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theostrophywife · 3 months

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mattheo's mixtape.

pairing: mattheo riddle x reader.

song inspiration: lovesong by the cure.

author's note: this idea has been in my head for so long, but now it's finally out. strap in babes, we're simping for mattheo on main. something about those pretty brown eyes and angelic little curls just get me. your honor, i adore him.

The bell outside the door to the record store chimed softly as the boys ventured inside. Mattheo peered curiously at the buzzing neon sign, the slightly scuffed black and white vinyl floor, and the racks and racks of records lining the walls. Though he hadn’t been to the muggle side of Edinburgh, it didn’t look all that different from its magical counterpart.

Yet Mattheo felt like a fish out of water all the same.

Behind him, Theo continued rambling as they perused the vast collection of records laid out before them. “What songs have you picked out? Is there a theme? We’ll need to collect all the tapes for the cassette recorder and compile them all into a single tape.”

The slew of questions Theo threw his way was enough to make him feel overwhelmed. Mattheo was well aware that he was completely out of his depth here, but he was determined to learn. Admittedly, he was quite ignorant of the muggle world until you came into his life. The more you told him about the queer customs and traditions of the non-magical population, the more he began to crave your stories of taking the tube, eating fish and chips until you were sick, and visiting Brighton with your cousins over the summer holiday.

There was a whole world out there that you were a part of, which made him want to be part of it as well.

“You boys alright?” asked the kind woman behind the counter. "Would you like some help?"

Mattheo shied away from the attention, but as usual, Theo turned on his charm and flashed a winning smile at the older woman. “As a matter of fact, we do,” his friend drawled. “My mate here is looking to make a mixtape for his girlfriend.”

The woman smiled warmly. “How sweet. I remember those days. There’s nothing quite as magical as first love,” she said with a dreamy, faraway expression. “I’d be happy to help. What songs did you have in mind?”

After turning over his list, the woman, who turned out to be the owner of the record store, helped compile the cassettes Mattheo needed in order to make the mixtape. She patiently showed them how to record each track and slowed down the instructions so Mattheo could diligently write down notes.

As Mattheo waited for the next track to record, he watched as Theo tried and failed to flirt with the older woman.

“I’m flattered, dear. But I’m old enough to be your mum.” Mattheo snickered, causing his best friend to glare at him.

“Age is nothing but a number, Annette.”

“You’re a persistent one, aren’t you? I’m sure you’ll find your match someday, Theodore. As I have in my husband, whom I’m happily married to.” She turned over to Mattheo and smiled. “He was my first love too.”

Making small talk had never been Mattheo’s strong suit and you often teased him that engaging in polite conversation with a stranger every once in a while wouldn’t kill him. Without fail, he sarcastically responded that it genuinely might, which earned him an eye roll. A fond one, though. Followed by a lip bite as you attempted to conceal a smile.

“How long have you been together?” Mattheo asked curiously.

“Twenty years,” Annette answered proudly. “Though we were friends for ages before he finally mustered up the courage to ask me out.”

Theo snorted. “Sounds familiar.”

Mattheo swatted the back of his head. “My girl and I started out as friends too. Best friends, actually.”

“Hey!” Theo whined. “I take offense to that. I’ve known you longer. Only difference is that you and Y/N snog, which I’m more than open to if you asked.” The wink he sent Mattheo's way made the other boy blanch.

“Sorry about him.” It was a sentiment he was quite familiar with when it came to Theo. The twat tended to flirt with anything that had a pulse. Come to think of it, he wouldn't put it past Theo to chat up a corpse. Merlin knows Mattheo had witnessed his friend trying out a pick up line on the Grey Lady. “So, your husband. When did you realize he was the one?”

“There wasn’t a specific moment, per say,” Annette said thoughtfully. “It’s a culmination of our history together. Since we were friends for so long, Declan just knew me. He knew how I took my coffee and had it ready for me first thing in the morning. He knew that I hated driving in the snow and always offered to give me lift to work when it did. He knew that I had a soft spot for strays and never complained when I brought them home. Declan makes me feel safe. Like I could weather anything the world threw at me as long as he was by my side. I guess when you know, you know."

Mattheo pondered her words. He couldn’t help but recall all the times that his life felt like a never ending shit storm, like it would swallow him whole and drown him from the weight of his troubles. Yet at the end of the day, he always knew that after the storm came the rainbow. That’s what you were for him. You colored his world so brightly that the dark seemed inconsequential compared to your light.

“Y/N makes me feel like that too,” Mattheo declared. “She’s patient and kind. She’s the type of person that always sees the good in people. She saw it in me even when I couldn’t see it myself.”

Behind him, Theo sniffled as he patted his shoulder. For all his jokes and sarcasm, his friend was actually a hopeless romantic deep down. “For Salazar’s sake, Mattheo. Don’t make me bawl like a baby in front of the pretty lady.” Theo wiped at the corner of his eyes rather dramatically. “If Y/N doesn’t marry you someday, then I will. I bet my legs would look amazing in a white dress.”

At that, Mattheo chuckled. He was suddenly glad that his best friend was more than willing to be dragged along in Mattheo’s endeavors to impress his girl. Salazar knew he never would've gotten this far without Theo's self-proclaimed expertise on all things muggle, thanks to his Advanced Muggle Studies class.

As they wrapped up, Mattheo thanked Annette for all her help. Theo promised to come back and winked over his shoulder as Mattheo gathered all of his supplies. The older woman smiled at him as they parted ways.

"Best of luck, Mattheo. Though I doubt you need it. Thank you for indulging an old woman. It was genuinely a pleasure to be able to help you today."

"No, thank you. Y/N is going to love it."

"Your girlfriend is a very lucky girl."

Mattheo shook his head. "I'm the lucky one. This is the least I could do to show her how much I..." he trailed off, trying to find the right words. "How much I care for her."

Care didn't seem like a strong enough word, but it was close. Mattheo wasn't sure he could fully verbalize the intensity of what he felt for you. You weren't just his girlfriend. You were his best friend, too. His confidante. His rock. You were everything to him.

“Remember what I told you. When you know, you know." She patted Mattheo's shoulder. "You talk about Y/N like I talk about my husband. It's clear that she's very special to you. Don't let go of that one."

Mattheo smiled to himself, his cheeks flushing. “I won't.”

The midnight moon glowed above the Scottish Isles, enveloping the rocky shores of the Black Lake with a chilly breeze that made you shudder even underneath the comfort of your red and gold striped sweater.

“Are you cold?” Mattheo asked softly, his voice echoing through the empty beach.

Before you could respond, your boyfriend shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around your shoulders. With a shy smile, you thanked Mattheo and flushed as he took your hand in his. As you continued on your late night stroll, he cleared pebbles in your path to ensure that you didn’t trip over them on the way to the dock.

It was the little things—the small gestures that Mattheo enacted on a daily basis that made you fall for him even more. Though the relationship was fairly new, the connection between you was undeniable. Perhaps because you started out as potions partners, which eventually blossomed into friendship and now you couldn’t even remember a time when he wasn’t part of your life.

The two of you settled at the end of the dock and the rickety wood creaked underneath the weight, adjusting to its visitors as Mattheo cuddled you into his side. Warmth radiated off of him, heating you from the inside out with a pleasant flush. Mattheo chuckled as you shoved your cold hands underneath his sweater, curling his fingers around yours and warming you up like your own personal heater.

“So, why did you want to come out here tonight?” you asked after a moment.

As you peered up at him, the moonlight kissed your boyfriend’s features, illuminating the sharp edges of his jawline and cheekbones, curving down the slope of his nose and stopping right above his Cupid’s bow where his soft, plush lips curled into a shy smile as he blinked down at you.

The flush on his cheeks was almost an exact match to the crimson scarf around your neck. He absentmindedly fidgeted with your fingers, his chocolate brown eyes flickering over your face nervously. Mattheo looked so shy and earnest, so unlike the bad boy persona that everyone else seemed to attribute to your boyfriend.

“I made you something,” he stated. You watched as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cassette tape that you hadn’t noticed before. “I noticed that you listen to music while studying or walking through the halls, so I thought I’d compile a few of my favorite songs for you.”

Your heart warmed at this beautiful boy. “You made me a mixtape?”

Mattheo nodded, his angelic curls grazing his cheeks. “I can’t take all of the credit. Theo helped me quite a bit. I wasn’t sure how to make the tape for you, but he did since he’s taking Advanced Muggle Studies. We went into town last weekend and this lovely woman from the record shop showed us how to track and record the songs. I picked the ones that remind me of you the most.”

You looked down at the cassette tape and smiled. The front was covered in little red hearts and spelled out in your boyfriend’s familiar scrawl was Matty’s Mixtape. As if that weren’t enough to make you swoon, underneath the tape was a small booklet with more of Mattheo’s handwriting. You smiled at his selection of songs. There was a mix of Queen, the Cure, the Clash, and of course, the Smiths. It was like having a little piece of Mattheo in your hands.

“I made you a booklet too. There’s a tracklist with reasons why I picked the songs,” Mattheo shuffled beside you, his body language conveying an uncharacteristic shyness. “I also drew a couple of things.”

Sure enough, the booklet was filled with your boyfriend’s drawings. Your eyes filled with tears as you turned the pages. Mattheo rarely showed anyone his art. He was incredibly protective of anything he created since it showed a certain vulnerability. The fact that he was trusting you with it wasn’t something you took for granted.

You traced over the drawings with a fond smile. There were portraits of you on one page, while the others contained memories that you were quite attached to. Your first date at the Three Broomsticks. The first time you wore his quidditch sweater to a Slytherin vs. Ravenclaw match. The day you shared a cup of hot chocolate at Madam Puddifoot’s when the two of you were just friends. They were all in here, immortalized on paper.

Beside you, Mattheo watched anxiously as you flipped through the pages. When you got to the last one, you grinned up at him. “Matty, these are incredible.”

“Really?” He asked, sounding a bit unsure. “You don’t think they’re cheesy?”

“No, I love it!” You threw your arms around him and squeezed your boyfriend into a bear hug. He chuckled, burying his face in your hair and savoring the feel of you in his arms. As you pulled away to face him, Mattheo tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His heart hurt just to look at you. He really couldn’t believe you were his. You smiled softly. “And I love you.”

You said it firmly, like it was a matter-of-fact. Like you were reciting a truth as fundamental as gravity.

“You love me?”

“I do,” you replied with a smile. “I love you, Mattheo Riddle.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely positive.”

“I just don’t want you to feel like you have to say it because I made you this mixtape and gave you cheesy drawings—”

He stopped mid-sentence as you grabbed his face with both hands. Mattheo softened at the fierce determination in your eyes. “Mattheo. You’re the best boyfriend I’ve ever had. Before that, you were the best friend I’ve ever had too. You treat me like a queen and I never have to worry about other girls trying to talk to you because you never even give them the time of day. You make me soup when I’m sick. You give me your jumpers when I’m cold. You bring me coffee when I’m pulling all nighters. I couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend, so yes. I love you. Not because of the mixtape or the drawings, but because you’re you.”

Mattheo was taken aback. Before you, he never thought he was capable of caring for someone so deeply. You were ingrained in him. It was like the universe had cleaved his soul in two and he’d spent an eternity searching for you. You were his other half—the better half of him that he’d been missing all along. Now that he found you, he had no intention of letting you go.

The lovestruck expression on his face warmed your heart. His eyes—those sweet, warm brown eyes made you feel weak in the knees. Mattheo cradled your jaw and looked at you like you were the only girl in the world.

“I love you too, Y/N.”

You smiled as he leaned forward, bringing your lips to his in a tender kiss. He sighed in relief like he’d been waiting for this all day, fingers snaking through your hair as your body melted into his. Mattheo hummed, peppering kisses all over your face. You giggled as he pecked your cheeks, nose, jaw, and neck.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he declared with every kiss.

Burying your face into his neck, you inhaled the familiar scent of amber, cinnamon, and leather. Mattheo sighed as you scratched his scalp.

“Will you tell me about the songs while we listen to them?” you murmured against his skin.

Mattheo nodded as his curls tickled your cheek. “Of course, sweetheart.”

He pulled out a cassette player and popped the tape in. You cuddled into his side, smiling as he presented you with one half of the headphones. The soft crooning sound of the Smiths filled your ears as Mattheo played with your hair, telling you little anecdotes about the band and how Theo almost knocked over the cassette recorder while he tried to flirt with the record shop owner.

You chuckled as you listened, picking up the sweet lyrics that made Mattheo choose the songs in the first place. You loved each one of his picks, but the best song by far was the sound of his heartbeat thudding in your ears, syncing with your own as it beat for him and him alone.

#you guys am i in love with this man? maybe #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo x you #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle fluff

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babygirl-diaz · 2 months

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Eddie: Buck, you can’t always give Chris what he wants. Sometimes you gotta put your foot down.

Buck: No, I will not put my foot down. I will let it hover above ground because I am incapable of saying no to him.

Eddie: So someday if he asked you hide a body, you’ll say yes?

Buck: The fact that you think our son a with gentle soul and sunshine for a smile is capable of killing someone concerns me, but to answer your question, yes, yes I will help him hide the body.

#eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie #911 abc #incorrect quotes #incorrect 911 quotes

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kiwisbell · 2 months

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helen ; chapter three

the red circle

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the truth.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, mentions of rape/SA, cars, bill is here, joel is still a bit of an idiot, childhood/religious trauma, hitman!joel finally hitmans, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, ANGST (still unresolved oopsie), we're getting there though, exposition, conflicting emotions, joel's tattoos are sexy but they're also plot-relevant, Sleeping Together, but not like That, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 7.6k a/n: this chapter marks this fic being halfway done already, which is madness. also, can i just say that i'm loving the amount of people who've specifically been watching john wick because of this fic?? this is my agenda!! as always, thank you so fucking much to mya baby @cavillscurls for beta reading this fic and being, idk, generally the loml. i hope you enjoy chapter 3, my friends! i'm sorry it's been such a long time coming, but life lifed, y'know?? prev | next

“How much?”

“Two million. For now, at least. It’s open.”

“Goddammit, Tommy.”

“I told you to be careful, brother. Now look at you. You’re a loose end.”

Joel resisted the urge to toss his phone. The shower continued running in the bathroom, muffled by the closed door.

He couldn't lose you. He didn't know life without you. Love had no name until he knew you. He'd christened it with that first kiss, maybe even in the first breath he'd shared with you.

If there was a chance Cabrera’s kid could come back for you, even if just to hurt Joel, he needed to see this to its end. There was no choice.

“He tried to rape my wife,” said Joel. “He's lucky I’m only tryin’ to kill him.”

Tommy only sighed, and the call ended.

I married you, Joel.

I loved you.

You lied to me.

He rests his elbows on his knees as he watches you doze. The sunlight shines neatly through the break in the curtains, and you squint against it in your sleep, turning over with a little huff and bringing the duvet over your head. You’ve always needed total darkness for a half-decent sleep.

You’ve been crying. The tears leave remnants on your cheeks, a dryness at the outer corners of your eyes, salt seeping moisture from your skin. He’s never known a thing so soft as the drag of his hand down your back.

I loved you.

You lied to me.

You will never understand. There are reasons—too many to count—that civilians cannot know. He may have gotten you to relative safety in the Continental, but there are a hundred dangerous people in this building who have a long-standing grudge against Joel Miller or the man he worked for. A hundred people who would take you as collateral the moment you stepped outside the grounds. But as long as you remain inside, you’re safe.

He just needs to finish the job. He needs to see it through, and he’ll be out. You’ll realise he’s done it all for you.

I loved you.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he watches the rise and fall of your chest beneath the sheets. He broke your heart last night. He watched you turn in on yourself, your eyes so cold, so far away. He listened to you scream, and inside he pleaded: Keep hitting me, baby. Keep shouting. Be mad. He wanted you loud and furious and spitting fire. If you were angry, you still cared. He could work with that.

And to see you walk away, the fire frozen over, the fight in your marrow sucked out…

The anguish of losing your ire still stirs in his chest. The guilt peels him away in layers. Acid.

She’ll understand, he tells himself, you, anyone who’ll listen. She’ll get it someday—why I did it, why I lied. She’ll forgive me.

Forgive me, baby. Don’t let me live the rest of this life never seeing you smile.

“Stop looking at me,” you grumble, your eyes still closed.

Joel averts his eyes. His throat feels tight. “You sleep okay?”

You haul yourself upright and stretch out your back. Joel studies the curve of your spine and the nape of your neck. You’re the muse painters rave about. The reflections of sunlight on water at dusk. The pond of water lilies.

“You didn’t. Your sheets haven’t even moved.”

“I can’t sleep without you.”

You give him a heavy look, your eyes bleary with sleep. “You managed all those years before me, Joel. Let’s not do this.”

“What if I want to do this?” he says, dropping to the floor next to your bed and taking your hands in his. You try to pry yourself free, but he drops his head and traps you in his rapt vigil.

“Joel…” Your voice is still groggy, but there’s agony in the way you say his name.

“You’re my wife,” he says against your skin. “You’re the only person I’ve ever loved. You’re the girl I saw that night in the restaurant with the pretty eyes and you’re the girl I called every night just so I could hear your voice, and you’re always gonna be the only fucking girl for me. You’re my reason for everything, baby. I need you. Please… please just understand. You have to know that.”

You’re silent for a long while, your legs curled under you as your own husband kneels as if in prayer. Your throat burns with more tears you have little energy left to shed. You whisper his name.

He looks up and you find you cannot meet his eyes. So you stare at one of the patches of skin that disrupt the brown-grey of his beard. “That first night at the restaurant,” you say, trepidation colouring your voice blue, “you disappeared after the second course. When you came back, you told me you had to take a call. Was that the truth?”

