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psychedelic-ink · 10 months

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 || 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐌𝐈̇𝐂𝐒

** banner by the amazing @pedrorascal thank you so much bby for taking the time to make this for me 🧡🧡🧡

series summary: Still struggling to come to terms with his father's recent passing, burdened by the weight of the business he left behind, Javi feels adrift. Meanwhile, years later, an unexpected twist of fate brings you back into Javi's life again—the daughter of his favorite housekeeper. Uncertain about your future and what to do with it, you find yourself at a crossroads, while Javi wrestles with the irresistible pull he feels towards you.

pairing: javi gutierrez x ofc!mia pradera (written in second person, no body descriptions)

word count: 6.1k

chapter summary: Javi wasn't expecting your return after years, he also wasn't expecting to see you naked through his bedroom window.

warnings: javi secretly peeping into your room through the window, male masturbation, thoughts of oral, age gap, javi showing signs of depression, grief, brief mention of drug use

a/n: welcome to the new and improved first chapter of the series! I've been reworking this for a week now and decided to repost it. There's a lot that has been changed and added so I highly recommend reading this one before going forward. The second chapter will be coming soon (and I mean it this time lmaodfvd) I'll be making the other version of the first chapter private and I'm hoping you guys will enjoy this version as well 💜💜💜

Special thank you to @emilianamason who beta'd this for me and also helped me out with the Spanish bits, I'm truly grateful so thank you once again 💕

***dividers by @firefly-graphics 💕

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

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The sky is a matte gray. It reminds Javi of the sea when there’s a storm raging underneath, the sand lifting from the bottom and giving the beautiful blue a more mud-like color. He sees crunchy leaves and smells cinnamon. It’s fall alright. He always finds this time of year a bit somber but in a romantic way. He’s holding a cup of espresso, the dark liquid still steaming. The pool has been drained for cleaning.

He can hear clatter coming from inside the house, mattresses are being flipped, apple pies are being baked. He’s the only man that lives here, yet everyone who works here spoils him, even if they don’t need to. No one really says anything but Javi can see it, the way they walk on eggshells around him, the conversations that fade into hushed whispers that carry the same lilt of his name.

Everyone treats him as a child. Not that he can blame them. Javi gave them little reason to behave otherwise. He did drugs, knew how to shoot a gun, and was the son of one of the most powerful men but still. . . he was a child in the sense that he knew little of the world. He wasn’t like Lucas who was more than eager to get his hands dirty.

A gentle child, that was what his father called him when he was young. He always uttered the words gently. Yet, hidden within his gentle expression but in his eyes, Javi could see the disappointment. He wanted a partner. Someone who did more than looking over the olive oil and wine business, it didn’t matter if Javi was good at it, his father wanted more of him.

In the end, he doesn’t mind the pampering—he’s grieving, isn’t he? He deserves it. He had no one else to take care of him, and the staff had been with him for years. He feels closer to them than Lucas. When his cousin mentioned taking over, Javi didn’t care. Not in the slightest. They were close enough that Javi didn’t have to worry about being killed or thrown out.

Besides, Javi enjoyed the finer things in life, which is why he didn’t mind overlooking the “front” of the job. He made sure that everything ran smoothly and Lucas seemed impressed by the growth of the business. Javi hated to admit it, but he did enjoy seeing that faint shimmer in his cousin’s eyes. The look that said; Oh, he’s not completely useless after all.

Besides, Javi enjoys sampling the wine. He adores the sourness that hits his tongue with every swallow.

“¿Discúlpeme señor?”

He takes a sip of his coffee.

“¿Si, señorita Pradera?”

Javi turns to look at her, a little smile playing on his lips. Lucía is one of his favorite employees and one of the ones that can read him like an open book. She’s a natural mother, a caretaker. Whenever he’s down on himself, she never once hesitated to pick him back up. It didn’t matter if he was shaking from going overboard on LSD or if he was crying during Paddington 2, she was there. It was nice to be taken care of. Something he couldn’t receive from his own family— maybe once or twice from his father. Javi didn’t know who his mother was, there was a lot of speculation about that.

