Matt Murdock getting mad a warning.

Again, the POV shifts towards the end. You know it's Matt's POV if he describes his senses and his name is used. If it's Mike, it's the Reader's POV.

Enjoy! <3 

Chapter 3 here

Hell’s Kitchen

11:00 PM

The next few nights after your private self-defense class with Mike felt like you were in an endless fever dream.

Like routine, you met him up on the roof. Whether it was before you went out, or before he did, you made the time. You didn’t know what you were getting yourself into, but you liked the thrill of it all. The secret meetings, the whispers in each other’s ears, promises of seeing each other you didn’t even know were going to be fulfilled… until the next night when they were. He showed up like clockwork.

Last Night

“And here I was thinkin’ you just love ‘em and leave ‘em,” you whispered against his lips. Mike interrupted you and chased your lips with a kiss. He held onto your waist firmly and held you in place.

“I don’t love and I don’t leave,” Mike had said in a breathless whisper. He pulled you tighter against him when he spoke. “I do what I want.”

You laughed against his chest. “I know that. You act outside of the law every night. If I had that attitude, I’d do what I want, too.”

“Why do you always bring that up?” Mike smirked. You wiped it off with another kiss.

“What were you thinking, getting involved with a future lawyer?”

He chuckled and kissed you again. He spun you around.

“Technically,” he began, “you know about my illegal activities and haven’t reported me. That makes you my accomplice,” Mike said in a low voice, directly in your ear. You shivered. You didn’t know it was possible, but he held you even tighter.

“Well, fuck,” you said with a smile, “I guess it does, doesn’t it?”

Suddenly, Mike paused. You noticed he did that sometimes, followed by a statement of fact. His attention turned somewhere to the left of you.

“Your friends are looking for you,” he said, “it’s time to go.”

“How do you know? They’re probably drunk already,” you kissed him again. His lips remained on yours, and then he pulled back slowly.

“They are,” he confirmed. “Join them, but don’t drink too much.”

“No promises,” you chuckled.

“Please be safe,” Mike said as he pulled back. You hated how cold you felt whenever he let go of you.

“I will,” you promised, “though why should I be careful when I know you’re out there?”

“Don’t think like that,” he demanded, tightening his mask. You shook your head in amusement before you watched as he climbed over the roof, and into the night.

Present Time

11:30 PM

With Mike in your life now, you couldn’t concentrate on anything.

He was still on your mind even in a loud, dingy bar, like you were now. You were infatuated, for sure. Not everyone could say they were having an affair with a masked vigilante, and absolutely no one could parade that fact aloud. But you liked keeping it a secret. It made it all the more special.

You just wished you could have him here with you, now. But that would never happen. You didn’t even know what he looked like, let alone his real name. Who knew who the real man was behind the mask? Did you even want to know who he was? He certainly knew who you were. He knew your face. You knew he was older than you.

And yet, with all these thoughts floating in your mind and with three vodka-Diet Coke’s in your system, you still danced on the dance floor like nothing was occupying your mind. Emily grabbed your arms to dance with her and you raised your cup in the air, shouting.

“That guy over there is checking you out,” she yelled in your ear. You really couldn’t be less interested, but you looked over to appease her anyway.

There was someone looking at you for sure. He was tall, very handsome with a boyish look. Like boy-next-door vibes, with his light blonde hair and white tee shirt on. Blue jeans. Completely the opposite of your newly discovered type of man-in-black-mask-vigilante-who-won’t-reveal-his-name. You were fully committed to the latter, even though you knew there was no established relationship. Which truthfully, made your heart feel the tiniest heavier.

“Go talk to him,” Emily encouraged.

“I don’t know—“

And before you knew it, you were being pushed through the crowd. It felt wrong to go over to talk to him. You felt guilty.

You stumbled into him, and Emily scurried off. I’ll get her for this.

You stumbled into him so badly, you got a huge whiff of his overpriced cologne. It clogged your nose as you coughed. You drank more of your vodka-Diet Coke to suppress the coughing. He laughed, and without asking placed his hand on your back.

“You okay?” He asked with a chuckle.

You nodded awkwardly, raising your cup again—why do I always do this when I’m drunk?! You placed your cup down and held it with your hands, swishing it around.

“Yeah,” you said, “perfectly A-OK.”

“You wanna dance?”

“Not really,” you answered a little too fast.

He flinched, but then he made a face like he knew what you meant.

“Ohh,” he said, realizing something you were unaware of. “You wanna go outside?”

“Hell no,” you frowned. “I gotta go.”

“But—“

Before he could finish, you ran off to find your friends. You laughed through the crowd and spotted Bella talking to a guy.

“Hey!” She said, “This is Andre.” She gestured to the guy who stood next to her. He had tan skin, and black hair, with a strong jawline. He definitely was easy on the eyes, and definitely right up Bella’s alley.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, holding out his hand. You shook it and introduced yourself.

You weren’t very trusting of any of the guys your friends introduced you to at first, but once you got a feel for their character, you let them in graciously. Andre, throughout the night, proved himself to be a good guy and someone who is good for Bella.

Emily and Hannah found you by the bar, ordering your last vodka-Diet Coke of the night. Emily nudged your elbow and fixed your hair. You smiled at your friends, knowing that your night out was soon coming to an end.

“How’d it go with that guy? Did he ask for your number?” She asked. Hannah also listened intently.

“No,” you shrugged. “I didn’t want it anyway.”

Emily looked a little surprised, “Really? I thought you’d be into him.”

“You thought wrong,” you laughed. It was her turn to shrug.

“Just trying to help,” she said. “We’re ready to go. Our Uber’s almost here.”

Walking outside the bar, you knew there was no way you were getting inside that Uber. For some reason, you felt something in your heart, telling you to stay. It was like you had vigilante senses—you’d bet Mike was here somewhere. You just had a feeling, you couldn’t explain it. Or the alcohol was making you feel dramatic about everything.

All your friends piled in the car, except you.

“What are you doing? Oh God, do you need to throw up?” Emily asked with worry. You shook your head.

“No, I think I’m going to stay,” you told her.

She looked confused, and then she realized something.