Joel’s eyes are frantic in their search for an answer. “Don’t,” you snap. “Don’t lie to me again. Was that the truth?”

“There—” His voice cuts off, his eyes shuttering. “There was a target. That’s… why I was there in the first place.”

Your sob dies in your chest. It doesn’t even make a noise. You wrench your hands out of his, and he lets you, still kneeling at your bedside like a lost sinner. “Love has never been the problem. You might love me, but you’ve never told me the truth. Not from the first day.”

One of his hands wraps around your ankle. “I wanted out. I wanted out my whole life, and you’re the one who made me find the way. Cabrera, he… He gave me an impossible task. I completed it. And I gave you this ring.” He brushes his thumb over the knuckles of your third finger where your bands are still secure. “You said yes. You married me. Doesn’t this mean something?”

The sound of your hollow laugh hurts more than any words you could use to cut him. “It did,” you confess, “when I knew exactly who my husband was.”

He shakes his head, his lips parting in another desperate cast, but you’re standing up and crossing the room, gathering your toiletries for the bathroom. “What happens now?” you ask.

Joel stares at the ring on his finger. “I’m going to talk to the Manager. You have to stay here.”

“Okay,” you say softly. Your back is rigid. “Just tell me something.”

“Anything,” says Joel.

“If I asked to leave,” you whisper, “would you let me go?”

Joel feels his heart crack in two. He remembers the small outdoor wedding, in the heart of May, when he’d seen you walk down the aisle toward him and struggled to find the words, as he always did, that would be good enough.

I vow to love you, he'd said, his hands trembling as he took yours. I vow to be your partner in all things. I vow to show you every piece of my soul, the way you've given me yours, and to be gentle with your heart.

I vow to be the man you want, the man you need, and the man you love.

He’s failed. He knows that. But you smiled at him that day, your eyes brimming with tears that turned black from your mascara, and you kissed him before the officiant said the words.

I loved you.

“I’d do anything you asked me to,” he says, “but not that.”

Joel made a stop at the Continental Tailor before he went to find the Manager in the lounge. He paid the Tailor a bit too much for the new suit, he realises now, the sleeves a bit too tight, the pants not quite tapered. He was dressing a different body than the one he knew all those years ago.

Joel weaves through the darkness as a crooning voice sings something about evil men up on the stage. The band is playing along, a smooth jazz tune, and the bodies around him smell of expensive cologne and perfume and vodka. He remembers with a start why he hated this place so much.

Adjusting his jacket, he finds the Manager sitting in the VIP section on a long curved booth upholstered in crimson velvet, sipping a dry martini.

“Joel,” he says, lifting his glass in toast.

“Bill.”

The Manager doesn't look particularly thrilled. “You know there’s an open contract on your head. Who did you have to kill to end up back here?”

“Just a couple people.” Joel sits opposite him. “I need information.”

“And you're here on more business. Does your consort have anything to say about that?”

Joel curls his fingers into a fist atop the table. “I’m invoking my guest privileges. And she is my wife.”

Bill sniffs in amusement. “So, you did end up marrying the gal. Good for you, Joel. She's a stunner.”

“Fuck you, Bill.”

A short, booming laugh. “Nobody will so much as look her way. You have my word and all it means.”

“Doesn't mean much,” says Joel. “I’m just visiting.”

“Don't be the idiot I know you aren’t,” says Bill, leaning forward and setting his glass aside. “You dip so much as a pinky back in this pond, and you won’t get out so easy. Sometime, somewhere, someone’s going to come to you with another impossible task.”

“And I’ll complete it,” says Joel. “Emiliano Cabrera. Where is he?”

“You really wanna do this, Joel?”

“Yeah.”

“Your wife may be safe now, but she won’t be forever.”

“That’s why I’m going to finish it. That’s why I’m going to kill him.”

The Manager sighs, polishing off his martini. “You know damn well business will not be conducted on Continental grounds, Joel. You may as well go have a drink at the bar, take a load off. I can’t tell you anything while you’re inside my hotel.”

Joel suspected as much. “Then tell me something you can.”

Bill’s nostrils flare and Joel feels some satisfaction knowing he can still push the old man’s buttons. “I’ll tell you what: the game has changed since you left it. Your only chance is to get out now, while you still can. What could possibly warrant the Boogeyman reentering the fold?”

Joel licks his teeth. Your eyes blurring with tears as your skull connected with the ground, your body going limp as he stood above you. The clink of a belt buckle echoes still in his head. If he hadn’t been fast enough—

“It’s personal.”

Bill’s gaze dips. “Well,” he says, “then, unofficially, I wish you the best of luck. But, as a former friend”—Joel snorts —“let me give you a piece of advice. Take your wife home and forget about all of this. I like you, Joel, but for her sake and yours, I’d rather never see you again.”

Joel doesn’t take it personally. “Tell Frank I said hello.”

Bill grabs a full glass from a passing server. “Fuck you, Joel.”

He nods his head, closing the lapels of his jacket and slipping the first button through the opposite slit. As the singer on the stage transitions into the next song, Joel orders a glass of bourbon and watches the bartender slide his drink over on a pristine white napkin.

“On the house, per the Manager’s request,” says the bartender. “Welcome back, Mr. Miller.”

Pristine—save for the small red circle drawn with marker on the centre. Across the bar, Bill raises his glass in another toast, and Joel leaves the lounge, his drink untouched.

It’s a Tuesday night, and the Red Circle is lined up around the corner. One must know someone to get inside, and that someone must be a paying member. Joel had a membership by default, being contracted under Cabrera, but it was revoked along with his other privileges once he had completed his task.

You would hate this place. It’s throbbing bass and flashing neon lights and sweat-slick bodies rubbing up against one another. It’s brick and industrial metal and glass and the people don’t mix, either.

Maybe part of him is hedonistic, too. He doesn’t think he ever used to be. The job gave him wealth to spend that he never cared to; when he met you, he began to understand the pleasure of material things. Gold shone when it hung around your neck and wrapped around your fingers. Diamonds glittered like the jewels in a crown when you wore them on your ears. And when he pulled you close to him for the first time, undressing you slowly, hooking his fingers in the lace panties he’d bought for you and bringing his mouth to the heat between your legs, Joel began to understand the draw of pleasure.

It isn’t that he’d never had sex before you. He’d just… never been interested before you. Bodies always felt… too cold. They were complex. They were things to be followed, things to be killed. They were names on a piece of paper. They would bleed all their warmth and light into his palms and he would return, limping, to a house he never cared about and absolve himself of red. He’d never known the thrill of a body until he tucked his hand under the soft swell of your naked breast and put his mouth on yours and felt your heartbeat bleed into his hands. He never wanted to wash it off.

If I asked to leave, would you let me go?

After the orphanage, Joel visited a church only once.

He hadn’t meant to find it. He’d heard an organ humming from within. The cathedral was taller than it was wide, built for a small gathering. He’d slipped inside during a sermon, delivered by a pastor with white hair and a pair of wilting hands. Joel watched the tremors pass through his face, the agonising pulse of the vein in his throat, the way he would gulp down mouthfuls of water. He spoke with rhythm, with melody, and when he was finished, he grasped the edges of the pulpit, his head bowed in silent prayer. Joel thought he had never seen a more devoted man in his life.

When the sermon was over, he waited his turn to speak with the pastor. He did not know why. He hadn’t felt a stirring in his chest at the word of God; he never had.

I’ve never seen you in here before, my son.

Joel shook his head, frowning at the ground. I… left the faith, in a way. When I was young. I’m… sorry.

Devotion is a choice, said the pastor, taking Joel’s hands in his own. They were wrinkled, speckled with age spots. Joel lifted his gaze to find the pastor smiling. As with all things in life. Devotion, my son, is not a birthright. We must find it. Though it may not be His word, you will know someone’s word. And you’ll find it will move you enough that you choose to follow it. To whatever end.

Joel has been slashed, burned, drowned, whipped, beaten, strangled. He could count the telltale black spots in his eyes like dreamers count sheep. He developed a reputation because he was good at what he did. He was efficient, fast, lethal. He once killed three men in a bar with a pencil, they whispered. A fucking pencil. Word in the Underworld spread of a boogeyman who would take your life in your sleep if you wronged the wrong person, if you were just an unlucky bastard.

Their word never mattered. He’d never knelt in the blood of a victim and prayed for absolution. He would never find it, anyway. His soul was black.

If I asked to leave, would you let me go?

No word has ever cut so deep as yours. How could he wake up every single day next to the love of his life and lie so easily to your face? How could he put a ring on your finger knowing damn well he’d betrayed your trust every second of your time together and you never even knew about it?

How could he wear the mask of your husband and dream of blood on the very same hands that touched you each night?

Joel checks his watch. It’s one o'clock in the morning. You’ve been sleeping since breakfast. You won’t sleep a wink tonight if this keeps up, but it seems you’d rather do anything in the world than speak with him.

He doesn’t blame you.

He found his word that night in the restaurant. He’d followed it, followed you, wherever you took him. And he will follow you, his almighty word, beyond the grave, to whatever end you decide.

He will not abandon his faith. His purpose. He will not throw up his hands and let you walk away. He’s made mistakes he cannot mend. He can’t go back to the day you met and tell you all he should have, rules be fucked. He cannot fix what he’s already broken. You cannot put a piece of tape over fractured glass, a bloodied hand over wounded skin.

He made his fucking vows. It’s time he lived up to them.

Across the street, Joel watches, turning over the knife in his pocket by the hilt. Emiliano Cabrera and his lackeys step out of Joel’s Mustang and toss the keys to the valet. They skip the line, smacking one another around and jeering at the ladies in line, and Joel feels the hunger pull at his teeth.

His first target is posted by the east entrance. Joel takes the alley, stepping aside trash bags brimming with used needles and slipping the Glock from the lining of his jacket. The weight of it is formidable in his hand. Under the cover of dark, he slides into a second skin, black as the names they call him. Bringing the gun to the back of the guard’s head, he watches those huge shoulders stiffen.

“Francis,” he says politely.

“Joel,” says the guard.

“Workin’ late?”

“Why?” says Francis. “You want in?”

“Yeah,” says Joel, “I do. You lost weight.”

“Twenty-seven pounds, if you’ll believe it.”

Fuck.

Twenty-seven guards tasked with protecting the little shit. Joel may have a reputation, but it’s been years. He was ambushed in his own home last night. And after it all, he’d let the bastard slip between his fingers.

“Why don’t you take the night off?”

Francis lowers one meaty hand to the piece in his ear and takes it out. Turning his head, he says, “Can you at least lower the gun?”

Joel does. “Wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”

“Word’s going around. They say you’re back.”

“I’m just passin’ through.”

“Sure, Joel.” Francis offers his hand, and Joel shakes. “You better make it quick. I don’t feel like getting fired.”

“Understood.” Joel slips inside, letting the door click shut behind him.

Even from afar, the music lives in his chest, a writhing thing that seeks departure by way of his throat. He tries to swallow and it wriggles back up again. The bass throbs hard against his ribs.

There’s a bathroom on the VIP floor. As he sneaks by the frosted glass partition that separates him from the public, Joel hears the squeak of locker doors. He puts his palm on the door and pushes inside.

Did you see the tits on that girl? says one man in Spanish. Emil got a pretty one.

Another lets out a booming laugh. Shut the fuck up, man. Good pussy and you tuck your tail and run.

Yeah? And you're in here because you scored?

I’m in here because bitches prefer to choke on clean dick. What's your excuse?

Neither feels the breeze of the shadow slipping behind them. Neither of them sees the man in black lock his arm around one of their necks and squeeze until there's no air left. By the time the other has turned on the porcelain sink and begun to splash his face, the boogeyman has him by the scruff of his neck, fisting the collar of his fluffy white bathrobe. The sink continues running, and he’s choking on the warm water as Joel holds him down.

“Jesus! Fuck!”

“Where is Emiliano?”

“Vete a la mierda,” he splutters. “Let go of me, motherfucker!”

Joel takes one of the man’s fingers and bends it all the way back. His screams are muffled by Joel’s hand.

“Where is Emiliano?”

“The bathhouse, downstairs,” he groans. “Fuck, let me go, pendejo!”

Joel bares his teeth, breaks the man’s neck, and leaves him slumped over the sink, the water still running.

The bathhouse is doused in red and blue. The water is illuminated from within, and the whites in his victim’s eyes glow where he stands half-submerged, toasting a bottle of champagne to his rowdy friends. Joel flattens himself to the wall, listening for the tread of dress shoes. The music pounds too loudly for him to hear, but he can see the shadow before he sees its owner.

“Clear,” says the voice.

When he rounds the corner, Joel drives his knife into the man’s throat and silences his gurgling moans by clamping a hand over his mouth. He slides down the wall, and Joel holds his gaze while the light slowly dims in his eyes.

One.

Two more men are waiting behind the partition, hands folded in front of them. Joel does not recognise them. Their suits are pressed, Italian; it seems Cabrera has made some alliances. Joel lies his first victim on the ground and prowls toward his next two.

They go easily: unsuspecting, they bleed out under his blade, choking on their blood, and he leaves them lying by the foggy partition. Three.

The music is dreamy, the crooning of two voices set to a throbbing track. In the bathhouse, he hears the sloshing of water and the singing of a group of men nearby. They're singing an old folk song, Joel realises. A song about a ghost.

Hurry, fall asleep, or the Boogeyman will come for you…

They don't sound particularly frightened by the spectre haunting them. Joel watches them toast their bottles of champagne and grab the waitresses’ asses. It's Emiliano and his friends, all right. Joel spots another five guards around the waist-deep water and another two by the doors upstairs.

There's a childlike self-assuredness about him—this kid. He thinks he's protected, safe, almighty as God. He sings about Joel and smiles.

A guard leans over him and sneers. “You need to stop drinking.”

“Are you scared of the fucking boogeyman?” jeers the kid. “I’m not! Hijo de puta.”

The guard plucks the bottle from his hand and passes it off. “You wanna vomit while you run away? Or would you just prefer to get shot in the head?”

Emiliano’s haughty sniff makes Joel wonder if a bullet in the head is retribution enough. “Get me another fucking bottle!” he says to his friend.

Joel picks up a bottle of complimentary cologne and tosses it. The glass shatters, potent liquid pooling on the shiny floor. Three guards flank the partition. The music is too loud to let the sounds of his blade in flesh seep through.

Six.

On the other side of the glass, coloured blue and red and slick with humidity, the singing continues.

From the swamp he will come…

He feels the wet splash of blood on his face.

… and take the children that don't behave.

Another man rounds the corner as Joel is tearing the knife from the last guard’s throat. He doesn't have enough time to slash his throat, so he pulls the handgun from his holster and shoots. He crumples to the floor, but Joel’s cover is blown.

“He’s here! Miller’s here!”

The partition explodes. Glass rains on him as he rolls to evade the gunfire, raising his barrel to strike at the remaining guards.

Seven. Eight.

The men by the stairs are shouting some Spanish, some Italian. The music carries on, but the song they're singing has ended.

Joel finds the man he's been looking for: hiding behind a petrified waitress, Emiliano Cabrera looks like a goddamn child. He's wrapped himself hastily in a bath towel around his waist, and his eyes are wide as saucers. Yeah, Joel thinks, I’m going to enjoy this a little.

He locks eyes with Emiliano for only a moment. The guards at the top of the stairs begin to fire at Joel. He ducks behind the wall as shots chip brick from the wall or plunk uselessly in the water. By the time he flanks them around the other side of the wall and brings them tumbling down the stairs—ten—the kid has already run. Joel growls at the loss of the kill and follows him into the club.

With an eruption of deafening music, Joel bursts into the crowd. Behind him, a gigantic LED screen is illuminated with spirals in red and blue and white. Women dance in elevated cages while the crowd below becomes a sea of skin and sequins and sweat. Joel reloads, checks the clip, and resumes his hunt.

Eleven, twelve, thirteen. Joel feels the punch of the barrel into their chests as he fires, again and again and again. The commotion is lost in the din of the music and dancing. Bodies connect and grind and Joel kills.

Fourteen. A guard by the wall. Fifteen. Another lurking by the LED spirals. Sixteen, seventeen—two men rushing him in an attempt to ambush, eyes wild with rage and a bit of fear. Joel puts them down like sick dogs and continues to push through the crowd, his eyes locked on the retreating Emiliano, who's waving a gun about like a white flag.

But it's no surrender. It's a beacon, a sign that the deer is spooked. Joel feels his lip curl. So frightened, he thinks.

Eighteen, nineteen…

Your bleary eyes, blinking through the pain, limbs limp and helpless as he unbuckled his belt above you. A cut on your face, barely bleeding. The red still consumes him.

You were so afraid that night.

Twenty.

Twenty-one.

He's getting closer. The crowd parts down the centre as Joel marches toward his goal. But the music is loud and he does not hear the approach from behind.

The gunshot grazes his shoulder, but he feels the flare of pain ooze its way down his arm. Joel grunts, knocked askew from his path, and turns to forge at his assailant.

The man is fast, though, and rushes him. The tackle brings him down to the ground, winding him just enough to briefly stun, to send his Glock spinning along the floor. He’s taller, broader, madder.

But he shoots one-handed.

Joel knocks the gun aside and it misfires into the gap in the crowd. In the dispersing, he sees more guards closing in his periphery. The only protection he has is the hulking body on top of him. So Joel uses it, bringing his elbow to the man’s throat and bunching the lapel of his jacket in his fist. The guard attempts to reach for the blade in his thigh holster, but Joel reaches down and bends his arm backward until the crunch crackles in his ear. The man howls, and Joel grasps the hilt of the knife.