Lucía just makes him happy. Talking to her feels like something light. He doesn’t need to overthink it, and if he says something wrong, he could always come and apologize. She never held a grudge. But despite how cheerful she seems, in her eyes, Javi can see the soft waves of sadness. Sometimes he saw the same waves in his own eyes, telling him that he was disappointing someone somewhere, that he’s done too many mistakes to turn back from.

She seems to be genuinely happy this time, her cheeks slightly flushed, forehead and cheeks glistening with a sheer coat of sweat.

“Do you remember, Mia?” she asks. “Mi hija.”

That’s right, Lucía had a daughter. Javi remembers you running around before you left to live with your father in the States. She often mentioned your name and sometimes she left to visit her but Mia never came. He isn’t sure if it was the father who didn’t let her or if Mia herself didn’t want to come, but regardless, Lucía was hurt by being away from her daughter for so long.

"I wanted to ask if my daughter could come para una visita. She's done with university y necesita un lugar to relax, figure things out."

He takes another sip of his coffee, it’s finished now. A leaf slowly spins down from above, the sunlight gently filtering through its translucent veins. It lands gently in the empty pool.

“¡Pero claro que si!” he says, and smiles. “When is she coming?”

“Next week.”

Javi was sitting on the terrace when you arrived.

He has a small plate of olive oil with thyme placed in front of him. Tearing a slice of bread into two, he dips a piece into the aromatic blend and brings it to his mouth. Javi only bites the part drenched in olive oil, he savors the taste, the sharp taste of dried thyme hitting his tongue. Shortly after, he goes for a second dip.

When he’s done chewing, you’re already at the top of the stairs.

You have no luggage, only a large backpack that slightly pulls your body back. Javi recognizes your face, the soft features he’s grown accustomed to when you were trailing behind your mother, asking to watch a movie on the big screen. You look more mature now, the corners of your face sharper yet still carry that roundness.

You’re staring at him as if he’s a long-lost sibling, your smile bright and wide. The expression is contagious, making him smile wide as well. Your gaze reminds him of a look he’s only seen in movies, the close-ups that sole purpose is to show the fondness in a person’s eyes. He’s not sure what he feels about that fond look in your eyes. Your gaze is incredibly soft and affectionate for a person who has been in the air for god knows how long—which is why he’s usually flying people in instead of the other way around.

You can see right through him, he thinks, nerves crackling with an uncomfortable feeling. It makes him conscious about how broken he truly is, his mask hardening the longer you smile.

“Javi!” you exclaim, arms opening wide. Not knowing what else to do Javi mimics you and wraps his arms around you. You giggle into his chest, your breath warm on his chest. “¡Te he extrañado!”

He missed you too.

Javi's ear catches the trace of an accent in your Spanish.

You smell of cheap coffee, chocolate, and the airport—and also a little bit of sweat, which is normal after such a long flight. Javi squeezes you once and feels you melting against him, you really must be tired to become so plaint under his touch. Swiftly, he releases his grip, yet your palms find solace on his shoulders, causing him to awkwardly flex his knees in order to accommodate the lingering touch. He wasn’t aware of how close you were standing. Your breath mingling with his own as your eyes dance along his face, taking in every worn-out detail.

You suddenly pull your hands back, a bashful chuckle slipping past your lips.

“Sorry about that— I’m feeling a bit jet-lagged.” you rock back and forth on your heels, anxious energy overwhelming your nerves. “How have you been?”

Javi stands still, eyes slightly wide, not knowing how to answer such a question. Physically, he feels good. Mentally, also good but he isn’t sure. He’s fine during the day, his routine occupying his mind enough so that he doesn’t register the loss. His father wasn’t around that much anyway. But when night fell and he laid his head against his overly fluffed pillow. . . that’s when he remembered. His chest ached, his eyes stung. He didn’t know how to deal with it so he remained silent, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Sometimes he even gets angry trying to muster up an answer.

He can never get angry with you though, besides you had no idea of knowing. His tongue nervously swipes over his bottom lip and his teeth dig into the inside of his cheek. He’s about to answer, say he’s fine, but you beat him to it.