“That guy,” she said knowingly, “blonde with blue jeans. I knew he was your type!”

You shrugged. That’ll work. “Yeah, don’t worry about me.”

“Text us if you need us,” Bella shouted. Andre placed a hand on her knee from the passenger seat to quiet her down. Hannah was already knocked out.

“I will,” you answered. You shut the Uber car door and spun around. The music from the club was muffled and people began to shuffle out. You saw the guy Emily tried to set you up with again, but you moved past him quickly. Sorry dude, but you are not who I am looking for.

Taking a wild guess, you turned into the first alley you saw.

And there he was, in all his glory.

~~~

“How the hell did I know you’d be here, somewhere?” You exclaimed loudly, a bit too loudly. Matt tensed as he waited for you to approach him. He heard you drop off your friends at your Uber, and he heard your conversation with them. Behind his mask, he squinted his eyes. He tilted his head, taking you in.

Vodka-Diet Coke, one too many. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. She’s wearing a mini skirt…and sandals. And a revealing top. Her hair is down. Her fragrance…cologne—overpriced. Did a man touch you?

“And what if I weren’t here?” Matt asked with no humor in his voice. You came to an awkward stop in front of him, crossing your arms.

“I would’ve walked home alone and expected you to find me anyway,” You slurred, though you were trying not to sound drunk. It wasn’t working.

“You can’t expect that I’ll always be there all the time,” Matt argued. “You need to be able to keep yourself safe when I’m not around.”

“And when you are around?”

“You’re safe with me,” he said simply.

“And that’s exactly why I wait for you,” you answered. The smell of the cologne was overpowering to Matt’s senses—he couldn’t stand the smell of someone else on you.

“Who’s cologne is that?” Matt asked.

You shrugged. “Some random guy Emily tried to set me up with. He wasn’t my type.” You laughed. “I’ve got someone else on my mind.”

Ignoring the last part, Matt pried more.

“Did—did he touch you?” The scent was so strong and terrible it was like you were doused in it. You shook your head.

“I drunkenly stumbled into him and he uninvitingly placed his hand on my back,” you said, then asked, “are you—first of all, I am way too drunk to know how you know there’s cologne on me, and second, are you jealous?” You asked suspiciously, and Matt didn’t need to be able to see to know you were smiling when you asked your last question.

Perhaps he was.

“What if I was?” Matt asked.

You laughed, but it wasn’t lighthearted. There was something else in your voice, almost like resentment. “What, you would’ve walked right into the bar and stopped him from talking to me?”

“No—“

“No,” you cut him off. “Because then I’d know who you are. And you have no right to be jealous.”

Matt was silent. You were argumentative in nature, and he liked that, but tonight, it felt more personal. He was already starting to hurt you. He didn’t like that.

“I’ll leave you alone from now on,” Matt stated. He turned on his heel and began to walk away, but he felt you take his hand.

“I’d walk myself into danger to get you to come and find me if you leave right now,” you said tauntingly. Matt turned around so fast, he knew it startled you. He took your wrist and held it tightly.

“Don’t. Don’t joke like that,” his voice was low, guttural even. The thought of you in danger made him furious. The thought of you purposefully putting yourself in danger was downright seething.

“I’d walk into the depths of this city alone and in nothing but a sundress and wait for you to come to find me,” you sneered in a drunken whisper.

“Stop,” Matt’s jaw clenched as he spoke, “Stop it.” He held onto your wrist tighter. You yanked it out of his grasp. He taught you how to do that.

“Why haven’t you left yet anyway? Why are you so triggered now, all of a sudden?” You argued more. Matt shook his head before he answered. It’s what I’ve been asking myself all week.

“Because I can’t get enough,” He said in a low growl as he took your chin in his hands and kissed you so hard, you had to hold on to his shirt. You held his black shirt in between your knuckles, pulling him desperately closer to you. Matt held onto your waist like he always does and moved you against the wall of the alley.

He kissed you more, in the alley, knowing no one was around. It was just you and him in the alley, kissing desperately and holding onto each other. He pinned your hands above your head but held your wrists firm.

“Touch me,” you demanded as you pulled back, gasping for air. You spread your legs so he stood between them.

“No,” he whispered and shook his head. “Not when you’re intoxicated.”

“Oh, so you’ll easily break the law every night, but when it comes to a girl allowing you to touch her, that's where you draw the line?” You laughed. He shushed you with another kiss.

“You’re not just any girl to me,” Matt’s voice softened.

“You say that to all the girls you save,” you joked. He shook his head again, holding that same serious demeanor.

“You’re the only one,” he told you truthfully. “There’s only you.”

“Your accomplice?” You asked with a smile.

He couldn’t help but smile in return.

“My accomplice.” He kissed you again.

Hell’s Kitchen

1:00 AM

Mike walked you home. And now, you laid in bed, about to dream of him all over again.

The way he told you that you were the only girl in his life… no amount of water could’ve sobered you up quicker, and no amount of lecturing could make you take the situation more seriously, the way he spoke to you just an hour ago. And there was still the lingering question in your mind of, well then, who are you?

You had bit your lip. You didn’t ask him.

Another night, you told yourself.

Tonight, you wrapped yourself in your sheets, wishing it was him instead.

[creampill]

hi, hello, i'd love to see romantic obsessed narrator please.

hello????

uh hi welcome to my inbox. sorry I kind of lost my mind seeing you hop in here less than a minute after I reblogged your post while fangirling over your writing.

well, I’ll take a chance to be grossly self-indulgent any day. here’s your meal!

Romantic Obsessed Narrator/Reader HCs

- if you’ve read soup’s writing on the platonic version of this subject, then you know the main vibe that narry gives off when he’s in this kind of headspace

- he will do anything to keep your attention. Whatever it takes.

- he will keep making new content for as long as he needs too- he will read off different scripts, write and rewrite new ones, reward every single incremental decision you make to keep you interested.

- a romantic narry wouldn’t want to make you scared of him though. He wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable or confused- maybe then you’d leave him. He’d never have a chance to woo you if you had a grudge against him.

- so he tries not to make it too obvious how much he’s tailoring the experience of the game to you. He’ll try to make it all fit in seamlessly with the rest of the games shenanigans.

- you, the player, don’t really see anything odd at the start. The game is so layered with secrets you’re not really shocked that you’ve found things you haven’t heard about before. That’s just how the game is.

- his obsession is the kind that manifests as a collection, almost hoarding: whatever information he learns about you, he cherishes.

- for the sake of this concept, let’s say you have some kind of mic attached to the game. Something that transmits your voice, your reactions- the thing that he fell in love with in the first place.

- something about your personality just… enraptured him. he wants to know more about you. He wants to know everything about you. Every piece of information, he keeps.