Twenty-two.

He picks up his gun and fires a shot into each of the three approaching guards, but Emiliano has fled to the first floor. Joel grimaces as he stands, blood on his fingertips where he's prodded the wound in his arm. “Goddammit,” he mutters, following his target upstairs.

The air is dizzying. Hot. Joel never liked clubs. He hated the closeness and the bodies in cages and the way skin felt so sticky, too tight, like he needed to step outside of it. He hated the feeling of being suffocated by strangers, as if any of them could be lurking low in the darkness, waiting to strike.

He didn't understand the lure of the scantily-clad body until he saw you wrapped in a tight black dress. He didn't know the pleasure of dancing until you took his hand one night, his old vinyl player crackling out Frank Sinatra, and lay your head on his shoulder. It felt like stepping over the threshold into consecrated territory. He should not be touching you. But you were touching him.

Joel spots Emiliano running for the back entrance, shoving another guard in Joel’s path.

Twenty-six.

The final man, approaching Joel from the lounge, pulls his gun in time to shoot, but not in time for Joel to notice. The bullet shatters a glass of wine and topples a waiter’s tray. Joel fires.

One to go.

He has no choice but to lunge for the kid before he can run out into the street. Joel’s heart is pounding in his chest, his blood electrified. The take-down is sloppy and his ankle rolls, but Emiliano Cabrera is pinned beneath him and yelping like a kicked dog.

“My father will kill you,” he gasps, his cheek pressed to the floor.

“Your father knows exactly why I’m here,” says Joel, “and he knows how stupid you are.”

“Hijo de puta, it was just a fucking car,” he spits. “I was just going to have some fun with your bitch. I would've given her back.”

Joel isn't quite satisfied. He turns the kid onto his back and grasps him by the jaw, forcing him to meet Joel’s incendiary gaze.

“Everything has a price.”

The knife goes in smoothly, the flat of the blade glinting in his gaping mouth. No light flees his eyes. There is nothing but cold slate-grey. And although Joel feels no happiness feeling the pulse slow to a crawl beneath his palm, he does not pull the knife out.

Your body, sacred, helpless, lying on the floor. A predator’s gaze. The clink of a belt buckle. Joel steps over the body and leaves, limping to the valet and slipping him a golden coin. He slips back inside his Mustang, turns on the engine, and drives back to the hotel.

You’re tucked in the alcove by the window, staring out at the moonlit night. Your chin rests on your knees as you hug yourself close. The lamp between your respective beds colours the room orange.

“You’re limping.”

You haven’t even turned to face him.

“How—”

“I know how you sound when you walk.” Your temple is cool where it rests on the windowpane, your breath frosting the glass. Joel staggers to the small table and braces himself on the back of a chair as he watches you.

You’re as warm and bright as the day he found you that night in the restaurant. Your eyes may be a little older, but the glow is the same. He folds his bleeding hands around the back of the chair. Everything around you curls in, darkens, and wilts when it confronts your beauty.

“I’m all right.” He doesn’t deserve your concern. He’ll swallow any bullet to keep you from worrying.

You stand at last and cross the room to face him. His heart jumps like it’s the first time you asked him on a date. Like the first time he kissed you, his chest taut with tension and nerves and the assumption that you’d reject him.

“You can lie to me about lots of things, Joel, but I know this face.” The pad of your thumb ghosts over the crease between his brows. “I’ve painted it a hundred times. It doesn't lie.”

It's the first time you've touched him in days. Joel closes his eyes. Part of him, the part that jolts back to life under the tender weight of your soft skin, means it when he says, “I’m okay.”

You seem to ponder him for a moment. “This wouldn't be the first time I patched you up,” you say, as if resigned. “Go on. Bathroom.”

He winces. “You don't have to—”

“Go. And afterward, you can tell me everything.”

The pads of your fingers memorise the ridges on the gold coin. The time is close to dawn.

He’s no longer bleeding, and although you have nothing close to the Doctor’s prowess, you’ve managed to disinfect and wrap the wound in his arm. You can’t do anything about his ankle, but it’s a sprain; he’ll heal in time. The mangled black and blue on his tender skin reminds you of a night sky without the stars. It doesn’t seem to pain him. It only makes you wonder what sorts of agonies he’s faced—ones you never knew about.

The hurt has festered in your time away from him. He’s an open wound in the shape of a hand on your back, searing cold through to your heart. The hand sports a golden band, and it reflects in the one you still wear. You don't quite know what to make of it now.

He looks exactly like the man you knew. Not a part of him has changed—he's still scruffy, still tired, still jaggedly gorgeous. You paint him with blurred edges, with blues and greys. Your heart still pulls when you look at him. Your chest still gapes wide open, and he digs his thumbs into the bruises. He lied to you. He broke your trust. And there's still so much of your Joel in him, from the skin to the bones.

“It’s beautiful,” you muse, turning the coin over.

“Technically, it’s not money,” Joel says. “It is currency. They can be exchanged for favours, information, relationships.”

“A hotel room,” you add. “Good to know I don’t have to move any savings around. Where have you been keeping these?”

“There’s a safe in the basement,” he says, “under the floorboards. When I left, I buried all of it. Weapons, coins, contacts, anything I had from the Underworld.”

The Underworld. A fitting name, if you’ve made any sense of it at all. “Do the police know about all of this?”

“Most of them are in the pockets of High Table members. Those are the ones who control how it all works. Rules and consequences,” says Joel, “is how they operate. They're what separate us from the animals.”

You lift your brows. “And who sits at this High Table?”

“Twelve leaders. They're the ones who run most of the major crime families and organisations. They control police, politicians, banks—”

Your shuddering sigh makes him stop in his tracks. He watches you lean back in the chair and bends forward slightly, as if tied to you by an invisible thread.

“So… the girl who serves me coffee on the corner by my office could be part of it.” You frown at the coin in your hand. “She could be a witness, a runner, a messenger. She could be like you.”

“She isn't,” says Joel, “but that is the general idea.”

“But civilians are immune.”

“More or less,” says Joel. “There are… heavy penalties for harming them.”

“Penalties like death.”

“Most of the time,” he says. “And there are rules here, too. No business can be conducted on the grounds of any Continental hotel.”

“Any? You mean—”

“There's a Continental in every major city in the world. It's where we go to remind ourselves we’re civilised.”

“Civilised,” you scoff. “Civilised murder, sure. I’m buying it. And now that you’re back—”

“Visiting.”

You just glare at him, and he ducks his head.

“—there's a contract on your head.”

Joel nods. “Two million.”

You curl your fingers over the coin in your palm as your stomach bottoms out. “That's a lot of incentive to put a bullet in your brain.”

“They won't,” he says. “Cabrera holds the contract, and he only opened it because of Emiliano. He’d pull it the second I agreed to stop looking for his son. He doesn't want me owing him.”

“I don't know if I’d call that a debt.”

“Considering everything I did for him,” says Joel, a bite to his voice, “anything short of killin' his kid is a favour.”

Despite yourself, you open your hand and slide the coin toward him. “Tell me what you did.”

His head shoots up, his brows knitted together. “What?”

“Tell me what you did to get out. Tell me about this ‘impossible task.’”

“Baby, that’s…” He rubs his hand across his jaw, and it strikes you then how deep those half-circles colour the space beneath his eyes.

“Stop,” you whisper. It never used to hurt when he called you baby. “Tell me how much blood you thought I was worth.”

Joel’s jaw ticks. His knees barely touch yours under the table. “You don't wanna hear the answer to that.”

“Then start here. What did you do, Joel?”

The sigh he releases feels heavy. “I came to Cabrera, asking him to release me from my contract. He told me he'd let me out, no strings attached… if I hunted down his enemies.”

Your mouth drops. “Which enemies?”

He picks up the coin and turns it over in his palm. The silence drops an anchor on the ground. Your belly churns with the movement of the golden piece as it catches the light.

“All of them,” says Joel. “All of ‘em, in one night. That was his impossible task.”

The scrape of your chair legs across the floor is grating. But you stand anyway, your head vaguely stirring with the beginnings of a headache.

“Oh my God.”

You barely feel your own hand on your cheek, barely smell the iron tang of blood on him, barely see the red cutting through his pressed white shirt. “How many people?”

Joel shakes his head, his shy eyes lowered, still as the paintings you've made of him. “I… I don't know.”

I lost count, he means. There were too many, he means.

Your throat is just wide enough to let your breath escape. The air you take in feels poisonous. He killed every single one of them. All because he wanted to marry you.

All because he wanted peace.

“Is there anyone in the Underworld who doesn’t know your name?”

Joel’s repentant silence, head ducked as if in prayer, is all the answer you need.

“How did this happen?” Your voice is uniquely quiet.

“When I was a kid,” he says, and your heart sinks, “I lived on the streets. Lived like a rat, mostly, but I survived. You know that much.”

You nod solemnly, lowering yourself into the chair once more. “The Sisters reunited you with your brother.”

His dark eyes reflect the lamplight and it resembles a flame igniting in the depths of the iris. “Found me on Canal Street, runnin’ drugs for a mobster I don't even remember. Tommy was only five, but he must've told them about me. They took me to the orphanage and started my training.”

You swallow, your temples pounding. Deep in your gut, something wild and dry begins to kindle. “They were the ones who taught you all of this?”

“They teach the word of God above everythin’ else, but yeah. They train children to thrive in the Underworld. We were taught knives, guns, hand-to-hand. Hell, they even taught us how to dance—how to move faster than the opponent. I knew how to kill someone before I could read.” Joel chuckles, and part of you thinks he actually thinks it's funny. “Probably why I’m so slow.”

You aren't slow, you want to say. You've never been slow, not from the first day.

The kindling curls and you can feel your mouth pull at the corners. He had only been a child. An orphan. A child had no way to choose, to resist how they were raised. He hadn’t been given a choice—his life in exchange for a roof over his head.

“Those fucking bastards.”

Joel’s laugh is mirthless. “It was a long time ago. I’ve made my peace with it.”

You angrily swipe the tears that warm your cheeks. “No adult should have that power. They should nurture and comfort and protect, not—” Your breath hitches. “You were a child. You didn't deserve that.”

Your fingers have curled into a fist atop the table. With both hands, he gently lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles. You expect it to feel foreign, wrong. It just feels like Joel.

“The Sisters were cruel,” he says softly. “But I made myself into a weapon. It was the only way I would survive.” He reaches out as if for a wounded deer and brushes his thumb over your jaw. “They never made me believe, sweetheart. That was all you.”

You sniffle, your head bobbing absently. You don't know what to think. You don't know how to feel. Your own husband has been through the seven circles and crawled back out only to teeter back over the pit once more. There’s an ancient weariness in the black of his eyes, an old hurt, a mansion slowly crumbling at the edges.

“You hid this all from me, and never told anyone,” you say, the ache widening. You find you want to assume, consume, even a modicum of the pain that he's felt.

One of his shoulders lifts in a mild shrug. “I wanted to forget all of it. I wanted to make something of the new life I’d killed for.” He meets your gaze and you swear part of the open wound in his pupils has sealed. “I didn't want any of it to touch you.”

And you remember lying in bed with him that first night, after that first time, tracing a scar on his back. White and ridged, it spread like lightning feelers from the middle of his spine to the dimples in his lower back.

You'd put your mouth to his shoulder blade and felt him melt into you.

What happened?

The silence that followed could have heard the brush of a feather over skin.

I was raised in an orphanage. In a church. They weren't kind.

And that was that. You'd prodded and fussed and he'd said I’m fine. It was a long time ago.

“But that's what you do, Joel,” you tell him. “You hide your hurt and you bury your feelings and you do it all because you're afraid it'll make everyone leave you.”

Sometimes he would wake in a cold sweat, heaving, tossing aside the sheets, but he would never make a sound. You'd see him, pretending to sleep, and place your hand over his chest. His fingers would grasp yours as if marooned on the water, seeking driftwood, his hand suffocating yours. He'd keep it pressed to his heart until the beats slowed.

You regret those times you never pressed. In a way, you were afraid, too. If you opened your eyes, if you asked him to confess, he would close the lattice and turn his back to you. You didn't want to lose him, either.

But you did.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, but it doesn't hold the weight you want it to. It doesn't blow out the candles in the cathedral. It doesn't pluck the scared little boy from the streets or give him a warm bed. It doesn't stop the beatings and the lashings and the pain.

It does not pry the pain from his heart and bury the shrapnel in your chest instead. It is something he bears, as he always has, and must. It is something you cannot take from him. And you feel more helpless than you ever have.

He shakes his head. “I know we can't go back,” he says, tracing one of the little daisy charms on your bracelet. “But it feels… good. It feels good to finally tell you. Even if we were too late.”

The sound of his voice breaking shakes your heart loose from your rib cage.

“Come to bed.” Your voice is raw and used. “Just… come to bed, and sleep.”

He doesn't dare look hopeful, though you can see the tremor that courses through his hand. He wants to take yours, the way he did the day he proposed, dropping to one knee with your palms flush.

He looked a little hopeful that day, too. With rapt attention, he'd taken hold of you and said, I love you. I love you more than anything. You’re my best friend. Will you marry me? Will you let me be your husband?

You realise now why he'd let himself hope. He'd gotten out. He'd started his new life. With you.

You can see his old scars, even in the dark. You think, in all your time together, you've learned his body as you learn the earth you tread upon. The praying hands of Dürer lie beneath the name inked in small black lettering.

Your name.

You gingerly reach out and place your hand on his back. Joel shudders. He does not turn to face you where you both lie on your sides.

“If you bleed on the bed sheets,” you say to the darkness, “will management make us pay?”

He chuckles. “Strongly worded phone call at best. I’ll take the hit.”

You frown, ghosting your fingers over the tender skin around the makeshift patch job on his shoulder. “Does it still hurt?”

“No,” he says, leaning into your touch, “not anymore.”

“You never told me about this scar on your back.” You touch the edges of the puckered skin. “I never stopped wondering. But I should never have stopped asking.”

“Don't,” he says quietly. “Don’t say any of that like it's your fault.”

The silence bleeds as viscous as an open gash into the dry air. His watch broke the day of your wedding. He told you it was all right, that we've got all the time in the world, and you'd kissed him and laughed. He’d replaced the battery since then, but sometimes the little hand lags behind, as if afraid to chug forward. Afraid to let time, of all silly, trivial things, consume your world.

“Do you remember your vows?” you ask him.

“‘Course I do.”

“Do you remember mine?”

His head bows slightly on the pillow. “‘I vow to be your partner in all things,’” he recites. “‘I vow to protect your heart like it's my own. I vow to take your pain, and to shoulder it so you don't have to.’”

The tears saturate the pillowcase beneath your cheek. You fall asleep with your arm around his waist, your hand next to his, not touching, but nearly.

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #the last of us hbo #the last of us #tlou fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller angst #joel miller au #joel miller fic #john wick au #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader

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thebramblewood · 25 days

Text

For a brief moment in her eternal existence, Lilith was well and truly shook.

Previous / Next

[incessant pounding at door]

Lilith: It’s nearly sunrise! Who would be calling at such an ungodly hour? [expectant pause] Fine. I suppose I’ll answer it then. Helena? [immediately composes self] Well, isn’t this an unexpected pleasure?

Helena: Let’s get one thing straight, Lilith Vatore. I’m only here as a last resort. I won’t let you have your way with me. Caleb warned me about you.

Lilith: [bemused smirk] Oh? So that’s what’s been keeping him busy.

Helena: [barreling forward] And I read your book. You don’t come off well.

Lilith: It’s hardly my book. That journalistic hack is the bane of my existence. No one alive still cared about the Vatore name until he started nosing around. I’d kill him, but it'd just make more trouble than it’s worth.

Helena: How can you talk about it so casually?

Lilith: What?

Helena: Killing people!

Lilith: Because it’s what vampires do. It’s as natural to us as breathing, darling.

Helena: Caleb doesn’t kill people, does he? I don’t think he even drinks blood.

Lilith: Caleb, bless his heart, is a miserable fucking sadsack. Clinging onto one’s humanity is a thankless task, one he’s bafflingly decided is his personal cross to bear. But we’re above humanity now, Helena. We’re elite. We’re supernatural. Nobody can fucking touch us. Our power is limitless, so long as guilt doesn’t get in the way.

Helena: I’m not interested in power. I didn’t ask for any of this. Are you even sorry for what you did?

Lilith: Of course! I thought you were dead until five minutes ago, and I have been mourning the loss.

Helena: [scoffs in disbelief] For yourself maybe. You didn’t give a shit what happened to me. I have no future because of you!

Lilith: Oh, that couldn’t be further from the truth. You’ll make a remarkable vampire someday. I can sense it. I understand you and Caleb have been… bonding. While you’re here, though, you may as well learn from both of us. You might be surprised whose lessons you prefer.

Helena: We’ll see about that.

Lilith: Make yourself comfortable. If you’ll excuse me, I need to have a little chat with my dear brother.

#ts4 #sims 4 #ts4 story #sims 4 story #simblr #story: hzid #helena zhao #lilith vatore #caleb vatore #a lot of pics i know but i wanted to avoid too many huge walls of text and the expressions were just too good!!!#something about the forgotten hollow aesthetic just HITS #and of course our girls being back together is equal parts dreadful and amazing

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roronoacherries · 9 months

Note

its obvious zoro has medical play kink and you can't change my mind

this is filling my mind with the most ungodly thoughts. but you’re absolutely right anon. zoro x nurse is always the way.

it's a good thing he's so reckless, he thinks, because it lands him in the medical bay, under the care of your gentle hands more often. he enjoys seeing your stern, focused expression as you bandage him up — nothing like the usual, persistent smile that tugs at your lips.

he finds delight in the way you tend to him, your cold hands leaving feather touches along his bare skin. part of him wants to hold them in his and warm them up; another part of him wants to feel them dig into his skin, pushing him back against the exam table, forcing him to rest and let you make him feel good. doctor's orders.