“God, I’m being such an ass. Of course, you’re not okay,” you murmur more to yourself than him. He still hears you though and your words catch him by surprise. You softly hit yourself in the head, which makes worry roll down his spine. “I’m really sorry about your father, Javi. My mom told me. That must’ve been hard for you.”

Has it been hard for him?

Honestly, he’s not sure. His death, his funeral… it all passed by in such a blur. He remembers his father dying slowly, in an expensive hospital bed with flowers by his side. Javi doesn’t quite remember the rest. He doesn’t remember the funeral, the moment he was gently laid into the earth, never to be seen again.

He does remember feeling Gabriella’s hand on his shoulder. He also remembers Lucas standing close to him, his eyes watching the casket go down.

“I am okay,” he takes the hand that you’d hit yourself with, thumb slowly moving over the soft planes of your hand. He smiles when you let out a sigh of relief and turns his eyes to the empty chairs. “And thank you. I have been doing better. Why don’t you take a seat, you must be tired. I will call your mother for you.”

He watches as you take a seat and after a brief phone call to Lucía, Javi sits down as well. He asks what you’ve been up to, about your life in America after you’d moved away from your mother. Briefly, Javi sees a hint of hesitation and regret pooling in your eyes. He doesn’t know much about why you left, he only remembers that you were young back then, just a kid basically.

Javi manages to ease your thoughts by slowly sliding the basket full of bread and the small plate of olive oil toward your way, saying that you should eat. Only after the first bite you being to speak freely, telling him how hard university has been and that the competition was rough and had drained you out, making you feel like a shell of a person.

“You’re not a shell,” he answers, brows drawn together. You smile between bites of oil-soaked breath, shooting him an appreciative smile.

“You’re still the nicest man I know,” you say. Javi’s not sure how you could’ve drawn that connection, he doesn’t remember doing anything to gather such an observation but takes the compliment anyway. “I had a troublesome professor. He really did a number on me mentally, I like my field but I really want to do something else with my life.”

“And what is that?” he dips the leftover bread into the last pools of olive oil. “What do you want to do?”

"I yearn to weave tales," you express with a melodic lilt as if addressing an audience, then you laugh. Javi feels like he’s watching his favorite painting come to life, raw and vivid. “Sorry, that sounded snobby of me didn’t it?” your tongue pokes through your cheek. “I want to write a book, create screenplays, and even directing—I want to do it all. That's why I'm so happy mom called me here. It's such a beautiful place to think about big things like that, you know? And well. . . "

You trail off and worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “You’re here too, which is nice. You still like watching movies?”

“Of course,” he answers, feeling the tip of his ears growing warm. “You know that I take my movie-watching very seriously.”

You’re grinning now, “I do. I think you might be the one who introduced me to the media actually. We watched movies at home but here. . . ” you sigh, eyes taking in the scenery. “Here it felt magical. And I loved the endless movie facts you seemed to have stored up in that brain of yours.”

“You flatter me,” despite himself, he’s smiling from ear to ear. “It’s nice that you want to direct.”

“That’s only one of the things I want to do,” you say, stuffing your mouth with the last bit of bread. “But yeah. I know it’s a competitive field, some parts of it are downright evil, but it just calls to me. Imagine someone watching your story, isn’t that exciting?”

Javi's mouth momentarily opens, then promptly shuts. Yes, it is exciting.

Suddenly your brows furrow, your gaze meeting his as you swallow, “Didn’t you want to write a script as well? I remember you being really into Nicolas Cage.”

His lips part again but the words die on his tongue. He’s surprised that you remember so much about him. In all honesty, Javi does remember the movie nights he had with you before you left—But it definitely wasn’t anything inspirational. During the many boring, work-related dinners, he would find you crouched behind the wall listening, watching your mother, clearly bored out of your mind. He asked if you wanted to watch a movie one night, and you said yes. After that, it became a habit. You would come to him, tugging his sleeve and asking to go to the cinema room. He happily indulged, of course.

Javi doesn’t remember the first movie he played for you, but he does remember the second one; Raising Arizona.

Thankfully, your mother's animated voice swiftly dispels the silence that was dancing on the line of turning awkward.