- He has an incredibly strong memory, but he knows how fragile the mind can be (r.e; the confusion ending), so he writes down what he knows about you. He writes all the tiny details down, everything he learns, every itty bitty thing.

- your favourite colour? The way you laugh? Your birthday you mentioned offhandedly? The exact times and dates you log into the game?

- everything. He keeps everything. In excruciating detail, too- his fanciful and descriptive writing style translates over to this too. He’s filled pages and pages with his fawning over you.

- these details also leak into the game, personalising it to you. Other endings pop up in your favourite genres; the adventure line changes colour to your favourite; the outside in the freedom ending becomes more and more similar to your childhood home.

- he also uses this information to make you more attracted to him.

- if it’s his voice that gets you (like it does the rest of us)? Then maybe he just happens to sit a bit closer to his microphone. Maybe he purrs his lines a little sweeter or dips his voice lower based on your reactions. Maybe he complements you more than normal- maybe he teases you relentlessly. Whatever makes you flustered is what he strives for.

- if it’s his silly dorky humour and endearing dialogue? Prepare for more jokes. Stupider ones. And a whole lot more dialogue for every possible choice and situation- Whatever made you laugh the hardest.

- and if it’s his stories? His prose, his talent as a creative? He will write for you. He will craft as many beautiful and unique and detailed routes as you want. He will act his ass off for you, moving you from laughter to tears, if that’s what makes you happy.

- it’s hard for him to contain how much he loves you sometimes.

- every time you leave, his heart breaks. He knows you have a life outside of the game- but he just wishes he could be part of that, too.

- when you haven’t played for a while, he has to hold himself back from cheering aloud when you load back in.

- he has to hold back the joy in his voice when you get excited, trying so hard not to laugh along with you. You were just so infectious- it was almost impossible to stop himself.

- but the narrator would defy impossible for you.

- because he loves you. And that means doing whatever would make you happy. Even if it’s impossible.

[ao3sbatfamily]

Hi idk if you remember me but hi hello :) I disappeared for a while bc I got hit with a depressive episode and then got my first job (I’m stressed out of my MIND)

Wanted to see if you had any Tim and Damian bonding oneshots?

And idk if self promotion is allowed or not (I totally get if it isn’t) but I wrote a thing about a week ago:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54799255

I knew you'd be back! The blogs gotten bigger, so it might take longer for me to reply. Anyways, I woke up today needing fluff and your fic gave it to me. Thank you.

'Middle Child Problems' by HoneyDewed_LemonDrops

Author: @honeydewedlemons

“You’re a middle child, dipshit,” Jason says when Tim brings it up. Tim just blinks slowly, the way he always does when things take too long to process. “You went from only child, to youngest child, to middle child. And now you don’t know what the fuck to do.”

Jason had never been particularly… genius-y in the sense that most people would know. But, but. He never would’ve made it if he didn’t know people in a way that people didn’t even know themselves. Tim and Bruce, the detectives, could never really do that. Bruce was better at it, somewhat. He could read a case file and build a list of the most probable aspects of personality, but he could never quite understand the way that Jason could.

“Oh my God. You’re fuckin’ jealous,” Jason says, breaking Tim out of his momentary reverie. He waved his form around in Tim’s general direction, and Tim rolled his eyes.

“I’m not jealous,” He insists, but God. “I just- have you seen the way they interact? Neither of us ever got that chance with Dick. It’s not his fault, obviously, but—,” he cuts himself off because. Yeah. He is.

(Restricted) Damian's Duckling by sElkieNight60

Author: @selkienight60

“It seems almost sacrilegious to call you anything other than ‘Timothy,’ Damian mutters to the bird, amused.

Timothy, fluffy and gorgeous, was trapped in a drain when Damian found him outside Gotham Academy on an overcast afternoon. Though he had hunted for the baby duck’s parents for a good thirty minutes, running himself late for Alfred, he had eventually concluded that the parents had left the poor thing behind.

Newly dubbed ‘Timothy’ ignores him, preferring the moistened mixture of food and water Damian has provided.

“Perhaps,” Damian continues, unfurling his legs until they lay prone with the carpet, his back pressed up against the solid bed frame. “That is a secret we can keep between just the two of us, hm?”

Gingerly, he reaches out a finger and begins to stroke the bird. When Timothy doesn’t protest Damian tries with his whole hand. It melts his heart how trusting the duckling is, leaning into the warmth of his palm.

“You are not very much like your namesake,” he comments aloud, running a thumb over soft feathers. “Although, I made… mistakes when I first met Drake, if I am to be honest with you.”

Cupping the bird in one hand and drawing him out of the box, Damian brings him close to his chest.

[midnightsapphire]

ignore me for spacing out and stalling on modern!aemond

Cont.

POSSIBLE SPOILERS, CONTINUE WITH CAUTION

but also take ghost!aemond after the war and the dance of the dragons. his soul finding solace in the place he felt the most serene when he was living

it took many years after the war between the blacks and the greens, being a direct decendent of prince daeron, great-grandchild of rhaenyra targaryen

in your youth, you swore you saw whisps of long blonde hair breezing past you in the corridors, catching you when you tripped but disappeared before you could finish blinking

you constantly told your father, god forbid even your mother brushed it aside as some form of your overactive imagination but you knew in your tiny bones that there was someone else aside from your siblings residing in the castle

it wasn't until you were old enough to lurk the castle on your own did you see him. a tall, slender man standing by the fireplace in the library that was meant to be offlimits per your fathers request.

"who are you?" you would ask him while his back was turned to you, only glancing at the slender curve of his jaw, the natural upward curl of his lips, the ever so faint peek of his dimples as a single violet eye glanced at you

he said no words as he silently glanced at the many spines that lined the shelves, his hands tightly woven behind his back, almost itching to touch one of the many literatures that even he had collected in his time of living

you constantly watched the types of literature he seemed to linger around, the philosophical texts catching your eyes, along with the history books that seemed untouched with the dust collecting around them.

"shall i read to you?" you asked, not waiting for an answer as you pulled a book from it's place, blowing off the dust as Aemond watched you curiously, eyes flickering between you and the fireplace as he remained planted in his spot.

The Tales of Old Valyria, his favorite.

it had then become a routine, you visiting the library when duties had been attended to, your eyes lighting up when you saw his slender back from your spot at the doorway. you had learned he was a man of very few words, only responding in gutteral hums and grunts in between words, but often tore his eyes away from the fire to glance at you when you stopped reading aloud

"you can sit, you know. you must be exhausted standing around for hours." you offered one time as aemond's bittersweet smirk grew on his face.

"not one for small conversations.. noted." you would whisper as you reached for another book, a newer one the maesters had brought in to graciously add to the collection you had now deemed as yours