"are you ever going to learn to be more careful?" you give the bandage too harsh of a tug and the swordsman winces, but it doesn't keep away the smirk on his lips.

"why should i when i've got this pretty thing to take care of me?" his fingers push a strand of hair behind your ear and you close your eyes to enjoy the feeling for just a second before opening them to shoot him a glare.

"i'll make sure to relay that message to chopper." you finish wrapping the bandage and turn to leave but the swordsman's voice pulls you back.

"c'mere," he hums, the trace of an apology hanging on his lips. it isn’t enough and you’re more than tempted to ignore him and leave anyway.

but you can't help but give in.

you stand between his legs obediently, but the contempt in your eyes persists.

“don’t i get a treat? f’r being a good patient,” zoro smirks, his hands resting on your hips.

“good patients try not to get themselves killed,” you mutter, but you let drag his lips along your jaw anyway.

and he’ll get his treat because you can never find it in you to say no to him. you’ll end up sitting between his legs, drooling over his cock or whining as he grips your thighs and satisfies his hunger.

and if you’re feeling generous, you’ll let him strip you of your clothes — leaving only that white apron he loves — and bend you over to use you as he pleases.

he murmurs the prettiest things in your ear as he presses against you. "my little nurse 's takin' care of me so well."

you can't quite stay mad at him after he's made you feel so heavenly, especially not when he thanks you so sweetly for the remedy. "feelin' better already," the swordsman quips, pressing a kiss to your sweaty forehead.

he whispers something about you having to let him play doctor someday and the thought alone is almost enough to make you whimper.

“just lemme know when mama needs a full check-up.”

#another thing that has been collecting dust in my drafts #zoro smut #one piece smut #zoro x reader #one piece x reader #୨⎯ pedacito de sol ☼

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mcflymemes · 5 months

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PROMPTS FROM THE EMPEROR'S NEW GROOVE * assorted dialogue from the 2000 film, adjust as necessary

how shall i do it?

okay, i admit it. maybe i wasn’t as nice as i should have been.

do you really want to kill me?

so is everything ready for tonight?

i thought we’d start off with a soup and a light salad, and then see how we feel after that.

we’re about to go over a huge waterfall.

bring it on.

you got all that, honey?

what about dinner?

all right. a quick cup of coffee.

but what does that have to do with anything?

you’re sort of confusing me.

how did you get back here before us?

by all accounts, it doesn’t make sense.

i never liked your spinach puffs.

ah. should have seen that coming.

you know what, you could have told me that before i set it up.

now you stop being hard on yourself. all is forgiven.

it’s not the first time i was tossed out of a window, and it won’t be the last.

what can i say? i’m a rebel.

i can’t believe this is happening!

break the door down!

are you kidding me? this is hand-carved mahogany.

so you lied to me.

couldn’t pull the wool over your eyes, huh.

why did i risk my life for a selfish brat like you?

i was always taught that there was some good in everyone, but, oh, you proved me wrong.

now i feel really bad.

you threw off my groove!

he didn’t pay his check.

this had better be good!

this is the last time we take directions from a squirrel.

yeah, like that would ever happen.

will you take a look at this?

oh, is that hard to believe?

just thought i’d give you a heads up.

what do you mean the door’s stuck? try jiggling the handle.

you’re the criminal mastermind here, not me.

just leave me alone.

it’s my birthday gift to me. i’m so happy.

hey, it doesn’t always have to be about you.

uh, he doesn’t really wanna talk to you.

hey, did you see that sky today? talk about blue.

don’t drink the wine.

our moment of triumph approaches!

oh, he’s doing his own theme music.

i’m so glad i was unconscious for all of this.

you’re not just gonna let him die like that, are you?

don’t listen to that guy.

if it were me, i’d march right back there and demand to see him.

you just saved my life!

believe it or not, i think i need a bath.

maybe i’m just new to this whole rescuing thing, but this, to me, might be considered kind of a step backwards.

i ate a bug today!

what is this guy babbling about?

i’ll be sure to tell him you stopped by.

i gotta go wash something.

anything sounds bad when you say it with that attitude.

let me guess, you have a great personality.

thanks for going back on your promise!

how long has that been there?

someday you’re gonna wind up all alone, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.

hmm. don’t know, don’t care. how’s that?

for the last time, it was not a kiss.

#rp meme #rp memes #rp prompt #roleplay memes #roleplay prompt #rp starters #ask meme #ask memes #roleplay meme #roleplay inbox prompts #rp inbox meme #inbox prompt #inbox meme #sentence starter #sentence starter prompt #sentence starters #the emperor's new groove #disney #mcflymemes

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huecycles · 1 year

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jevil & noelle friendship post

hi, i want to talk about how noelle and jevil would definitely get along well or even be friends! also how their characters contrast nicely with each other and could possibly have a dynamic as interesting and engaging as spamton does with kris. this is quite a long post, so yeah grab a seat lol. first off, take a look at noelle’s reaction to both of jevil’s items:

noelle likes horror movies, and jevil definitely fits that scary clown trope. the description for jevilstail is “a j-shaped tail that gives you devilenergy”, and it can be equipped on noelle. considering her comment, and how she compliments susie’s tail later, this could mean she thinks tails in general are cute (perhaps longer ones? susie is often headcanoned to have a lizard-esque tail while jevil has his j-shaped devil one. noelle has a deer tail which is pretty small lmao, kinda unrelated but i’m sure it could be for a silly reason like that, and in susie’s case, highlighted by her crush on her).

the fact noelle can equip jevilstail and say she likes an item that gives her “devilenergy” is very interesting too, and kinda goes along with what she said in the ferris wheel cutscene, how she wishes she could break the rules and be more like susie who isn’t afraid to do that. compare that to ralsei’s “i’m a good devil, ok?” and susie’s “figured i’d grow one someday” and you’ll see how noelle likes the idea of being “devilish” but is pretty shy about it as she mutters it.

now let’s talk about devilsknife. devilsknife is a susie weapon, it is pretty powerful and the name itself is already scary sounding. of course, noelle can’t equip it since her weapon type is supposed to be rings, but she doesn’t seem that scared when presented with the item, unlike ralsei who says it feels “too evil”. this is what she has to say:

devilsknife, as in jevil, smiles at her. now, how could she be seeing that? most people interpret this smile as the blade deforming itself to resemble jevil’s face, or his own smile being reflected in the blade. however, there’s a detail a lot of people have missed (as well as this little moment altogether which is one of few the indicators of jevil’s actual and current presence in chapter 2).

this is devilsknife’s description:

there’s a skull symbol emblazoned in the blade (which is a hybrid between a scythe and an ax, aka what lets susie equip it due to her weapons all being axes).

now, according to my own headcanons due to certain wording jevil uses in his fight, like “EVEN DEVILSKNIFE IS SMILING!” and “LET’S MAKE THE DEVILSKNIFE.”, plus how tasque manager has the exact same reaction to both of jevil’s items, meaning she knows it’s him/knows of his presence there - contradicting the common idea that jevil is not the jevilstail and thus not in the inventory due to his wording in chapter 1 - but still regarding the devilsknife with some strange familiarity which could imply she knows it is a weapon and has possibly not only met jevil but fought him before: “silly tail” vs “silly Devilsknife”, capitalized...

...make me believe devilsknife and jevil are not one in the same, and are only “fused” (metamorphosis?) in the inventory. while i know certain details are hard to portray in a tiny sprite, you can see there’s no skull symbol anywhere in the devilsknife’s blade which has more empty space, and given how it’s “emblazoned” it would mean it’s a printed/engraved symbol somewhere.

so my small tangent here is that the skull only appears once jevil and devilsknife are fused together and in your inventory. considering how scythes are often seen as a grim reaper's weapon and associated with death, having jevil become the actual devilsknife and clearly maintain his conscience would nicely translate into a skull symbol appearing. the “THIS BODY CANNOT BE KILLED!” line also gives this some more depth. given how jevil’s "mind" is chained to his "body", as he gives a lot of emphasis to his body (”THEY CRAVED TO IMPRISON MY BODY”) and the association of how his mind is “free” while his body stays locked up paints a grim picture on how he was deemed insane, yet found a loophole in that, and thus “freedom”.

scythes are also famous for beheadings. jevil has no neck, his head separated from his body. and bringing all that back to noelle, THIS is how he smiles at her. pretty morbid, right? cool as fuck too :o)

of course, these are noelle’s only direct interactions with jevil through his items, but i’d also like to bring attention to how her themes and symbolism go along so well with jevil’s, just like spamton’s go with kris’s.

kris is often likened to demonic imagery, aka their creepy red eyes, the use of the horns headband, how they have an interest in summoning demons due to their search history, and finally: king calling them "lightbringer" which is just what “lucifer” means in latin + that word itself is generally associated with lucifer, satan, what have you. noelle has obvious ties with angels: being called one by both spamton and pink addison while on a snowgrave route, her comment about growing big angel wings in the ferris wheel cutscene, the angel doll her and dess made which rudy keeps around as a good luck charm, and so on. spamton and jevil, respectively, are the opposites in that regard when compared to kris and noelle, so the contrast here is really damn fun to think about and explore.

another thing is how both noelle and jevil are incredibly powerful and involved in violent acts (though you know how snowgrave goes, of course), and how kris and spamton are in a very similar predicament as puppets who try to fight back. i believe just like how spamton and kris both managed to relate to each other’s despair and tried to help each other out (albeit in a very warped way in spamton’s case), i think noelle and jevil would have a similar thing.

lemme talk about something interesting in the snowgrave route. there is a pattern going on with noelle that is slightly overlooked, which is this:

1) a order is given by the player through kris, often “proceed”. 2) the screen goes black, the iceshock sound is heard. 3) noelle is completely confused about what just happened.

in the weird route, there are several times where noelle zones out, and while the moment people focus on is when she’s using snowgrave on berdly, the iceshock on the puzzles + the pink addison to get the freeze ring are very important. she comments later on how the battles are blurring together and how she cant remember a lot of details, she just followed "kris's" command and acted accordingly. a similar thing might have happened when she iceshocked spamton neo too, as the screen goes black again.

considering how she says “there was so much snow, i couldn’t see anything” after berdly is in the ice, i believe whenever she uses her power while aided by the player (and later, her own, as seen in the last puzzle where she does it by herself, leading to when she encounters berdly where she was just about to freeze him, completely on “automatic mode”, seemingly just waiting for the actual order) her mind goes blank, and she just acts as instructed. noelle might even look like this while the screen is black, which is a bit haunting to me:

going back to jevil, and knowing how prone to violence/chaos he is, i believe he would be able to sense her affinity for power and maybe even help her control it, likely for his own gain as he is hypocritical (strips the player of choice once you arrive with the key and refuse to open his cell), though similarly to spamton and kris, jevil could feel some kind of connection with noelle’s power and how dangerous it can be.

i believe jevil could help noelle get a hold of herself when using her magic and not just follow someone else’s commands, as well as keeping a clear head through it all. he’s pretty damn powerful himself, so he would instead help her come up with her own strategies and willpower, even if his teachings might fall flat due to his own insistence on having her cause chaos. i believe that can overruled by noelle's kindness and gentleness, and due to jevil's own influence on her (to be more bold and assertive, as she expresses she wishes she could be more like susie and break the rules like i said before), whatever "plan" he may have on turning her into this powerful killing machine backfires simply because she says no to him. lol his own strong personality boosts her shy and scared one so that itself is his own failure, i think that’s hilarious and a great character study for the both of them!

i headcanon jevil calls her "headlights" as a reference to how she's easily scared + a cruel nod to the “deer in the headlights” thing, which fits with his character who has probably a morbid sense of humor. noelle would definitely be intimidated by him at first, but i think she’d warm up to him due to her own interests in “scary” people, firstly her crush on susie and secondly her strange friend jevil who looks like a killer clown in the flesh. an easygoing, kind kid in jevil's life would also brighten it up :) he could definitely use a gentle presence in my opinion, i mean. guy’s said to be a loner, even if he had seam.

long post, but yeah! i know the susie and jevil connection is easier to make because of their brief interaction, devilsknife etc, but i feel like noelle and jevil being friends is very unique and more interesting to me personally. if kris has their scammer puppet uncle, noelle has the silly, slightly intimidating clown (also uncle coded) who helps pick out her fits for halloween and do her makeup. she also gets to wear out five hairbrushes on the wavy mess that’s under his hat, then braids his hair during the afternoon and shows him different hairdos, choosing the one jevil’s eyes dilated at. kris takes a picture of him looking handsome under noelle’s care and hits ‘send’ saying “ey uncle spamgton check out ur lover boy” while spamton tells them to “del3te THIS”.

it’s nice it’s cool!! let jevil and noelle be friends!!

#jevil #noelle holiday #kris dreemurr #spamton #tasque manager #susie deltarune #berdly #all characters that were mentioned a lot will be tagged lol #devilsknife #yes even you #weird route #deltarune #snowgrave #deltarune chapter 2 #deltarune analysis #deltarune meta #i guess?#idk how to use these tags #txt

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johnwickb1tsch · 2 months

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Yandere Tex Johnson x Reader x John Wick round robin part 4 WIP

With my evil geniuses @treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake 😈😈😘😘

Readers: this is our working doc for part 4. If you're new here, see the Masterlist (it's at the bottom), and WARNING, doves are dropping dead everywhere around here!! NSFW, yandere sh!t, 18+, plz take care!

They’re trying to kill you.

That is the thought that plays through your mind as Tex takes you to the top of the mountain with that wicked tongue, only to pull back at the last moment. Again, and again, he drives you to madness with long hard licks and wet little flicks over your clit, two of those thick fingers buried inside your needy little cunt. The bed is soaked beneath you; your thighs have begun to tremble uncontrollably; your throat is hoarse from the violence of the moans he forces from your throat.

That you could be a stone, hard and unyielding and unaffected by any of this.

But you’re just a woman made of flesh and blood, and these two men may as well have read the book on how exactly to stretch you down that fine line between heaven and hell.

After edging you for the umpteenth time Tex wipes his mouth your thigh with a satisfied smirk, those dark eyes burning up at you. “You ready for me, honey?”

You know you resemble a haggard and small creature of the woods, your eyes huge and tear-filled as you look up at him. You should be proud, that a part of you still wants to tell him to go to hell. But some little voice warns you from the back of your head, that you wouldn’t survive it.

Language isn’t really working for you right now. All you can manage is a plaintive whine that makes him smirk down at you. Someday you bargain with yourself. Someday, you’ll figure out how to make them pay for this. But right now…you’re helpless. And so you might as well…

Your thoughts stop dead as Tex unzips his jeans. Your gaze follows that leading line of dark hair down, and you lay eyes on just what this man has in store for you. You’re not sure if the whimper you make is out of anticipation, or fear.

“Shh,” says John from behind you. You hadn’t forgotten about him, of course, his hands still full of your breasts. “You’ll be fine.” Easy for him to say, and from the firm bulge that keeps pressing your cheek with your head in his lap, you can tell he’s not going to be any easier on you either.

Tex sizes you up with that smoldering gaze, as though he’s plotting something nefarious. Just that look makes you ache all over again, even while you tremble with nerves.

“Goddamn,” he grumbles, almost to himself as he pumps himself in his hand, spreading the beads of precum from his tip. “You sure you don’t want a piece of this, Johnny?”

You’re not really sure what he means by that, and you look up at John with wide eyes, what has become your knee-jerk reaction when you seek assurance, or mercy. You forgot that right now, at least, he has none left for you. His sharp look aimed down at you is nothing less than that of a hungry wolf.

“Would you do that for me, sweet girl?” he asks, stroking you from the tips of your nipples up to your hair. That one touch makes you writhe, and the corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk.

With those big hands on your hips Tex flips you onto all fours, manhandling you into position exactly as he pleases. As he presses his length against the seam of your buttocks, grinding, your arms already begin to shake.

When John unzips his pants you begin to understand what they have in mind.

“Think you can handle us both, darlin’?” asks Tex, his hand lightly smoothing over the curve of your freshly bruised ass.

“She can do it,” John answers for you, sweeping your hair away from your face to turn your eyes up to his. He kisses you, coaxing you with his tongue, dragging your lower lip lightly with his teeth. “For me?” You hate yourself so much, for finding that you don’t want to disappoint him. You blink up at him, at a loss for words. But just slightly, you feel yourself nod, and he smiles at you like you have just signed your soul away to this wicked man.

With hands bracketing your head he guides you down to his massive erection. You take the velvety soft skin of his glans like a strawberry between your lips, licking messily before his light fingers on the back of your head guide you down. Simultaneously you savor Tex’s thick tip at your weeping entrance, your aching pussy craving to be stretched and ruined, before slowly he slides himself inside. He’s damn near gentle with you at first, as much as he can be with a cock like a weapon of massive destruction. Maybe it’s because of the mouthful you’ve got on the other end, or maybe…he’s savoring it too.

“Such a sweet little pussy,” he groans, working himself inside. “So tight and wet for me. Fuck.” Your answering moan is echoed all around, the cause and effect of Tex’s thrust driving you deeper onto John’s cock, to the very back of your throat, making you gag a little. The back and forth of it would almost have been comical, if not for the bone-melting madness overtaking the three of you in your quest for that ultimate release. For the moment your enmity with these men is forgotten. There is just flesh, and friction, and the promise of something absolutely incandescent on the horizon.

When Tex’s thick fingers slide between your legs to tease your nub you double down, clenching him fiercely inside you, so desperate to cum. It makes him swear behind you, pinching your clit in revenge. You see stars, so close to finally going to pieces. “Gaddamn, honey. I think you’d break a lesser man with that thing.”

You can’t tell him to shut up, so you moan in answer, the vibration on John’s cock causing him to buck up into your mouth, his long fingers grasping at your hair. You push your ass further up in the air in offering, tilting your hips, chasing your pleasure on Tex’s fingers with his manhood filling you to the hilt, and you minding your teeth all the while. Who knew you were such a champion multitasker? You deserved a fucking medal.

Tex’s thrusts grow more erratic behind you. His voice has dropped an octave, turned to pure gravel as he asks, “You close, baby?”

You’re not sure how he interprets your answering groan, but when his hips snap against you, filling you with the hot rush of his seed, it’s exactly the angle and the pressure you need. The explosion of scintillating warmth fills your womb and spreads outward, all the way to the tips of your fingers. John’s strong hands on your shoulders are all that save you from collapsing on him, as he spills salty cum into your mouth. You shudder with your aftershocks as you swallow him down, Tex’s fingers gripping your hips so hard you know you’ll have bruises.

To say you collapse is an understatement. The three of you lay curled together as though you are nearly dead, unable to move for several minutes more. It’s John who recovers first, not shy about kissing you with his mitt of a hand holding your cheek, sliding down your neck, then teasing your nipple. You cry out for the overstimulation, squirming away, and Tex’s broad chest rumbles with low laughter behind you.

“See,” says Tex sleepily, always having to get in the last word. “I knew you’d cum ‘round.”

“If I could move, I would kick you,” you grumble, even as you nestle down on his arm beneath you, the swell of his bicep your pillow.

“Sticks and stones, rattlesnake,” he fires back softy into your hair, just this side of the line between awake and asleep.

“I’m going to gag you both,” John threatens, sounding just as tired, his hand on your waist. When you look to him through heavy lashes you see the slight curve of his smile, his dark eyes all for you.

You all fall into a deep slumber before he has to make good on the threat.

--------

points at @treedaddymcpuffpuff This is all her fault! 🤣 Batter up @sweetwolfcupcake :)))))))))))))))))))))))))

#john wick #tex johnson #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves x reader #yandere john wick #yandere tex johnson #tex johnson x you #im so sorry :))))))))))

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cyanoticfireflies · 22 days

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Hazbin Group Chat Fic, pt 1

* CharChar added PurpleFemale, SeXXXySpider, SssirP, Husk, NaNaNaNiff, and Alastor to “Hazbin Hotel’s Home for Imaginary Friends” *

CharChar: Hi, friends!

SssirP: But… but we’re not imaginary.

PurpleFemale: I think it’s related to some TV show on earth.

SeXXXySpider: Shh, don’t say the T-dot-V word or flat-face will come spy on us.

SeXXXySpider: Also wow @ Husk & Alastor. We can totally tell who are the digital grandpas in this friend group.

Alastor: I beg your pardon?

NaNaNaNiff: Ehehe, your usernames.

Alastor: Yes?

NaNaNaNiff: They’re just your names. Laaaame.

Husk: I’m not calling myself some stupid nickname.

SeXXXySpider: Bwahaha, two seconds, kitty. I assume you’re down at the bar.

Husk: Oh god.

PurpleFemale: Run, Husk.

* Husk changed his name to KittyKat *

* KittyKat changed his name to Husk *

* Husk changed his name to NiceTryFurball *

* NiceTryFurball changed his name to Husk *

* Husk changed his name to WhiskeyWhiskers *

WhiskeyWhiskers: This… can stay.

SeXXXySpider: I win!

WhiskeyWhiskers: If you touch my phone again, I’ll break your fingers, brat.

SeXXXySpider: Weird kink, but actually not the strangest thing I’ve done so far this week ~ <3 ~

PurpleFemale: That… that’s not okay, Angel.

SeXXXySpider: ¯\_¯\_(ツ)_/¯_/¯

NaNaNaNiff: Awww, you gave him the extra arms!!!

SeXXXySpider: You know it, Niff.

Alastor: I’ve been here approximately three minutes and already feel my brain rotting away. Charlie, what exactly was the point of this?

CharChar: Okay, so I figured even though we all live together that we still need a way to communicate whenever we’re not actually together.

SssirP: For what, exactly?

CharChar: Anything! If there’s just something you want to share with the group. It can be an idea for an exercise for us or a funny joke you thought of or just letting me know that the handle is broken on your bathroom sink!

WhiskeyWhiskers: Don’t all you fucks spend enough time with each other? And I should know – I keep getting dragged along on your little misadventures.

SeXXXySpider: Bet.

WhiskeyWhiskers: What?

SeXXXySpider: Not the kind of bet you’re used to.

SssirP: “The term bet can be used in a few different ways on social media but generally means agreed or okay.”

SeXXXySpider: Bet.

PurpleFemale: Siiiiigh. And here we have Angel, the perpetually online e-boy.

SeXXXySpider: Uwu?

PurpleFemale: Kill it with fire.

NaNaNaNiff: Eheheheheh.

PurpleFemale: Don’t actually kill it with fire.

NaNaNaNiff: No fun :-(((

Alastor: I’m still very confused.

SeXXXySpider: Just go with it. You’ll catch on.

CharChar: Thanks, Angel. I’m glad someone is immediately on board.

SeXXXySpider: (bb^_^)bb

SssirP: I’m not opposed. I’ve never been in a group chat before.

PurpleFemale: Really? You didn’t have one for you and your egg things?

SssirP: Giving the Egg Boiz cellular phones is a very bad idea. Trust me. A very bad idea.

SeXXXySpider: I’m so fascinated to get that story out of you someday.

CharChar: Angel, will you help Alastor change his name too?

SeXXXySpider: Iiiii will not.

Alastor: SmArT BoY

SeXXXySpider: Eep

PurpleFemale: Eep

SssirP: Eep

CharChar: Oh, come on, Alastor. It’s part of the fun! Here, bring me your phone and I’ll help you!

Alastor: I assure you that I am quite fine, my dear.

WhiskeyWhiskers: She gets a pat on the head and Angel gets a vague death threat? Checks out.

SeXXXySpider: ^

SssirP: But it is kind of fun, having a different name.

PurpleFemale: What would Alastor’s name even be?

SeXXXySpider: Honestly, he’d probably go with, like “RadioDemon” and think he was being clever.

CharChar: I’ll come up with a list of ideas!

NaNaNaNiff: RadioRudolph

Alastor: No.

Alastor: And, my dear Niffty, why are you engaging in all of this nonsense?

NaNaNaNiff: Ehehehe, because they can text me whenever they find a bug!

WhiskeyWhiskers: There’s one bothering me at the bar.

SeXXXySpider: Hey, she already tried to stab me once.

SeXXXySpider: Also, the clue is in the name, baby. Spider. Not bug.

WhiskeyWhiskers: Only once? Pussy.

SeXXXySpider: (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞

SssirP: Actually, that one does look like it has cat whiskers.

SeXXXySpider: (=^ ◡ ^=)

SssirP: Aww.

CharChar: You know, that does raise an important question! Niffty, do you also go after spiders or only bugs?

NaNaNaNiff: Spiders are our friends! They eat all of the nasty little buggies. They tie them up and then suck them dry!

PurpleFemale: Angel, no.

WhiskeyWhiskers: Don’t do it.

CharChar: That’s….

SeXXXySpider: Don’t mind me over here deleting my half-completed text then.

PurpleFemale: Do you have any shame?

SeXXXySpider: ¯\_¯\_(ツ)_/¯_/¯

SeXXXySpider: I mean, they’re usually the ones doing the tying up, sooooooo

SeXXXySpider: Niff can be half-right.

Alastor: Regretting your decisions yet, Charlie?

PurpleFemale: About starting this group text or about life in general?

Alastor: That I shall leave up to her.

CharChar: This. Is. Fine.

CharChar: (Angel, if you need someone to talk to…)

SeXXXySpider: Thanks, doll, but my therapy comes in little plastic baggies.

PurpleFemale: Speaking of, we found the stash taped to the underside of the couch. I believe that may have been the last one, yes?

SeXXXySpider: …

SeXXXySpider: My therapy is *supposed to* come in little plastic baggies.

CharChar: I’d say sorry, Angel, but I’m honestly not that sorry.

WhiskeyWhiskers: Good job, girls.

SeXXXySpider: Hey, Niffty, did anyone ever tell you that cats are a species of bug?

NaNaNaNiff: Nice try~

SeXXXySpider: You know, I remember someone did once call me “Whore Bug”

PurpleFemale: *Snort* What?

SeXXXySpider: Yup

SssirP: Ah, I did intend to apologize for that

SeXXXySpider: Eh, I punched you in the face. (งง ͠° ͟ل͜ ͡°)งง We’re even

PurpleFemale: Wait, what happened?

PurpleFemale: Also, Angel, where do you keep getting all of those?

SeXXXySpider: oo(◕␣~)oo

PurpleFemale: No

SssirP: It was when I was still trying to help the Vees.

SssirP: Before I realized that Vox is a jerk.

SeXXXySpider: ^

WhiskeyWhiskers: Not gonna lie, that’s actually kind of funny.

CharChar: Remember what I taught you, Pentious?

SssirP: Ah, yes!

SssirP: Angel, I’m sorry I called you WhoreBug.

SeXXXySpider: Thanks IG but I’m not sorry for punching you.

SeXXXySpider: Also, I’ve been called worse.

PurpleFemale: Once again, Angel. That’s not okay.

SeXXXySpider: I’m getting tired of typing the shrug

PurpleFemale: Or you could take your own trauma seriously for, like, two seconds.

SeXXXySpider: Or I could bury my trauma in sarcasm and ice cream.

WhiskeyWhiskers: Replace ice cream with bourbon and I’ve been there

CharChar: Note to self, see if Alastor can find a therapist for the hotel

Alastor: I shall keep an eye open, my dear girl

CharChar: Do you think Rosie knows somebody?

PurpleFemale: Do we really want a cannibal living in the hotel?

CharChar: The hotel welcomes ~everybody~

SeXXXySpider: Resisting. Urge. To. Make. Eating. Joke.

CharChar: See?! That’s growth!

SeXXXySpider: Resisting. Urge. To. Make. Growth. Joke.

NaNaNaNiff: Hehehehehe.

SssirP: I actually don’t know what the jokes would have been???

WhiskeyWhiskers: Keep that innocence, bud

(Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4)

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction #group chat #charlie morningstar #vaggie #angel dust #husk #niffty #alastor #sir pentious #got a little bored at work #angel texts so quick because he has the extra hands #should i keep going?

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bangtanmix73 · 1 year

Text

Right Where I’m Meant To Be

Leah Clearwater x imprint!Swan!reader

Warnings: Slight angst (?), a little bit of jealous Leah, Leah having a hard time showing she cares, Eclipse Jacob is his own warning, kind of ooc Leah (?), a little humor, this follows the plot of Eclipse, kissing, let me know if I missed anything.

To say you were shivering would be an understatement. You were laying in a tent, next a similar tent where your sister and her, now fiancé, on part of a mountain. Edward had killed another vampire who was after Bella, now the mate of said vampire is after Bella. In extension, she was after you too. The red headed vampire made a newborn army, which had the Cullen and the wolf pack join together to defeat them. Unfortunately, that meant your wolf had to fight too. While you were worried, you knew she could take care of herself. The battle was tomorrow, you and Bella were being kept up on the mountain, away from the newborns, for safety.

As if it couldn't get any worse, a storm moved in. You were shaking from how cold it was. You didn’t want to call for Leah, since she imprinted on you, it seemed like she hated you. But the colder it got; you had no choice.

“Leah?” You nervously, called for the she-wolf.

It was only a couple of seconds after you called out for you, you heard the sound of the tent unzipping.

Leah crawled in, “What?”, she asked, sounding more annoyed than she intended. You were too cold to acknowledge her tone.

“Can you lay with me? I feel like I’m turning into a popsicle.” You shivered out.

She sighed. She zipped up the tent before moving toward you. You lifted up the blanket, allowing her in. She laid in front of you and, much to your surprise, allowing you to lay your head on her chest. Leah slowly wrapped her arms around your middle, resting her chin on your head.

“Thank you.” You mumbled. Leah responded with a hum.

You were soaking in Leah being close to you when you heard unzipping from your sisters tent.

“I can’t sleep with all that teeth chattering going on,” you and Leah sighed in union, this can only go well.

“Forget it,” Edward exasperated, attempting to stop Jacob.

“She’s going to need her toes someday and let’s face it, I am hotter than you.” Jacob sassed, the last part having a double meaning.

“That’s debatable,” you snarked, making Leah pinch your side. “Ouch, I was just kidding.”

“I should be the only one you find hot.” She muttered bitterly. “To make it worse, you find a leech hot.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, a rock hotter than Jacob.” You joked, making her crack a smile. Before you could comment on it, you heard some sort of smacking sound.

“Get your hand off me.” Jacob demanded, angrily.

“Keep your hands off her.” Edward warned Jacob.

“Don’t fight,” Bella said, sounding like you just moments before you called for Leah.

“If she gets sick, it’s on you,” Jacob spit with venom in his voice. You guess it won Edward over as you heard the movement of the tent, a blanket, and Bella’s breathing get louder.

“Wow, you’re freezing Bella. Relax. You’ll warm up soon. Faster, if you took your clothes off.”

“Ew.” You muttered in disgust. You glanced up to see Leah scrunching her nose as if she smelt something horrid. Well, she can smell Edward.

“He’s so...punchable.” You commented. You heard Leah scoff from above you.

“Isn’t he though?” She whispered.

After that, you fell into silence. You were warm now, but you still couldn’t fall asleep and what do you do when you can’t sleep? Think. Maybe, you should try to talk to Leah while she’s right here? Find why she seems to hate you so much.

You knew there was so many ways this could go wrong, but you found yourself asking, “Leah? Are you still awake?”

“Yeah.” She replied. “What is it?” Now knowing she’s awake, you look up at her.

“Why do you hate me so much? What did I do?” You blurted out without thinking. You mentally cursed yourself for being so blunt. Now she’s going to leave, you thought.

Much to your surprise, she replies. “I don’t hate you.”

“But why do you give me the cold shoulder every time I try to talk to you or be around you?” You pried. You knew you were pushing your luck, but you couldn’t help it, you just wanted answers.

Leah sighed, looking anywhere, but at you. “I was trying to not get attached. I didn’t want you to leave me when you find someone better.” She admitted with a hint of sadness in her voice.

You sat up a bit to look at her better. “Leah, I’m not leaving you and I won’t ever. I haven’t known you long, but I know there’s no one better than you. The universe put us together for a reason, trust it and let me in. It might take you a while, but that’s ok. I’m willing to wait."

Leah sat up next you. “You would wait?” She finally looked at you. She had the most ‘kicked puppy’ look on her face you’ve ever seen and it broke your heart. "For me?”

You nodded. “I’m willing to wait an eternity if I have to.”

Leah tore her gaze from you when tears started to fill her eyes when she realized you were being sincere. She refused to let them fall. She didn’t want you to see her crying. You knew that. Even so, you wrapped your arms around her, resting your head on her shoulder to give some type of comfort.

You stayed like that until she laid down, taking you with her. You resumed your previous position, your head on her chest, her chin on your head. With that, you fell asleep.

Waking up, you were alone. Slowly, you got up, unzipping, and walking of the tent to see Seth in his wolf form.

“Hey, Seth.” You greeted him, petting his big head.

You unzipping next to you. You looked over and saw Bella coming out of her tent. You guess Jacob and Edward already left since she came out alone. She sent a tight smile your way as a greeting. You sent on back as you heard footsteps.

You and Bella looked in the direction it was coming from, Edward and Leah were wandering towards you. Both going to their respective Swans.

“Where’s Jacob? Did he already...?” Bella wondered before Edward cut her off.

“Not yet, he’s checking to see if the woods are clear before he goes.” He informed her.

Edward glance at you, Leah, and Seth. Taking the hint, Leah grabbed your hand, strolling past them while Seth went another direction. She took you to a ledge overlooking part of the forest on the mountain. She sat down with you following suit.

It was quiet for a minute until Leah turned to look at you. “When this is all over and if we survive-”

“We will.” She playfully glared at you for interrupting her.

“And when we survive.” She corrected herself. “Would you like to try a romantic relationship out? If not, we can just go for a friendship. If you don’t want that, the-”

“Yes,” You stopped her rambling. “I would love to try out a relationship with you.” She smiled. It was cute to see her bashful.

Leah leaned closer, causing you to lean in. You were so close, you could feel her hot breath on your lips. She leaned in closer and-

“Jake, stop! Jake, please!” You heard your sister yell. You both separated and turned around to see what was going on.

“I’m done. I’m so done.” Jacob turned to Bella.

“W-w-what can I do?” Bella stuttered.

“You can’t do anything. I can. By going out there a killing something.” A little overdramatic, are we?

“No! Just- You're not thinking clearly. Don’t do that.”

“Or maybe I’ll get myself killed and make it simple for you.”

You started getting up when Leah pulled you back down.

“Lee, he’s manipulating my sister. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.” You tried getting out of her grip, but she was strong than you.

“I know, I’d be upset to if that was Seth, but- Oh my gosh.” You stopped struggling when you saw how baffled she was. Looking over to your sister, she was making out with Jacob.