"the song of fire and blood, they call it. about the legacy of the Targaryens... well not only us but others in the seven kingdoms. it is.. my current favorite. my father says it was about our ancestors, rhaenyra and her family." the very name causing aemond's body to tense as he looked at her from the corner of his eye

"my favorite is aemond targaryen, however. he's not entirely mentioned but-"

"he's considered a monster. maimed by his own kin. kinslayer. what much is there to warrent being a favorite?"

the first words he ever muttered to you. self-deprecating, loathing, bitter.

"you would be too if you were regarded only as the second son."

it was then aemond warmed up to you more, standing closer when you would read of their family's history, his history, interjecting every once in a while to put in his own comments, never having the heart to confess that it was truly him that had lived, breathed, killed in those moments.

not with the way you glanced at him like he held your entire world in his hands. not when he saw the sparkle in your eye when you greeted each other with fond smiles, the disappointment when you were called away, when you told him about your day as you twisted flower crowns for him with flowers you had stolen from the gardens stating 'if you detest the sun and the bushes then i shall bring it to you!' followed by his ghostly hand brushing through the small gift. reminding him once again that he was no longer with the living.

and suddenly the fire that roared in the fireplace felt colder than it already was

"it was said that aemond flew on the back of vhagar and brutally avenged his lost eye by slaying his nephew Lucerys Velaryon-"

"it was accidental."

"that he brutally stabbed both of lucerys' eyes out as they washed out on the shore."

"that never happened-"

"you speak as if you were there."

"and if i was? would you turn and flee? call me a monster like the maesters had?!"

"i- i don't understand.."

"no. you wouldn't. i wouldn't expect anything less from the third born child of a pathetic king."

he didn't know why- if it was the resentment in the bloody maesters that had painted him as a kinslaying craven, that he fathered bastards with a bastard witch of the strongs, that he.. he couldn't be there to grab your arm and prevent you from leaving the very room he was trapped in.

he cursed every single day you hadn't visted the library, watching each log slowly burn as he tried his best to release his anger, punching at the shelves, kicking the chairs, but nothing. not a single clatter besides the wind that whipped with every one of his swings.

only then did his head turn when he heard your quiet footsteps after weeks. not bothering to turn to face you as you both stood in silence.

"lucerys velaryon had stolen the eye of aemond targeryen on the night of laena valeryon's funeral. he had stolen the dragon, vhagar in the dead of night when everyone had been asleep and their kin followed and.. incidents followed."

"what are you talking about?"

"he had grown resentful of the bastard children of his half-sister, knowing fully well their father had bent and broken every rule imaginable and got away with nothing but a slap in the wrist. he grew resentful that he was maimed, considered a cripple, a spare to their eldest when he continued his duties for his family and for the realm while his brother fathered bastards, slept with any woman that could breathe with no reprocussions and was still crowned king."

"the slaying of lucerys velaryon was an accident that enthrailed consequences he could not bear.. he died as he lived. cold, angry.. alone." he whispered as he finally turned to you, finally stepping closer as he slowly took off the eyepatch adorned on his face, the bright sapphire still shining as the day he was blessed with it.

"but nothing felt as.. cold and alone as it had when you were absent. i would sacrifice lifetimes, live through those excruciating events again if i knew they all led me back to you.."

"what are you saying?"

"the aemond targeryen lived in blinded spite to all those who wrong him, but the aemond targaryen now.. wishes he lived to be closer to you." he whispered, a hand reaching out to caress the back of his fingers along your cheek, flinching when it did nothing but leave a cold touch past your skin.

it only came crashing down then that you realized, through all the corrected sentiments, the backhanded comments he had made whenever you read to him, he was there, and now that he had found a purpose worth living for, it was not his purpose to bear.

"time and the gods had been cruel to us. you.. you will soon marry, grow old and mother beautiful.. beautiful children. but as you read from them the history books like you had for me.. it matters not the legacy i had left behind, i could be a figment of myth, of imagination, i could not care less what others have thought of me. but what matters to me is that you never forget me, my sweet sapphire."

it sucks im so sorry

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Shared Stock.

Pairing: Yandere!Cowboy!OC x Reader x Yandere!Farmer!OC.

Word Count: < 1.0k.

TW: Explicit Cowboy Self-Indulgence, Implied Non//con, Prolonged Imprisonment, and Gun Violence.

Mercy thinks Wren is too careful.

She says he treats you too much like a porcelain doll, not enough like the little spitfire she claims to know you are. She'll scoff when you tell her about his paranoia, roll her eyes when she sees you dressed in his aprons and flannel over-shirts, insist that you're tough enough to handle a few weeks on the open road - even if she never lets you out of her sight, much less far enough from her side to stray into any proper danger. She could spend hours admonishing the way Wren fusses over every scrape and scratch, but in all honesty, she's more selfish than trusting, willing to make-believe that you'd do better on horseback than tucked away in some ramshackle farmhouse if it means she gets to take you with her when she leaves town, on her way to some unnamed city on the edge of the world with only a herd of cattle and her crew. She doesn't think you'd stand a chance on your own, not in earnest, but she's far too possessive not to make your life as difficult as hers.

She's far too possessive in general, really. You know better than to say as much aloud (you can still remember the taste of her pistol against your tongue, still hear the sound of her voice as asked if you wanted to call her 'jealous' again), but there's a reason you're not allowed to talk to any of the other wranglers, that she always makes such a show out of splitting you open on her tongue behind the paper-thin scraps of material she calls a tent. One to spend every coin she earns and drain every bottle she comes across, Mercy's not the kind of woman who stand not to use what she has, and she does what she can to wear you down to the bone. Whether that means one of her fraying ropes is rubbing the skin of your wrists raw because 'you look like you've gotten it into your pretty little head to do somethin' stupid again' or you're sobbing you're eyes out because a man from her crew scowled at you the wrong way and, well, Mercy's always been faster to draw her gun than second-guess her own assumptions, she always finds a way to bleed you dry. She could afford to be a little more careful with you, all in all.

Wren thinks Mercy is too rough.