“Oh, that’s all sorts of wrong.” You muttered. “She’s engaged to Edward and she’s doing this?”

“Yeah, she’s something else.” Leah paused. “I have to go.” She said standing up. “Don’t leave Seth or Edward’s side.”

You stood up and hugged her tightly. “Be careful, please.” She wrapped her arms around you.

“I will, I promise.” She let go of you. You watched her leave until she wasn’t in sight anymore.

You walked to where Edward and Bella were now standing.

“You saw?” Bella asked.

“No, but Jacob’s thoughts were pretty loud.” That must’ve hurt him.

“I don’t know what happened.”

“You love him.”

“I love you more.” She really is something special, huh? Edward chuckled, glancing at you. He must’ve heard your thoughts.

“I know.”

Seth trotted through some bushes, stopping next to Edward.

“It’s starting.”

The battle was over. As far as you knew, no one was hurt.

Victoria followed Edward’s sent, knowing Bella would be with him. She wasn’t alone, so Edward sent you with Seth and you stayed hidden until Seth brought you out.

Walking out into the clearing behind Edward and Bella, you saw the Cullens in front of a fire. The bodies must have been the newborns. To your right was Leah in front of a giant rock. She turned to look at you, looked as if she was going to come to you until she caught the scent of another newborn. Leah spun around, wasting no time to go for him.

“Leah, don’t.” Edward yelled, making you panic.

When you glanced back at Leah, the newborn had his arms around her neck. Jacob ran past you, almost knocking you over. He jumped over Leah taking the newborn with him. Jacob rolled around with the vampire before--

Crack

The vampire broke his ribs before dropping him. Paul and Sam were quick to tear the newborn apart. Jacob phased back to his human form. You and Bella raced towards him. By time you got there, Carlisle and Edward were checking him over.

“Bella.”

“Jake, I’m right here.” Bella reassured him.

The wolf pack ran out from behind the rock in their human forms.

“Jacob, you idiot, I had it!” Leah yelled, clearly in distress.

“Leah!” Sam reprimanded her.

“I need to reset the bones before his accelerated healing kicks in. It’s already starting.” Carlisle state, looking over Jacob.

“Well, we need to get him out of here. We don’t want a fight with the Volturi.” Edward pushed.

“We’ll take him back to Billy’s.” Sam suggested.

Carlisle nodded. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Hang in there, Jake.” Bella said before backing away from him. You walk to stand beside her.

The pack had picked Jacob up and were walking to Billy's.

“Go, it’s not a good idea if the Volturi knows you exist.” You nodded, quickly following behind the pack.

You were standing behind Leah as she paced back and forth in front of you. The wolves, you, Emily, and Billy were standing outside Billy’s house while Carlisle rebroke Jacob's ribs. The screams coming from Jacob were hard to listen to. You tried ignoring it.

Your sister’s truck pulled up. She immediately got out, slamming to truck door close.

“Hey,” Bella started before Jacob's screams cut her off.

“It’s been going on for a while.” Quil begin.

“Doc’s rebreaking his bones.” Embry finished for him.

Leah spoke up, “Why’d he have to butt in, I could’ve taken that tick-.”

“Oh, give it a rest, Leah.” Paul said, causing you and Leah to glare at him.

The door opened, Carlisle and Sam stepped out.

“The worst is over. He’ll be alright.” Everyone took a breath of relief at Carlisle’s words. “I gave him some morphine, but his body temperature will burn it off soon. I’ll come back to set up a drip.”

“Thank you.” Billy offered him his hand. Carlisle took it and shake it.

Carlisle turned to Bella. “He’s asking for you.”

Bella looked at Billy for permission before looking at you. “I’ll see you at home.” You nodded, watching as she went inside.

Everyone dispersed after that. Sam helped Billy back inside before taking Emily home, the rest of the pack went home while Leah took you home.

It’s been a month since the battle. Bella and Edward told Charlie about the engagement, he wasn’t very happy, but accepted it anyway. When the wedding invitations were sent out, Jacob disappeared to who-knows-where. Everything with the vampire world was calm for now. Nobody was in danger for once.

You and Leah were happy. She’s been taking you out on dates, sneaking into your room at night to cuddle when your dad was home. You got her to open up a bit, not much, but it was progress.

You were drying your hair after your shower when Leah climbed through your window. You put your towel in your laundry basket, running up to her to greet her.

“HI, Lee.” You hugged her.

“Hi.” She hugged back.

“How was patrol?” You asked, dragging her to your bed to cuddle.

“Sucked as usual. Paul and Jared trying to figure out what would go into a sandwich named after them. Embry and Quil going on and on about The Game of Thrones. You know, the usual.” She rambled a bit.

“I’m about curious about what Paul and Jared came up with.” Leah playfully scoffed.

“You don’t want to know, trust me.” She said dramatically, causing you giggle. She cracked a smile.

You slowly stopped, getting lost in each other's eyes. Leah raised a hand up, pushing your still damp hair behind your ear.

“Thank you, for dealing with me. I know it wasn’t easy. But you stuck by me and made me realize I’m standing right where I’m meant to be.” Leah spilt her heart out to you.

“Always.” You muttered.

“I love you.” Leah whispered before kissing you. It was slow and filled with passion. Like she was trying to give all her love through the kiss and you gave it right back.

Pulling back, you smiled at her. “I love you too.”

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spooklies · 5 months

Text

# Taste - Yan!Mike Schmidt x F!Reader

♡ ... › Everything about you was perfect. Someday, he hopes you see yourself the way he does.

— Words - 600+

♡ ... › Warning(s) - Mentions of a previous drugging. Slight physical harm. Mike’s a bit of a perv.

— A/N - Something short I wrote to get a feel for writing again. Enjoy <3

Mike brushes away the few strands that flowed onto her face and then gently pinches those strands as if he were memorizing the texture and length to memory. He’s learned so much in the time you’ve worked under him yet somehow he had no idea about the way your hair reacted when twirled, or how feathery soft the ends were when pressed against the pads of his fingers. Ingraining the memory of your hair may have been insignificant to most, but to him it was a part of the many reasons why he found himself smitten with you.

There’s so much more to you and it's killing him inside that he’s only able to grasp what’s presented to him on the surface. Like a butterfly hit with a particularly strong breeze your eyelids flutter open. Those beautiful and glossy eyes of yours perceiving him through a sleep-induced haze that you tried to shake away with a few toss and turns of your head. Upon the groan you let slip Mike instinctively grabbed ahold of your chin, keeping your gaze on him and from wondering elsewhere.

“Hey, take it easy, there’s no rush.” As always you were stubborn. He could tell you still weren’t completely deprived of your will by the way you attempted to free your chin. But Mike’s always been someone who’s had to adapt – his willingness to compromise outmatching any of your stubborn fits you still liked to display. “I said, take it easy.” His grip became vice-like and that’s what got you to settle. You still appeared trapped in delusions, an Alice running from the world she brought upon herself.

This was your fault, after all. And much like Alice, you have no one but to blame but yourself.

“If you move around so much you’ll probably give yourself an even worse headache.” To emphasize his point he began harshly shaking your head back and forth, only regretting it when your attention left him in favor of screwing your eyelids shut. You groaned out a quiet plea, wanting him to stop so he did. “What? Isn’t that what you wanted?” You opted to sniffle out a barely concealed sob instead of speaking. That was fine with him though, he didn’t need you to say anything to understand what you felt or thought about something. He believes he knows you well enough to be able to make these translations himself. “Doesn’t feel so nice, does it?” He flicked your chin away and stood up, feeling a drop of water land on his head and the distant echo of traffic from outside the house. His basement wasn’t the most ideal place for him to house you in but with everything you’ve done it’s the place you’re most deserving of.

“I’ll be back after work.” He told her apologetically. The constant shifts of emotions he went through was enough to give anyone whiplash. “If Abby tells me you’ve been loud then I won’t hesitate to muzzle you. Is that what you want to happen, Y/n?” At his inquiry you squirmed, shaking your head in denial and then stopping right after. Mike smiled, pleased with how quickly you were adapting. “Yeah, I know you wouldn’t. So let’s not make this drugging thing a habit anymore, okay?” He didn’t like having to do these sorts of things but if his hand was forced then what else was he supposed to do?

You graced him with one last look of acknowledgement before seemingly drifting back off into your little wonderland. Mike couldn’t help himself and immediately knelt back down, cupping your face in his hand and swiping his thumb against the droplet of water you produced. Mike brought that same thumb to his lips, his tongue wrapping around his fingers and his lungs contracting as he sucked the taste of you off himself. You were perfect. And the way you tasted proved that fact tenfold.

#yandere x reader #yandere #yandere mike schmidt #yandere fnaf #yandere five nights at freddy’s #mike schmidt x reader

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maboroshi-if · 1 year

Video

SNote: Maboroshi is intended for 16+ audiences. Strong Violence and Swearing/Cursing will be in the IF. The warning list will be updated as we continue. Intro Post is still being pulled together, so if there are any questions, let me know!

Maboroshi is an Interactive Fiction Game based in the world of Naruto, however, all events within the story span during the end of the First Shinobi War and the beginning of the Second Shinobi War.

Long ago, many years before you were born, the countries of the world were entrenched in warfare for land. Mighty warlords and noblemen wished to expand their territory; however, blood would need to be given in exchange; Unfortunately, for the people of the land, the blood given as payment was not theirs. Instead, shinobi across the lands sacrificed their lives to fulfill the greedy lord’s wishes. Villages would soon be pillaged, children and women would perish from famine, and demonic creatures would rise from the darkest parts of the world to roam the earth. This would later be known as the Warring States Era.

Twenty years later, all the infighting, battles, and wars would just...cease to exist. No one knows what caused the wars to stop; many believe that an inner deal was made between Daimyo across the land, while others believe something much more sinister is at play. Regardless, the ninja world seems to have finally settled into peace and harmony.

It has been some years since the Warring States Era ended. Villages across the land have been ushered into peace, and the village of Kirigakure is one of them.

Having just graduated from Ninja Academy, you're now a Genin placed into your forever squad. Focused on growing stronger and building a name for yourself. You set your sights on becoming the strongest nin in your village, and who knows? Maybe you'll even become Mizukage someday. Before that happens, you'll need to pass the Chunin exam, a test that is said to have painted the very soil underneath your feet red.

Exam preparations are put on hold when rumors of war begin spilling across the peninsula.

Tonari Yuma, a missing-nin from your village once accused of kidnapping and killing five children from all across the Land of Water, has resurfaced as a chieftain in the small village of Kirostache.

Proclaiming himself to be the rightful Mizukage of the Land of Water. He wages war against Kirigakure and denounces your village as a town full of traitors united in dethroning the Daimyo by the usage of dark means. Your father calls it foolish. There is no way that the Water Daimyo would believe such a basis.

Or so he hopes.

A conspiracy is brewing in the Land of Water, and you will soon learn that life is not as idealistic as you believed.

Fully customize your character!

I MEAN IT; fully customize them! Choose your

Hairstyle and type

Hair color is locked to red, but you have the option to pick different shades of red,

Skin color,

How you appear to others,

Eye color,

Ninja outfit + civilian outfit

Name + Nickname

Gender,

Genital choice + Body Shape will come in Part 2

Pronouns

Height

Weapon (you can’t use your chakra ALL the time)

Birth Season

Backgrounds are locked based on your chosen clan

More to come soon...

Choose one of three clans to be your paternal lineage

Tsuchigumo: Become Spidewo-(man)! or not.

Yuki: Possess the Ice Release Kekkai Genkai

Shirogane: Puppet Masters who originate from the land of Wind

Become a master of either Taijutsu, Genjutsu, or Ninjutsu

Or master a combination of all three!

Romance 8 ROs

Three are available for Part 1

Four ROs will be introduced in Part II. The last is a secret RO

Pass the chunin exam!

Failing means your death, so make sure you are ready when you take it.

Complete a bunch of D-rank and C-rank missions; you're only a genin, after all.

Learn forbidden jutsu or stick to a path of purity (aka, do nothing fun!)

Meet some fan favorites as they were when they were alive!

Determine your fighting style: are you more brutal, or do you have finesse?

Or maybe you don't want to fight at all!

Become a Jinchuurki? It could happen

Choose to become a medic-nin if it suits your fancy!

Izuna Uchiha (M): The Rival A boy shrouded in mystery, he is a constant reminder of your first C-rank mission and what went so terribly wrong. You’ve tried your hardest to make peace with him. But it feels impossible. He's a stranger in your tight-knit village and has found himself to be treated like an outsider. You would feel bad for him; if he weren’t so smug. Replacing one of your squadmates, he has shown an aptitude for warfare and finesse that makes you weary. How can a child who has grown up in a world of peace be so ruthless? Get to know him and you’ll unfortunately find out.

Izuna possesses an aptitude for Taijutsu, Ninjutsu, and Genjutsu, making himself a triforce. And it makes no sense to you, considering that you hardly see the boy practice! It will be interesting to see how he grows. If he makes it.

Chihiro Inoue (F): The Dreamer

One of your squadmates, she is a loud and outspoken girl with large dreams and big ambitions. Working to become the first female Mizukage, Chihiro often displays headstrongness and an overzealousness that can often get her into trouble. Luckily for her, fortune always seems to work in her favor.

Chihiro possess an extremely high aptitude for Taijutsu and Ninjutsu, calling herself a self-proclaimed weapons master. She gives as good as she gets, and has no problem getting a little dirty.

Tanui Hozuki (M or F): The Jokester

A jokester, they seem to have no desire to become a ninja; but with all that chakra they possess, they are given no choice. Apart of Squad Six, it makes no sense why you seem to run into them all the time, but you find their presence comforting.

You know nothing about their fighting style; only hearing whispers of the ‘wicked’ things that they have summoned from the adults in your village.

Shinichi Hoshigaki (M): The Lost One/Secret RO

The second member of your original squad. Shinichi is the complete opposite of what you would expect from the Hoshigaki clan. Known for being fierce and aggressive, Shinichi is the exact opposite of the savage reputation that precedes them. Soft and friendly, Shinichi is a gentle soul and abhors the act of violence. But when push comes to shove, he will protect himself and his friends with the vengeance of Asura. Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough to save him. Or was it?

Shinichi possesses a high aptitude for the sword. Almost on par, if not matching Chihiro in strength and brutality. He favors the Water Release Jutsu; typical for someone coming from his clan.

Akane Uzumaki: your mother is revered as the five-tailed beast's holy priestess/vessel. Once labeled as one of the strongest Kunoichi in your village, she has settled into domestic life and has left behind a life of adventure. She seems content; however, you catch the sorrowful expression on her face whenever she looks at you.

[[Chooseable Name]]: Your father is a distant cousin of the Water Daimyo, considered a war hero for his actions in a rebellion that lasted almost ten years. He has been given the highest spot in the village as "supporting Kage," only second to the Mizukage himself.

Hanabi Sugawara: Your sensei; is not what you had expected in a teacher. Seeming to coddle your small team of three more than teaching you. You feel that she is hiding something, something that could put everyone in danger.

DEMO (Coming soon) || RO Appearances || Discord (Maybe)

#maboroshi if #naruto if #twine game #twine wip #if wip #if games #interactive games #interactive fiction #ret-canon!!#interact if #cyoa #anime if #naruto #interactive novel

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kiwisbell · 6 months

Text

Las Mañanas || Chapter 4 [javier peña]

She’s a waitress in a little café. He’s a DEA agent who likes the coffee. Just the coffee. That’s all. Or, slices of life (and sometimes pie) shared between Javi and his wife, including his tireless journey to making her his wife.

series masterlist | my masterlist

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags/warnings: javi getting the fucking love he deserves, coffee shop AU if you squint really hard, technical infidelity, reader still has a shitty husband, mentions of sex work, soft and sweet!javi, protective!javi, grumpy!javi, simp!javi tbh, alcohol, smoking, gun violence, so much fluff, nobody fucks with javi's girl, overuse of spanish pet names, poorly-translated spanish, "she" pronoun used throughout, unprotected PIV (get used to this, these two are rabid), fingering, oral sex (m and f receiving), descriptions of violence against women, kidnapping, mentions of rape (not committed against reader), guilt & shame, angst, stakeouts, angry javier, cleaning wounds, heavy on the hurt/comfort

word count: ~ 7.7k

a/n: please mind the tags/warnings for this chapter. less smut and more *feelings*, along with some upsetting descriptions of violence. you will not hurt my feelings if that's not your cuppa.

chapter four: to live without love

It’s quiet on the street when she locks up for the day. She has dinner plans with Javi, an unspoken celebration of their second year together. He’s taking the time off work to really wine and dine her, and there’s already a dress laid out on the bed for her to wear out.

His moustache tickled her neck as he nipped at her throat. She laughed breathlessly when he rolled them over and he pressed his body up against her. “You’re not a vampire, Javier,” she gasped into his hair, grabbing a fistful of it and tugging playfully.

“Taste so good, baby,” he mumbled, landing a smack to the side of her thigh. She yelped and let her head fall back against the plush pillow. He was insatiable in the mornings, when he wasn’t quiet yet awake but his cock had a definitive mind of its own.

“You’ll be late,” she sighed, pulling his head back just so she could kiss him. She loved the feeling of his lips parting against hers, his tongue tracing her mouth. “We have plans, remember?”

“Mmm.” He leaned back, pulling her up to sit with their legs tangled together. A grin split his lips. “Two years.”

“Two years.” She felt as giddy as he looked, melting against him with another kiss to his mouth. “Pick out my dress for me.”

He grabbed her thighs and squeezed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, honey,” she said. “Whatever you want me to wear. I’ll wear it.”