He's not as blatant about it as she is, but you see the way he frowns when she brings you back from a cattle drive covered in dust and cuts and bruise, and you know that, if Wren had his way, you'd spend all day baking apple pies and all night wrapped in handstitched quilts and never so much as cross paths with anything or anyone who might do you harm. There's no rope, when you're with him, no guns when you manage to forget about the shotgun he keeps in the shed behind the farmhouse - just locks on the doors and a few idle warnings that the townsfolk in these parts don't take kindly to troublemakers. When you try to tell him that he and his friends are the ones causing trouble for you, he just frowns and tells you to mind your tongue. You're something to keep safe and stowed away, to Wren, just like you're something to own and flaunt to Mercy. People don't tend to bother arguing with the precious gems they've already decided to hoard.

He doesn't bother talking to you much at all, as welcome as his silence usually is. That might be the worst thing about the farmhouse - how claustrophobic those wooden walls can feel before he comes home and drags you into a hour-long bath, just how suffocating the soundlessness can be and just how much worse it can get when you know you're relying on that monster of a man to break it. For everything you hate about Mercy, you're never bored when you're with her. You're never bored when you're with Wren, either, but Wren's not around very often. The fields have to be tended to, and Wren will barely let you hold a pairing knife, much less a spade. Wren doesn't give you as much to cry about as Mercy does, but sometimes, you almost wish he would. At least then, you'd have something to do.

You've tried to tell them that, if they both think the other's going to be the death of you, they could always let you go, set you free, drop you off on the outskirts of the nearest town with a sturdy pair of boots and enough cash to catch the next train to a more hospitable part of the country, but neither of them have ever taken kindly to your advice. That might be the only thing they have in common - how adamantly they refuse to let you wander farther than the horizon line, how ferociously they respond to any suggestion of a reality where you don't belong to one of them. That might be the only thing they agree on.

Neither of them likes the way the other treats you, but both Wren and Mercy know you wouldn't last a second on your own.

[iridessence]

Miss Iridessence, you are one of the most beautiful people I've ever seen. I'm always stunned by your pictures. I'm also a fat woman, but I struggle so much in seeing myself as beautiful (I don't think I'm nearly as beautiful as you in general, you literally glow). I'm getting married very soon, too, but I feel so bad about myself because I know that the people around me (my family is very old fashioned) see my being fat as a failure. I've been working a lot on how I see myself, because I want to be happy as myself, but when it comes to the wedding stuff, my dress, my makeup and my hair, I just feel so silly and like there's no way for me to be pretty. Do have any advice for me to try and see myself as a beautiful bride?

Hi there! The most sincerest congratulations to you for your engagement and upcoming wedding with your love. This is an incredible time, you deserve to feel giddy and excited and not laden with these complicated feelings right now. Let’s buckle in as there’s a long post ahead.

So first, you must commit to honoring yourself by how you speak about yourself. You’re already doing a great job by using “I think I am XYZ/I feel XYZ” statements as opposed to absolutes (“I am XYZ, etc”) … It’s hard to control what our brains tell us, but it’s not impossible, and it’s theoretically easier to control what we say aloud or write. Please please try not to put yourself down verbally, while in the process of complimenting someone else. It’s never going to be good for you and even worse it may make things awkward for the recipient who then may feel like compelled to comfort or emotionally manage, instead of being able to fully and presently receive your compliment.

Otherwise, I could tell you something like “look in the mirror and say these self affirmations,” but the fact of the matter is that it may not work for everyone, and that’s not the end-all-be-all in the process toward building self-esteem, so I want to focus on the following things…

I want you to reflect upon whether or not you want the wedding hubbub. I’m not asking you to question if you want to get married but rather the rituals that come along with the wedding process. Are they important to you? If not, that could be behind why it seems silly and ineffective. Lots of people go through the whole show to appease their partners or their family and then it stresses them out and it feels foreign, and it’s all because they never wanted it in the first place. If that’s the case, I invite you to consider that you really can let the hubbub go.

If things like makeup, hair and dresses are important to you, then I urge you to accept that that is simply enough for you to be able to partake in them. It’s your right to wear whatever kind of hairstyle or dress or makeup you want whether it supposedly works good or not. If that’s what you want to do for your wedding, you get to have it! This is another way to frame it if you have trouble seeing yourself as the beautiful bride that I’m sure you are and especially the beautiful bride that your partner will see. It simply doesn’t matter, it’s your day and it’s your choice to partake in the ritual how you would like to. You get to wear the things you want to wear if you enjoy them.

Also I can’t see what options you’ve selected or what stylists you’ve gone with, but it may be worth revisiting if the looks you want are execute with finesse. Are your stylists a match for creating the look you want with your hair, makeup and gown? It may be hard to say without photographic evidence but it’s a possibility. The nuances in fit, high-quality construction and execution truly make a world of difference in feeling like something looks right on you and it’s what I’ve built my own process around. It’s applicable to hair, makeup and clothing.

The other thing I think might be important for you to consider is to set boundaries with your family where you can. Perhaps you’re not at a place where you can tell them outright not to talk to you about certain things regarding your appearance, but perhaps there may be opportunities to reroute the conversation and switch gears so that your appearance is no longer the subject. You might have to do it more than one time in a conversation and even be firm about it but at the end of the day, if they see your body as a failure, there is no purpose in talking about such things with them and it will be like pulling teeth to make it otherwise. For your health sake, you have to set that boundary and hold it.

Last but not least, lean into your partner. Share how you feel with them and if they build you up, let them do so and let yourself receive it. While you can’t place your self-worth in the opinion of another person, that doesn’t mean that they can’t help you to see things about yourself from an outside perspective. We are all constantly deeply in our heads and it’s sometimes nice to get input from someone who sees us through rose-colored glasses. I invite you to partake in this honeymoon period by letting your partner illuminate all the beautiful things about you. If you have friends with great communication, let them do the same!

I hope some of this is helpful and that you have the wedding experience you truly deserve.

Best wishes, anonymous!

[misscrawfords]

No sooner had Susan and her cousins left their box at the intermission than they came face to face with Miss Crawford and a gentleman exiting another box a few doors down. The gentleman was a stranger to Susan but the similarity of his appearance to the lady was such as made his identity as obvious as it was unanticipated.

Julia stopped dead and even Miss Crawford, usually so self-possessed, blushed and hesitated. Her brother too seemed struck by astonishment at the sight of the party. Only Mr. Yates, whose happy disposition did not admit of any embarrassment, was unperturbed.

“Crawford!” he boomed. “This is capital! No idea you were in the country, let alone in town! It's been years! But of course we should meet at the theatre - where else? You remember my wife, of course? And this is her cousin, Miss Price. Susan, this is the famous Mr. Crawford.”

Susan was as surprised as the others but for different reasons. This was the infamous Mr. Crawford? Her cousin had ruined herself and plunged her family into disgrace for him? Why, he was such a short and slight man! Susan was on the taller side of average for her sex but she was nevertheless unaccustomed to stand eye to eye with a man in the way she was able to with Mr. Crawford. And those expressive, dark features - so elegant and pretty on his sister - were not so attractive on the gentleman. He cut an insignificant sort of figure, especially when put next to the broad bulk of Mr. Yates, who loomed over them all in his usual way. She had only met him briefly many years ago but he had seemed taller and more impressive in her memory.

What was she to say to him? She did not desire an introduction; indeed, Yates probably ought not to have done it. She could not see Julia’s expression but her silence was speech enough. Perhaps she could cut him, she could give him the cut direct and walk straight past him with her head held high and Fanny in her heart… except of course that she did not dare.

In the event, he was the first to speak. The awkwardness and evident embarrassment of his address as well as its obvious insincerity as he reacquainted himself with Mrs. Yates and professed a delight to meet Miss Price gave Susan the courage to respond with a clear and direct look, “How do you do, Mr. Crawford? But we have met before in Portsmouth five years ago; perhaps you do not recall.”

Surprise crossed his face. “I do recall our meeting. How could I forget?”

How indeed? Later, she would think of many retorts, albeit none of them suitable to be spoken aloud. Instead she found herself asking if was enjoying the play. 

“With reservations,” he replied, his gaze never straying from hers. “And yourself, Miss Price?”

“Tolerably,” said Susan at the same time as Mr. Yates jumped in to inform them that this was Miss Price’s first ever visit to the theatre and how important it was that it was to such a wonderful production as The Distress’d Mother and had they ever seen anything so touching as Andromache’s tragic devotion?

“I find her a little too pious for my own taste,” interjected Miss Crawford. “I find myself drawn to Hermione and I cannot feel ashamed of it. But you have a very fine performance in Orestes for your first play, Miss Price. You have chosen well.”

Susan acknowledged that it was so and that she was very much looking forward to seeing him go mad in the final act. Yates declared there was no better actor anywhere in Europe and seemed on the point of anticipating the mad scene itself in the corridor when Julia finally roused herself to insist that the performance must be starting soon and hurried Susan back into the box, leaving the Crawfords behind to make of Mr. Yates’ paroxysms of dramatic enthusiasm what they would.

As for Susan, her spirit was disturbed by the meeting but she was determined that Mr. Crawford should not have any power over her - he had done quite enough damage by the Bertrams already for her to wish to give him any further satisfaction. Her attention should be devoted solely to the progress of the drama on stage before her. Nevertheless, it was strange to think that such a man should have been so captivating to both her cousins - he was not even handsome! And his address, well, there was nothing extraordinary about it. She could not understand it at all. And as for his view of the play, she could not help wondering over his reservations. What a very curious way to respond to her question which she had only asked out of politeness! Really, if he had reservations, he should at the least have said what they were! And so it was that at the end of several hours, when the play finally drew to a close, mad scene and all, having vowed that Mr. Crawford’s name should not even cross her mind, she found to her consternation she had thought of little else.

[ladythornofrivia]

my heavenly salvation

Pair: Levi x Reader

Warnings: This series is going to be contain with fluff. Too much fluff. And smut. With mentions of self-harm, mentions of depression. Psychological abuse and bullying. Inspired by the Titanic movie.

A/N: Hi! I made a new chapter! Please enjoy! Let me know if you want to be tag!

(Please report if anyone decides to steal/plagiarize my work and notify me. Thank you.)

(Btw, I’m putting a different music because I don’t want anyone feel tired of hearing the same music. Enjoy!)

Chapter III

Heart of Thunder and Sea

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The time during the confrontation with the Yeager brothers seemed endless. As they carried Zeke Yeager out, your stomach have ached by the time you escorted yourself at the giant lobby. And it wasn't the candy you ate. People kept giving glares and stares, especially a pack of young women--already married.

You didn't care about their stares or their ways of glaring at you in a thousand meanings. Staring was never a polite gesture, yet they still do it, anyway. People can be a menace to others by the means of making themselves superior.

Gulping, you sat at the nearby velvet seat, you examined the statue of a man killing the Titan by a spear at the top of Titan’s head.

You have seen Titans at close hand, as a bystander. Warriors…Titans…they act the same, but in different uniforms. You wonder what life is like without Titans—it’s hard to imagine for anyone. For centuries Titans had been born, as if they flow through everyone’s veins except Titans flowed through timeline.

As much as you’d like to believe that Titans are only a fever dream, and that your friends are fallen asleep, but it never was.

You wanted to know what’s like to be a Warrior.

Or an Eldian from Paradis.

You read an article or two regarding to Paradis, but as always, newspapers don’t align with reality. Marleyan and Eldian—both terrible people, two sides of the same coin. Maybe they’re terrible because they’ve been wronged each other, all thanks to the people in the past. King Fritz.

You never liked kings or royalty. All acted like Gods, but did terrible misdeeds behind their graced status. It irked you the most when most deaths were in vain while King Fritz passed away in his sleep. Needless to say, having a personal opinion in Marley will ultimately give you a final sentence.

However being a Marleyan or Eldian—both are cursed.

All you ever wanted in life wasn’t to be born as Marleyan or an Eldian. You wanted to be more than the name, you wanted to be free as your own self. Up until now, you’re still a beautiful bird in a golden and jeweled cage, anticipating the worst of those who consider you as a tool to unlock their personal needs.

“There you are, (y/n),” Gertrude said aloud, rushing over to your side, but you turned away from her without a word as if you don’t know her.

Out of nowhere, your wrist quickly snatched. You still didn’t look into Gertrude’s scolding eyes.

“You’re an embarrassment to us all. How could you leave your future husband in a poor state? You should’ve tended to his needs as a good wife, not a careless barbarian.”

Pulling your wrist, you looked at her strongly in the eye and said, “Then why don’t you tend to his needs? It seems like you wanted to be queen. Just say the word, and he’ll listen, since you complimented him so much.”

“You disrespectful little bitch,” Gertrude seethed. “I taught you better than this.”

“I’ll see you at dinner, mama,” you said, rushing off elsewhere. Escape from a boring rich life, that is.