He tackled her back down to the mattress. “I’m going to fucking marry you someday.”

It starts to rain. She stuffs her keys back inside her purse and shrugs it up over her shoulder. The air picks up a cool breeze that ruffles her hair, and she’s so high with the excitement of getting to see what he picked for her that she doesn’t hear the footsteps behind her until there’s a hand covering her mouth.

She kicks out, screams, tries to wrestle her pepper spray from her purse, and fails on all fronts; whomever’s hand it is must be connected to a strong body. He breathes into her ear, “Don’t fucking move. Don’t fight. Be a good girl and I won’t fucking kill you.”

She knows when thrashing is useless. She’s been under plenty of men who take what they want. So she stills, quiets, and waits for the words she already knows are coming.

“Let’s go home to your husband. You can tell him how sorry you are for your behaviour.”

He’s been looking up at the clock so often he might pinch a nerve in his neck. There’s a little under an hour until he gets off work, and she’s already promised him that she’s going to be wearing the dress by the time he walks in the door. Before her, he would work late just so he wouldn’t have to come home to the quiet, distant stranger that was his apartment; he had left every piece of decor the way it was and moved right in. Then, he’d go to work every day and kill himself trying to get nowhere. But it was always better than home. Now, the apartment is theirs. It’s decorated with touches of her—bright throw pillows and blankets and a new couch that doesn’t fuck with his back, hanging plants and lilies and the faint scent of her everywhere. He has to admit, it no longer looks like it belongs to a dead man who never left the fifties.

It makes his head spin, how much she trusts him, how excited he is over a fucking date. No woman’s ever made him so happy about just living his goddamn life.

His telephone rings and he picks it up before the first one ends. He needs a distraction.

"Peña."

The voice on the other end of the line—he's fairly certain it's Penny from the front desk—is wary. "Javier, there's a girl coming in to see you."

He frowns. "Name?"

When Penny says his girl’s name, Javier thinks all the blood has drained from him. "I wanted to warn you, sir... She doesn’t look so good."

And that is how one of the worst days of Javier's life begins.

"Thanks, Penny," he says absently, even though his ears are ringing something fierce.

He's already trembling with rage when she walks into the bullpen, her purse clutched in front of her like a blast shield, a faraway look in her eye. In the same skirt and sweater she wore when he dropped her off at work, apron and all, she favours her right leg. She is shaking, and her face—her pretty fucking face—is split by a large cut from her left eye to her jaw. There are deep purple bruises around the wound. Javier wants to go blind.

He's in front of her in a second: a protective guard against the eyes of his colleagues. Not that a battered woman is new—still, Javier glares at them hard enough that they try minding their own shit. He gently brushes a palm over her shoulder and squeezes to ground her. "Baby," he whispers, and her eyes are wet with tears when she lifts her gaze. His heart shatters.

He wants to fucking murder somebody. He wants to scream. Cry. Lock himself in a room with her: the only two people he trusts not to hurt her the way someone already has. You were too late. "Fuck, baby," he says, "who did this to you?"

Still dripping with rainwater, she scrapes her damp hair behind her ear and shivers. There are bruises and divots in her wrist. He realises with a plummeting stomach that she's been tied up. "Can we... Can we go somewhere else? Everyone's looking at me."

Javier plucks his jacket off the hook nearby and drapes it over her shoulders, leading her through the bullpen. Murphy emerges and stops halfway to his desk when he sees her. "Holy shit. Sweetheart, what happened to you?"

Javier shakes his head. "Not now. Answer the phones?"

Murphy nods. "Yeah, man." His hand briefly touches her shoulder and she smiles wearily, distantly, before Javier is taking her down into the evidence room. She'll be more comfortable here, where it's warm and dark, instead of the cold interrogation rooms.

"Out," he says sharply to the agents combing through evidence. They scurry away like rats behind the door and Javier lets her lead. She looks questioningly at him. "Wherever you'd like," he tells her. “Sit wherever’s comfortable.”

She sits at the very edge of a table piled with boxes, her hands folded in her lap. Javier mirrors her. He wants to explode, but his urge to make her comfortable, to ease her pain, overwhelms everything. "Can I take your hand, baby?"

She reaches out and threads her fingers through his. Javier presses a kiss to her knuckles. She sniffles, but a smile breaks through. "They dropped me off. Like it was an appointment or something. Fucking weird."

Somebody took her. Someone plucked her from her life, her routine, and bound her, helpless, just to beat her. They beat her. His girl. On their fucking anniversary. He’s freefalling with dread and terror, his chest so tight he wishes it would burst, so blind with rage he can’t clear the red fog in his brain. The glimmer of tears in her eyes swells the knot that festers in him. He’d run headfirst, unarmed, into a goddamn firefight with guns and bombs and landmines if it meant she wouldn’t be in pain. A chunk of him withers away. He couldn’t be there. Couldn’t save her. He didn’t even fucking know about it until she was dropped off at the DEA’s doorstep.

"Cielito..." He tilts up her chin and winces. "That's a deep cut. They use a knife?"

He doesn't want to know the answer, but he has to clean her up. Silently, she nods.

To occupy himself, he crosses the room and opens the corner cabinet to fish out a first aid kit. He wets a washcloth in the bathroom sink adjacent. She lifts her arms to tie her hair back, but her sleeves shift to reveal the topography of cuts and bruises on her arms. Javier looks away sharply, clenching his jaw, regretting it. She lowers her arms and hugs herself. "I'm sorry, Javi."

That makes him look up. "Don't apologise. Don't. Seeing you hurt fucking kills me, baby, but it's not your fault." He tucks away a strand of her hair. "Not your fault. Hear me?"

Her bottom lip, scored with blood, trembles. "Javi, I thought I was going to die. I was... I was so scared. I didn't want to die."

"Hey." He brushes a knuckle over her chin. "You made it out. You're out, and you're safe. My girl's a fucking soldier, right?"

She inhales, but it courses through her like a shudder. "Someone grabbed me outside the café. He took me to Nicolás’s place. I thought he'd just threaten me, or—or you, but he looked fucking crazy. Javi, I think he was on drugs. There were men with him, some I knew worked with his prostitutes. He took me to his basement and—and hit me, and cut me, and he kept saying if I didn’t go back to work for him, if I didn’t break things off with you… Fuck, he told me he would kill you, and he meant it. I didn't tell him anything, Javier, I swear. I wasn't going to sell you out, I—I just..."

The thought that she would ever put him in harm’s way never crossed his mind—not even once. She shakes her head and drops it into her hands, sobbing. Javier blinks hard so he can see her clearly, wiping underneath his eyes. He hates himself for not being there, for not finding her earlier, for everything he didn't do.

“Honey,” he says softly, lifting her trembling hands to his mouth and kissing her knuckles again. “I know. I know you’d never, baby. But you should have. Fuck, if it would keep him from doing… doing this to you, you should have told him every fucking detail about me.”

She blinks. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I would’ve known they were coming.” He smooths over the frown in her brow. “And you wouldn’t be hurt.”

The last words are quiet when his voice breaks, catching in his throat. “I love you, Javier,” she whispers. “You're the best part of my life. You're everything to me. I closed my eyes in there and I saw you, and you were hurt, and I couldn't say anything. I wouldn't.” Her smile is so feeble it crumbles right away. "If I can't blame myself, neither can you."

Her voice floats into his head, clears the clutter like it always does. He takes the damp washcloth and begins to tend to the cut on her face. He tries not to stop everything and break down into helpless tears when she visibly stiffens, pained but not letting him hear it. “I know, baby,” he says, watching blood stain the washcloth. She grips his free hand hard. “I know it hurts.”

She sniffles. “It’s okay. It’s you—it doesn't hurt.”

“Has he ever—” He cuts himself off so he can start again when the thought alone fills him with terror, rage. “Has he ever hurt you like this?”

She seems to sense the tension in him because she shifts closer, lifting her hand to brush his hair back from his eyes. “He couldn't afford to send me to clients with bruises. Would harm his reputation.”

He must be frowning deeply enough to make it permanent. “Don’t dwell, mi amor,” she says. “You’ll make yourself sick. He never cared about me. You do. You keep me safe, you make me happy. Yeah, everything hurts, but Jesus, Javi, I was so happy when they dropped me off in the street. I was just happy to get out. To see you again.”

Javier finishes cleaning the wound and clenches the washcloth into a crumpled ball. “I want to kill him.” Saying it makes him feel better, somehow: picturing him shooting the piece of shit between the eyes, replicating every injury he gave her and then some. “I want him fucking dead.”

She huffs out a wrecked laugh. “You know I wouldn’t tell a soul.” Her lips find his clenched fist and ease it open with her gentle kisses to the knuckles. “But we have nothing.”

Javier kisses the corner of her mouth, the side that's unmarred. “I’m gonna find something,” he promises. “He's going away, baby. Swear it on my fuckin’ life.”

“I love you,” she tells him, firm and real and with every ounce of energy she has left. “And for what it's worth, I was really looking forward to our date.”

He slides off the table and helps her down, cradling her to his chest. “He’s not gonna ruin your life,” he promises. “You’re gonna wear that dress, mi amor. Can I take you home?”

She sits right up next to him in the truck, wrapped around him with whatever flexibility her seatbelt allows. Her thumbs rub soothing patterns on his arms to ease the tension in his knuckles. He always drives a bit safer with her in the car, but tonight there’s an air about the world: like she could slip from his fingers any second.

Today reminded him of that. He could lose the love of his life in an instant. She could have died today. He would have never known what happened, never seen the body. The panic of that thought settles deep inside him until he’s officially in his own head when he opens his door and leads her inside. There’s so much stiffness in his body he could explode. He double-checks the locks, tries to sweep the apartment with some degree of subtlety, and doesn’t let her out of his sight. Not once. She sighs, resigned as he leads her through each room to check there’s no one inside, even though his brain knows there isn’t. That doesn’t matter; he needs to be thorough. She needs to be safe.

“Want to finish cleaning you up, baby.” Javier caresses her arms with the lightest touch. “Can I do that? Can I take these off?” He tugs on the hem of her sleeve. He needs to make sure there isn’t anything of concern beneath her clothes.

She nods, but her eyes won’t meet his. “Of course,” she says, barely audible. “It’s just… I’m not gonna look pretty, Javi. I’m all black and blue. Some red.”

“You’re the prettiest thing on this goddamn planet no matter what some fucking malparido does do you. Hear me?” He’s seen every inch of her body. He worships at her altar. A couple of wounds will do nothing to change that except make him all the more furious.

He’s right about that. When he gets her clothes off and takes her to the bathroom so he can prop her up on the counter, he sees fucking red. Nicolás didn’t just bruise her arms and cut up her face. There are bruises on her collarbones, her thighs, even her hips. He’s slashed her perfect skin, left scabbing cuts all over her legs and a single long gash down her left thigh, which must be why she’s limping. Javier can’t breathe. He can’t hear. His mouth is dry.

He feels physically nauseated to be relieved there are no signs of any violence where her thighs meet.

“He didn’t.”

Her voice cuts through the ringing silence in his ears, and it’s like his blood comes crashing down in waves when he blinks back into the real world, where she’s safe in his bathroom and holding his hand. “He didn’t… didn’t rape me.”

He can’t say, That’s good. None of this is good.

Javier says nothing. He works in silence, cleansing her wounds, listening to her breath. It reminds him she’s still here. He didn’t lose her.

When he’s done, he presses a kiss to her bruised collarbones, the little perches you could rest a bird upon, and cradles her face in his hands. He can’t summon words. He doesn’t know what there will be to say when he can.

She realises. So she puts her hands over his and whispers, “Happy anniversary, mi amor.”

When they finally get a breakthrough, it’s Murphy who finds the key.

“Holy fuckin’ shit.” He’s bent over a pair of manila folders on his desk. Javier looks up from massaging the headache in his temple. “Here’s a riddle for you: what do the narcos who raided your girl’s apartment and her piece-of-shit husband have in common?”

Javier jolts up from his desk and stares down at the files. His heart stutters. “Holy fuckin’ shit,” he echoes. “The whorehouse.”

Nicolás Reyes’s whorehouse. Javier’s staked it out more times than he can count, probably at the expense of his job. He’d recognise the guards, the customers, the girls, anywhere. It’s how he recognises the address beneath the profiles of the narcos who worked with the dead home intruders; they visited the brothel, frequently, before they went off the grid.

She told Javier that Reyes looked like he was on drugs. What if Reyes wanted to move up in the world? If the owner of the whorehouse has struck some sort of deal with narcos…

Javier snatches the folders and stops himself from running to his truck. Murphy follows, grumbling something that includes the word “asshole.”

“How is she, by the way?” asks Murphy an hour later, peering through binoculars at the entrance to the whorehouse. “Gotten any trouble since she went back to work?”

Javier adjusts the aperture on his camera. So far, nobody of significance has arrived, but it’s early. Even he would never have entered a brothel at three in the afternoon. “No,” he says. “She’s… she’s doing fine. ‘Least, that’s what she says.”

Murphy snorts. “Uh-huh. Look, man, you didn’t want her to go back, you fought about it, she won. Can’t exactly blame her for wanting to feel normal.”

“It’s not safe where she is, Steve,” he says, taking a test shot of the door to make sure the light is good. He’s using his own Polaroid since he can’t exactly ask Noonan for surveillance equipment without explaining to her this little peripheral mission he’s taken on. The picture develops well, and he tosses it in the box between them. “I see her sometimes, jumping when the toaster goes off or when you or Connie knock. She’s fuckin’ scared for her life, and it… it just—”

“Makes you want to kill him,” finishes Steve. “Can’t say I’m happy about the guy walkin’ around without so much as a limp, but you know she’d be pissed off if you got yourself in trouble over her. Better to do it legally, y’know.”

Javier huffs. “Tell that to my Polaroid and my shitty surveillance truck.”

Steve punches him in the shoulder. “I mean, get him locked up, man. For good.”

Javier has to agree. It’s more effective than killing Reyes, but it’s a lot less satisfying and it’s taking a lot fucking longer than he’d like. It makes him ache to watch her fall into the daze she does sometimes, like she’s lost in the memory; when she gets scared of the mundane noises or forces a smile at a comment he makes even though he knows she didn’t hear him. She’s scared that he’ll come back; finish the job, or hurt Javier.

He wants to make sure she never has a reason to be afraid. That’s his job. He’s her fucking partner, in all things. Watching those moments, seeing her so void of the bright life she gives the world, takes some of his own life away. He feels like his insides are being dragged out of him, slowly, like someone’s wrapped them around a pencil and pulled. It gets slower, more painful, with every day he doesn’t put Reyes behind bars.

Javier and Steve wait four more hours. Nobody comes. Nobody they give a shit about. They part ways with the mutual understanding that they have women they’d rather be seeing than each other.

“I’m home, baby,” he calls out when he opens the door.

What hasn’t changed is the way her face lights up when she sees him. She rounds the corner from the kitchen and gives him a big grin, her arms winding up around his neck so she can dig her fingers into the scalp at the back of his neck. His tension seeps away instantly, and he pulls her closer, kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her lips.

It’s been two weeks. The bruises on her body have faded to a green-yellow, except for the lingering purple on her cheekbone. The two large cuts on her face and thigh have faded to pinkish scars, and she still limps on bad days. She’s as radiant as the day he first saw her. “Mi alma,” he says lowly, nudging her nose with his. “¿Cómo te sientes? (How are you feeling?)”

He’s asked her three times a day, every single day since the attack. She never acts frustrated or gets impatient with the pestering. She just smooths the frown in his brow with her thumb and smiles softly. “A lot better today. Jorge’s been going easy on me. Oh, and Connie stopped by work before she went to the clinic this morning.” She takes his hand and pulls him into the living area, where there’s a basket filled with food, bath supplies, and a Get Well card.

Javier’s heart swells at the kindness Connie Murphy has shown her; she’s visited twice already with a basket like this. It’s a relief to know there’s someone else out there who wants his girl to feel loved and safe. “This is real nice, baby,” says Javier, reading the card (Sending you all our love! - The Murphys). He knows damn well Steve doesn't know shit about the card, but God bless Connie for trying to fool them.

He offers to make dinner (she's taught him how to perfect her paella recipe, even though he thinks it tastes better under her hands), and lets her sit at the counter while he fills her in on their failed mission. “I’m sorry, cielito,” he tells her, brushing her chin with his thumb as he passes her on the way to the stove. “We couldn’t find them.”

She shrugs. “You will. If…” He watches her eyes dim a little. “If he’s working with them, that's the first time we've had a real reason to put him away.”

It settles between them: the harsh reality of what she's said. The restraining order was luck. But Reyes never gave a shit about it. And nobody else gave a shit about the man who terrorised and beat his wife, not when the police are getting baited and killed by narcos. Unless he's really in bed with narcos, she’ll have no leverage. There's no proof of the assault; no proof he's been tormenting her. It’s all narcos. It's all they've got.

“Baby. Look at me.” He can tell she's shrinking in on herself, remembering the day. Remembering how hopeless she felt. Her eyes slide up from the counter. He leans over it and holds her chin. “Un respiro. Dos respiraciones. Mírame.”

They've done this before. She takes in two deep, shaky breaths, centering herself by looking into his eyes, keeping herself grounded in the reality that she's not in that basement. She's here. He loves her. She's safe.

“Lo siento,” she whispers.

Javier pins her with a halfhearted sternness. “Hey, now.”

She takes in one more breath and shakes her head. “Not sorry. No reason to be sorry.”

“That's it, honey.” He swipes his thumb over her bottom lip. The cut healed a week ago, and he can see the white scar when she grins. “Hungry?”