~~~

At dinner, everyone in the first class ate their first meal in Goliath, filled with rare goods and ingredients to make the lavish dinner more lively. Everyone complimented their supper, which greatly pleased their injured king.

Zeke, on the other hand, played it off so well, that everyone still had their concerns on Zeke’s leg. Whoever struck Zeke must be punished, some said. But they’ll never know who’s responsible for Zeke’s misfortune.

You, on the other hand, still beautiful and trapped, unsure how to speak to people. Thankfully, people don’t pay attention to you. And that your blessings have been counted that no one could ever know your real thoughts.

Gertrude kept praising the Countess through and through. It irritated you so harshly that you wanted someone to suffocate you, but at the end of the day, you stared at the grandfather clock, watching it tick, counting down for elaborated dinner to be over.

~~~

As you returned back to your bedroom suite, your hands reached for the bed, your dress tightened your chest—no cold air resided in you. You reached for the lace, but each time you untie the knot at your back, it restrained more. Your back ache from arching, filling with sweat and anxiety. Your head was spinning, and your breathing haggard so hard your shouted for the servant.

No answer came.

“Prudence,” you said in panic. Each time you unlace and remove an accessory, you began to hate things. You hated heavy objects—heavy jewels, heavy room, heavy colors displayed before your eyes. Everything wasn’t enough for you.

“Prudence!” you cried. “Prudence, where are you?! Please help me! Help me, Prudence!”

Having enough, your hands threw the jewelry against the wall, your dress came off and you threw into the wall, as well, leaving you frustrated with loose periwinkle nightgown and a light reddish silk robe. Slamming your suite door, you realized that your life will be eternally identical.

“I hate jewels, I hate gowns. I hate parties and pleasantries from rich people. I hate permissions, I hate laws and kings and royals! No life is good when you’re not truly happy or free,” you said to yourself. “Or to be silently mocked when I…”

Your heart stopped. Your mind numbed.

Finally, you had enough.

~~~

Rushing into the deck can raise disruption and questionable looks from outsiders. By outsiders, the people from the first class. You wanted the Titans to return and crush these good pretenders. For once, you wanted to be feared as Eren Yeager. But no one believe that you’ll mount to anything critically harsh as Eren’s well-known reputation. While Eren’s role is mysteriously uprising, yours was completely stagnant and laughable. Stagnant because of rich life, laughable because of your father’s last act.

To be so hateful is easy, to be kind during hardest times is harder. No one believes you’ll mount to anything. Your life is still and painfully boring. You wanted more, but each time you wanted more, your rich life and reputation to uphold weighs you down harder. You tried to be kinder, but instead, the worst side of you prevail. You wanted to eliminate the worst side of you, but having no way out was way worse. You hoped for a better change for your gain of self-respect and dignity, but rich, pretentious people talk, otherwise.

Why can’t your life be simple? Having no rich or first class status means freedom at your own expense without anyone judging you. With their devilish eyes, what can you do? You didn’t commit a treason. You just wanted an air to breathe.

But as you run, the skies turned darker than other nights. Deep outlines of moonlight sky was no longer found. Thick clouds surrounding, and the sea’s air was profoundly bitter with salt and metal. Any air is better than inside the Goliath.

Your tears ran down without stopping. With your silk robe on, people from the first class gasped at your attire as if you’re naked. You weren’t. You’re still in your nightgown, your long hair tangled in a mess and your running became sloppier, and your vision fuzzier.

Reaching at the end of the ship, you wanted to jump off, but, it’s an easy way for an exit. So you managed to find an industrial rope and tied it to a noose on each end. Without anyone coming by, you placed one end on the metal stand, the other slipped onto your neck. As you stepped into and over the railing, you looked at the skies rather than below. In your heart you knew there’s nothing below other than black ocean.

Taking a big breath, your foot lifted off from the railing, and—

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, miss,” a deep voice said.

Gasping, you turned and saw a man in a dark fedora hat and a dark coat with black Oxford shoes and grey trousers with a gold line of pocket watch chained from his pocket. From a few distance, he’s tall, but realistically, he’s an inch taller than your petite height. Despite all that, he ambled towards you in a careful gesture as if you’re an animal cornered at the edge, unknown and unsure of the other man’s perception.

“Don’t go near, dear sir,” you said in panic, hands shaking and clutching tight against the railing.