She leans over the counter and brings his face close to hers so she can kiss him. “Very”—she nips his bottom lip and tugs it teasingly—“hungry.”

It doesn't take much from her to send all the blood to his dick. He's just a guy.

“Bonita… ” He grunts when he looks at the clock. It’s already late. He has to make sure his girl is fed. They’ve skipped dinner for one another’s bodies one too many times.

But she's moving her lips along his jaw and sucking on the spot below his ear, and he physically staggers. “Get over here,” he says. “Don't be shy, cielito. You started this.”

She slides around the counter and he crowds her instantly, keeping her in place with a hand on the counter behind her and another on her lower back. Her back arches up into him when he kisses her, deeply.

He takes his time with it. He loves the taste of her; she's showered, her hair is still damp, and she glows, smelling of fresh linens and jasmine. Her breath is minty with his toothpaste and her skin is so soft. He slips his tongue into her mouth and pulls gasps, gentle moans, and giggles from her when he works her just right, playfully smacking her ass or squeezing her side.

It took a while until she was no longer too sore to have sex. Even then, in the early days, he wouldn't dare to even think of touching her like that; he would hold her close to him at night, every single part of one another touching somehow, and he would go to work late fretting over her comfort, worrying about the security of his apartment. She never treated the topic of sex with hesitation, like she was afraid to have him touch her; they both knew he took care of her in bed, and would never think to harm her. She was just in pain, dazed from the assault, and needing more sleep than the average human to let her body recuperate. He’d put their rule on hold for the first few days: if he came home late and she was asleep, he wouldn't wake her. He’d make dinner and keep it warm, slide into bed with her, and they would both sleep until she was ready to wake up and eat.

She rediscovered her sex drive before four days were through. Javier lay her down, spread her out, and ate her pussy until she was sobbing, boneless, weak from pleasure.

He’s been enjoying the slowness of sex with her. The buildup, when he wants to keep kissing her for hours, when he can make her melt into him like butter, when he can feel every inch of her body: trace the scars on her skin, the smooth curves of her body, whisper how beautiful she is when she gets in her head about the bruises and the cuts. He loves her so fucking much it hurts.

But isn't that the point of all this shit? It’s supposed to hurt when they hurt, just as it's supposed to feel so good when they smile, warm your chest when they walk in a room. She's the beacon he looks for when he's uncertain of the path he needs to tread. She's the last thing he’ll see before he dies.

Javier’s hand follows her spine from her lower back upward to her neck in a languid motion, falling back down and then performing its slow crescendo once more. She sighs into his mouth, lets him take his time with her body, scratching at the back of his neck in the way that gets him worked up. He migrates down her jaw to her neck, growling into her throat to make her laugh. His lips find her shoulder, her collarbone, her sternum. Her skin erupts in goosebumps under the heat of his mouth, the scratch of his moustache. This is where he wants to die: buried in the feel of her body.

“Up,” he says against her shoulder, patting her thigh. She jumps and he catches her legs, locking them around his waist as he carries her out of the kitchen. He makes it to the bedroom and pins her against the wall, at the perfect height to yank down the front of her dress and grasp her breasts.

She grins and leans in to kiss him, pinching his ass because she can. “Ten cuidado,” he warns, but he doesn't put much heart in it. He’ll let her do whatever she wants.

“I need you, Javier,” she says, holding onto his shoulders. “Now, please.”

He’s an accommodating partner. He lets one of her legs slip down as he unbuckles his belt and takes out his cock, achingly hard and leaking for her. Then, he's lifting her back up against the wall and guiding her on top of him, sinking her onto his length slowly. She mewls, biting down when she buries her head in the crook of his neck. They’re so close when she sinks all the way down that their breath mingles when she pulls back to look in his eyes. She cups his cheek. He holds onto her ass and grinds his hips into hers.

It's so intimate like this that it overwhelms him. Their eyes are locked as he gets a rhythm going, pushing up inside her and making her toes curl from the slowness of it. He can feel every ridge, every pulse of her. She's warm and wet and it blinds him, and it's gorgeous to watch her fall apart, so closely entangled in one another. Her eyes droop with the grind of his cock up against her g-spot, her mouth falls open, and her head thunks gently against the wall. But she keeps looking at him. He doesn't want to look away, either. He’s encased in her body, enraptured and wholly consumed by her.

He knows she's close by the way her torso tightens, the way her pussy clenches around him in a rhythm that makes him gasp from the tightness of her. She makes soft noises of pleasure that uncoil into his ears and settle the tension in his body. When she comes, so does he.

“Fuck,” rasps Javier, keeping himself locked deep inside her cunt as he slumps forward, his tongue dipping into her mouth while they both gasp, the lightning of their orgasms crackling up their spines. He knows she feels it, too, her hands desperately clawing at his back to keep him close. His cum fills her, but he stays pressed against her, their sweaty bodies a tangle of limbs on the wall.

“Fuck,” she echoes. “Can’t… can’t walk yet. Don’t let me down.”

“No fuckin’ way,” he grumbles. He didn't even think about it. He stays nestled inside her and she strokes his hair back from his damp forehead.

They don't eat dinner until ten o’clock. Neither of them complain about it.

Another stakeout leads them nowhere. And another. And another. It’s only two months after the assault that something finally fucking happens. And it has nothing to do with the expertise of the DEA.

“Peña,” says Javier as he tucks the phone between his cheek and shoulder, smoking and typing the last line of his report.

“Agente Peña,” says an unfamiliar voice. “I’ve got information about the man you’re looking for.” Javier’s ready to take another useless tip from a drug pusher’s second cousin’s girlfriend’s neighbour, but the man says, “Nicolás Reyes,” in a hushed, hurried voice, and Javier sits upright in his chair.

Javier snaps his fingers to Murphy and mimes for a piece of paper. The redneck flips him off as he tosses a notepad and pen across their desks. “Sí,” he says into the receiver. “And you know about Reyes, how?”

“I work for him.” The man’s tone becomes harsh, edged with jagged lines. “And I've been following your girl.”

Javier’s good-natured willingness to entertain a dead lead after a slow day fizzles out. He isn't amused anymore. “Think this is funny?”

“What's funny is you DEA hijos de puta getting nowhere with all those stakeouts you think are stealthy. You've got a loud, ugly truck, Peña. And you need me.”

“Then give me what you have,” says Javier, teeth grinding around his cigarette.

“I want immunity,” the man is quick to clarify. “and a visa.”

Javier wants to laugh, but he's too pissed off. “Fuck your immunity. You get jack shit from me until I find out you're useful.”

“I'm not giving you anything else over the phone. Meet me in the café,” the man tells him. “You know which one.”

It's like someone has poured blood into his eyes. He sees only red. “No fucking way.”

“I want her there, too.” There’s the sound of a lighter flicking. “That's my price. To start.”

Murphy is staring a hole in his head. Javier’s ears are ringing. This might be their only lead: someone who was there. Someone who has the tools to take Reyes down. This is bigger than his rage. This is for her. “Fine,” he grits out. “Tomorrow, seven o’clock.”

He slams the receiver down and goes right to nursing his oncoming headache.

He hates this. He really fucking hates this.

The man’s name is Ricardo Chávez. He looks Javier’s age, with short dark hair and green eyes, a moustache and five o’clock shadow. He's muscled and tall. He sits at the table with his arms folded over his broad chest, a comically small mug of coffee steaming away in front of him. Javier blows the smoke from his cigarette in Chávez’s face and leaves the table.

His girl is behind the counter, refilling the coffee pot. Her hands have been shaking since the man walked in.

“Baby,” he says under his breath. “Look at me.”

“I know him.” She looks ashamed of the fact, not quite meeting Javier’s eye. He has to guide her chin upward so he can look into her wide eyes. “He works with Nicolás. He—he was a client.”

He blows out one last puff of smoke and tucks her hair behind her ear. He doesn't give a shit about that; it was a job, it paid. But he's got a problem if this asshole is going to make her uncomfortable. “Do you want me to tell him to fuck off?”

She shakes her head. “He could have something good. We need something good, right?”

Javier sighs through his nose. “Yeah, we do. But if he looks at you wrong—”

She kisses the corner of his mouth after looking around to make sure no one’s looking. “I know, vaquero.”

“Señorita,” says Chávez as a way of greeting. She sits down next to Javier, who takes hold of her hand beneath the table. He lights another cigarette and doesn’t offer one to the other man. “Long time, no see.”

“Ricardo,” she says pointedly. “How’s your wife?”

Chávez just chuckles. “Oh, I wouldn't talk if I were you. Aren't you fucking the DEA agent who wants to take down your husband?”

She doesn't stiffen or cower. “He isn't my husband.”

“And you're the one who told me you could help take him down.” Javier lifts his brows behind his sunglasses. “So let's hear it.”

Chávez doesn't look once at Javier while he speaks. “Nicolás paid me extra to keep an eye on you. He told me if you ever went back to your place, we were to bring you home to him.”

“We?” Javier keeps his lips around the cigarette while he picks up the manila folders from the bag at his feet. He slaps it down in front of Chávez and gestures with his head: open them. “You mean you and Luis.”

Luis Fuentes: another of Reyes’s men. He works security while Chávez moves money behind the scenes. “Me, Luis, and Stick.” Chávez shrugs. “Don't know where Luis disappeared to. Figure he caught wind of your stalking, or wanted out before Reyes got too big for his own head. That's why I’m here now.”

“Because he already is.” It’s she who speaks first, before Javier opens his mouth. “He always talked about moving up. Thought whores weren't good enough currency.”

“If you ask me, women are what make the world go ‘round.” Chávez eyes her, and it's Javier's learned self-control that keeps him from putting his jacket over her to hide her body from his gaze. “Reyes thinks he can outdo the doer. He’s planning to expand into narcotics, and he wants the girls to move the money for him, or they’ll lose their jobs. Maybe their pretty faces.”

Javier can't help but look at the scar on her face. Chávez notices and lifts his hands. “I didn't see that happen,” he says. “Don’t have much taste for beating women. But if you're looking for someone to kick the shit out of, it's Stick who kidnapped her. Brought her to Nic’s and helped fuck her up.”

“Who?” asks Javier, a little too eagerly.

Chávez nods to one of the pictures before him on the table. She sees the face and sucks in a breath. “He came in here,” she tells Javier in a quiet voice. “And he… he was—there, when it happened. I thought I recognised his voice. I knew Nicolás wanted me to work for him again, but… He doesn't want me. He needs bodies to move cash.”

“And to stick his cock in when he feels like,” offers Chávez. Javier makes a gruff growling noise behind his cigarette. “When he realised he couldn't trust you because of where you sleep at night, he decided to send a message.”

The face they're looking at belongs to Santiago Ortiz. Nickname: “Stick,” apparently. Opposite of scrawny. General henchman and intimidator, if Javier and Steve are right about their intel. Offers Reyes protection wherever he goes.

This is the man who took her. Javier’s spine is taut. He thinks he might book a massage soon.

Stick chose the wrong guy to work for. Chose the wrong fucking woman to lay his hands on.

“Chávez,” he says. “Mírame. No ella.”

The man’s eyes slide to his with a hint of mockery. “Agent Peña, I don't expect to give this information for free.”

“What information have you given me besides shit we could have already guessed at? I need times and places, Ricardo, or you get shit from me.”

Chávez places a hand atop the picture of Ortiz and drums his fingers. Javier’s stomach is twisting with unease. “And if I give you Santiago?” he muses. “What do you give me?” His eyes are on her again. “Do I get you for another glorious night?”

“En tus sueños (in your dreams),” she spits, at the same time Javier decides to stop fucking around.

He pulls his gun from his waistband and points the barrel underneath the table, right at Chávez’s crotch.

“Inténtalo de nuevo (Try again).”

The man rolls his eyes. “Jesus, I knew you DEA bastards were uptight. I told you, Peña: I want out of this fucking country. I’m taking my wife and we’re leaving.”

“Unless you can prove there's a tie between the narcos and Reyes’s operation, my hands are tied.” It’s the truth. The only way he could convince Noonan to get involved in the case is if Reyes has his hands in the narcotics business, or is planning something. So he’ll get Chávez his damn visa. If—

“You give me where I can find Reyes and Stick,” says Javier, “and the time and place to drop in on the next meeting between Reyes and his narco buddies. ¿Claro?”

Chávez sighs hard through his nose, jaw working. “Stick will be at the whorehouse tomorrow morning to stand guard while Nic meets with the Castillos. Eight-thirty.”

The Castillo twins were two of the men who, according to Javier and Steve’s snooping, worked with the dead asshole who broke into her apartment and shot down three policemen. They don't have quite the reputation their boss does, but they know how to scare people. They're big and tough, and it's going to be a miracle for Reyes if he can convince them to invest in his whorehouse.

This is it.

The something they needed.

“If this plays out, you get your visa.” Javier crushes his cigarette in the ashtray and stands. His girl wraps a hand around his arm. “Don't ever fucking look at her again, or your wife won't have anyone to go see the world with.”

Together, they shower while the television drones about bad news and more bad news in the next room. Her nails massage shampoo into his scalp, he takes his sweet time washing her body, and they both end up kissing, feeling one another up. They barely make it out of the shower safely before he's on her again, fucking her from behind as she watches their reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Her hair is wrapped around his fist and there's steam fogging up the glass, but he can see her. He sees the way her eyes are half-closed and her lips are parted. He can see the way she holds onto the counter so her hip bones aren't pummelled each time he thrusts into her. He sees the bounce of her tits and his own hand snaking around her waist from behind, splaying his fingers across the ribs on her right side. All the noises she manages to make are small gasps or whines.

This angle is deeper, closer, tighter. He has to keep his teeth clamped together to keep from gasping raggedly like a real old man while he does his best to make her feel so fucking good. And he does. Her eyes roll back when he grinds his hips against her, and his hand slides up her sternum, her tits, before landing on her throat and angling her jaw to keep her watching him in the glass.

“Harder,” she begs, white-knuckling the counter. “I need it. Please.”

His back will scream at him later. But she feels so fucking soft, so hot and tight around him, and her voice sounds so sweet even when she's being wrecked, that he doesn't think twice about obliging. He slams into her hard, pulling back out until it's only his tip lodged in her entrance before he pushes back in, past the way her pussy clenches.

And, oh, it's good. It’s incredible like this. Saliva clicks in her throat and he feels his balls tighten with the need to pump her full. He lets go of her hair and reaches down to rub her clit, and she's trembling, every part of her body losing control as she finds the voice to scream his name. He grunts when he comes, keeping her back flush against his front as his cock twitches with each pulse of cum he spills into her.

She cuts his hair. She stays naked in the bathroom, proudly dripping his cum down her thighs, but she does put a towel around his neck so he won't itch. She's not an expert with the scissors, but she's cut his hair before, and she knows what looks best. She knows he won't let her go near his moustache, but she sings Selena in his ear as she works. He feels her voice settle in his bones and melt them to warm goo.

She kisses him when she's done.

They lie in bed together. Her hand is on his heart, and his hand is atop hers, thumb rubbing circles over her skin. He kisses the top of her head, which rests on the other side of his chest, and she smiles when she shifts to look up at him.

“Javi?”

“Mmm.”

“I’m going to say yes.” She settles back down and closes her eyes, pressing a kiss to his chest. “If you ask me to marry you, I’ll say yes.”

They raid Reyes’s whorehouse in the morning. Fifteen people die.

The DEA and the police only lose four men, but it's the narcos and Reyes’s people who suffer the most. They rely on Chávez’s intel, and it's good intel—they storm the place in an ambush and open fire.

Murphy locks down the Castillos. Javier finds Santiago “Stick” Ortiz. The man wants to go down fighting, to his credit. He fires until the clip is empty, but it only gives Javier permission to shoot. Flanked by two policemen, he lunges out from behind his cover wall and lands a shot to Ortiz’s thigh. The man crumples. Javier shoots him in the chest twice. He’s on the ground, on his back, bleeding out.

Javier leans down, grabs the man by the jaw, and wrenches his head to make him meet Javier’s eyes. “Know who I am?” he asks.

Ortiz spits blood. “¿Como esta tu puta?”

Javier tucks the barrel of his gun underneath Ortiz’s chin. “Good. You do.”

He takes out a cigarette, lights it, and takes a single drag before he puts it out on Ortiz’s cheek. It hisses, music to Javier’s ears. The man gurgles in pain.

“Nos vemos en el infierno,” he laughs, teeth red with blood.

“Maybe,” muses Javier. “Not for a while. Espero que veas sus ojos cuando mueras (I hope you see her eyes when you die).”

He shoots. Ortiz dies, mouth still open as the hole in his chin trickles blood down his throat.

The police capture Reyes, who couldn't run fast enough. His girls are rounded up for questioning.

Javier smokes out the window in the conference room a couple hours later. Murphy enters, rubbing his forehead. “Hey, man,” he says. “You get Ortiz?”

Javier huffs. “Yeah. Got him.”

“Good.” Murphy nods. “I know you wanted to do more, but he’s dead. Can’t hurt her.”

“And Reyes?” Javier hasn't sat down since they got back to the Embassy. “Tell me good news, Steve, please.”

“He's going away,” Murphy confirms. Javier might vomit from relief. “The narco link is solid. He wanted to make a deal, let them use his whorehouse as cover for smuggling the money. So long as he got a cut. Not enough friends in high places; he’ll get life.”

Javier rubs out the ache in his chest. “Fuck. Fuck, man.”

Murphy claps him on the shoulder. “About fuckin’ time, right?” He glances down and then gives Javier a grin. “Get a ring on your finger, brother. It’ll be good for you.”

The divorce is finalised a month later. The ring has been burning a hole beneath the mattress for two.

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