“Come off the railing,” he said, somewhat pleaded—though a bit firmly. “We can settle this, whatever your problem is, madam, we can discuss this.”

“Discuss? There’s nothing to be discussed. Nothing good will ever come to me.” Your hot tears streamed down, while the skies rumbled with groan. “I beg of you, don’t go near.”

His hand still outstretched. With a fedora hat, you couldn’t see his expression. “You would’ve been tangled.”

“I’d rather be tangled than to be strangled by the likes of those civilized people.”

The man said nothing. His hand wasn’t outstretched anymore. But still stayed by your side.

“I can’t go if you decide to stay on the railing.”

The sky rumbled again.

“Please go. I don’t want you to see this,” you wept.

He shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t. We’re already here at this point.” Then he took off coat, but not his fedora hat.

“I’m sorry what are you doing?”

The man took off his pocket watch, then slowly walked towards you as he said, “Do you like black tea?”

You looked at him, flabbergasted. “Wait, what?”

“Where I come from, drinking black tea was the greatest thing I ever experienced. When I first drink tea, it was from an expensive floral cup. This floral cup is beautiful I decided to save up money to buy and to make my own serving. When I finally got the floral cup, I grabbed it by the handle, though it broke and slipped from my hands, and so I used the top part as the handle, instead,” he explained.

“How do you handle your tea cup,” you asked, shaking.

“I’ll show you,” he said, gesture his hand and formed a position to how he drink from his cup. “It’s strange, isn’t it?”

You shook your head. “No. Not at all. I find it fascinating!”

Underneath a dark fedora hat, he smirked.

“I like eating scones that comes with it,” you said.

“What goes along with black tea?”

“Anything, really. Though I wouldn’t suggest anything too sweet, it gives a bad reputation to the stomach.”

He chuckled. “What do you suggest then?”

“Scones, it has be blueberry or raspberry or strawberry. With my tea, I like to add with lemon and a little honey. But sometimes I like to drink tea in a plain fashion.”

He nodded. “That seems reasonable.”

“Sometimes I drink tea whenever there’s a cold weather coming by.”

“Perhaps you can show me,” he said.

“Show me,” you repeated, puzzled.

“Show me how you handle your tea and scones.”

“Maybe…Maybe I can show you more,” you offered.

By then, his hand reached towards you, ever so gently as a gentle fire has touched your numbed heart.

“Then come with me, show me your ways, and I’ll show mine,” he offered in return.

With a last tear slid down, your heart stopped aching. But the rumbled sky grew louder.

“Pace yourself,” he said, almost sounding like a purr, his hands occupying you.

As your turned, realizing the noose around your neck has been discarded. Your eyes met his. Those blue and steel colored eyes glistened like rain droplet shining.

Any Marleyan would take pride on being handsome, when the man in front of you obtained the handsomest face you’ve ever seen, like a moving painting, glowing like halo.

His hands were still in yours.

For a moment, the time stops. At a simple gesture, your hands gripped tightly to his.

His face leaned in, nearly an inch apart.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “Your tears are still there, but I feel as though your sadness stopped.”

“That’s because you’re the flaming soul,” you said.

He chuckled. “Your ways of describing me is amusing.”

“You don’t like it?”

He chuckled again. “Never give into your despair. You’re so much more than a girl on the edge. Levi Ackerman,” he said, still holding your hands.

“(y/n) O’Connell,” you said, flashing him a wide, sincere smile.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

Though you giggled at his words, you foot stepped at the railing, and slipped.

At the raging thunder comes, the skies shot with a loud bang—lightning strikes flashed and rainfall flow harder, making for you and Levi having a difficult time.

“Don’t let go,” Levi instructed.

With quick thinking, the noose on his other hand. “Quick—give me your other hand—hold onto the noose!”

With bravery, you did as he said. You grabbed onto the noose, and Levi yanked you up, though it wasn’t easy. The heavy rainfall made you and Levi’s eyesight twice as complicated.

“I’ll pull you up!” With a huge huff, grunting, Levi tugged you up with success. You stick the landing—on top of him.

His fedora hat loosened, a shade of black hair adorned his youth countenance. His rock solid body underneath you filled you with warmth. You’re a moth to his flame. But you weren’t a terrible insect. This is what all you wanted. Warmth.

Despite the warmth, his eyes never leave yours. Your body grew with heat. Flustered, you tried to get up, but his hand instinctively gripped to your backside. In the heart of thunder and sea, his heart was the loudest. Your heart was thumping, pacing.

You blinked, your throat went dry.

Levi cleared his throat. “Forgive me,” he uttered.

You got up with him, and snickered. “That was fun.”

“Believe me, (y/n),” he began. “What we could’ve almost have underneath this insufferable ship is more than the fall.”

“You saved me,” you said, then your arms tackling him for a solemn of embrace as a full, life-longing gratitude. Your chest tightened with restraint sorrow.

Levi, on the other hand, is too stunned to utter a form of coherent sentence.

Tucking a hair strand behind your ear, you said, “I always wanted to be a mermaid.”

His eyebrow quirked. “You don’t say?”

You pulled back quickly as an apology. Reaching for his hand, you hoisted him up. You watched him grabbed his fedora hat, then his coat, and as he grabbed his coat, he gave you a piece of lavender handkerchief. “Keep this. If you ever need comfort, use this. Consider this as a token from me.”

Hesitantly, you kept the handkerchief as much as you want to keep the token. Keep the token feels right, yet wrong in a simultaneous way. “I want to see you,” you said.

Levi smirked once more underneath his fedora hat. “Don’t worry. You will.” Then walked off with his polished cane.

“Allow me to return the favor,” you shouted over the heavy rain. But in the heart of thunder and sea, you couldn’t see him anymore.

A pause hung in the air for a moment. Only the rain and the rumbling thunder and lighting strikes prevail your most provoked thoughts of the night. And it will soon come for tomorrow and the very next. “Levi,” you utter, a smoke past from your mouth, faintly speaking as you talk in secret with bitter sullen air and water.

Levi. Levi Ackerman.

Levi Ackerman.

The sound of unearthly heaven and stars slipped past from your lips.

Taglist: @colored-tr-panels @galactict3a @slay0368 @f1yh1gh