“Mia!” Lucía's attempt to reach her daughter almost resulted in a tumble down the stairs. She catches herself midstep. “¡Estás aquí! How was your flight?”

“¡Mamá!”

Javi watches them hug, an uncomfortable yearning stirring in his gut. In a tearful embrace, Lucía holds you close, squeezing her daughter tight.

Javi wanted to talk more about films, ask about your favorite actors, he wanted to hear your stories. He seems to be invisible to them now, not that he blames them. Just in case one of them catches his wistful look, he forces a smile.

They climb up the stairs, mother and daughter. Javi catches fragments of Lucía's voice, softly describing the breathtaking view from your room. A feeling he can’t place tugs gently at his heart and whatever it was, he keeps it hidden beneath his quivering smile.

Javi stares at the now empty basket and plate. He sees only crumbs. The chair you were sitting in is pushed back, misplaced, forgotten. He picks up the plate and basket, slides the chair back into place, and heads up the stairs, making his way to the kitchen.

Javi is laying on the bed, the sheets cozy and warm. A book rests delicately between his broad palms but his mind is elsewhere, the words only mere shapes inked on paper.

He’s thinking of you. How full of life you are, how you still have ambitions– Your life full of undiscovered paths, he envies it. He envies the hope, the excitement, the illusion of choice. He’s happy for you, of course, but he can’t help the wistful beating of his heart. He had responsibilities since the day he was born. Javi is aware that he’s a privileged man. He’s not going to pity himself in thinking that he isn’t. He got what he wanted, but he also heard an earful about how he was wasting his life on silly things. That he should focus.

Focus on what? He always wanted to ask. He didn’t see why he couldn’t indulge in his hobbies and the business that was forced upon him. In the end, his father’s greatest fear came true, Javi has no interest in taking over. The family patriarch never said anything but it was clear to Javi that his father was disappointed.

A soft, gentle light catches his attention. It pours through the expansive, elegant windows adorned with ornate square bars reminiscent of wrought iron. Closing his book, Javi assumes a sitting position, his socked feet firmly planted on the cool floor. His interest is piqued. Normally, no one stays in the building across from him. It was usually reserved for family visits.

What happens next is an accident.

Or perhaps it is a blessing disguised as an accident. He’s undecided.

Javi sees you, towel loosely wrapped around your figure, hair still dripping wet. His mouth goes dry, eyes wide as he stares, unable to tear away his darkened gaze. Compared to when he first saw you today, your walk is slow, languid. You stand at the side of the bed and clumsily free yourself of the tight clutch of the fluffy towel. Dipping your head, you cradle the back of it with the towel and fold it in front, only to throw your entire head back, leaving you bare for all to see.

His cheeks become a shade darker, fingers uncontrollably twitching against his thigh. The muscle at the base of his stomach tightens, radiating warmth.

Did you know? Were you aware that he could see you? No, of course not. There’s no fathomable reason as to why you would want him to lay his eyes on you. Javi holds his breath. He should say something, should he not?

Briefly, you disappear from his eye line only to reappear a short moment later with two bottles of —what he assumes— lotion in your hands. His cock hardens as you slather your body with lotion. He swears he can smell it. A delicate scent that carries notes of daffodil and vanilla. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. Warm honey drips down his spine, forcing goosebumps to appear over his skin. He hates that he’s still watching.

He knows what he'll see if he was brave enough to look down; the telltale bulge of arousal within the front of his sweatpants. He can feel it twitching angrily, tempting him to reach down and take it in his hand and give in to the pleasure that would undoubtedly come with it.

Why the fuck is he still watching?

You start applying the lotion from your legs, going all the way up to your thighs. You massage it sensually into your skin, fingers spread wide as you lean down and pull yourself back up. Javi’s stomach churns, his own hand sneaking under the waistband of his sweats. He wraps his fingers around his thick cock, thinking how fortunate it was that he skipped wearing boxers before bed.

His shirt sticks to his skin. His chest heaving as he begins to stroke himself, the pressure of his hand makews his eyes roll back. His thumb swipes at the slit, spreading the precum all over the length of his cock. A groan echoes from the back of his throat. His hand is moving with ease now, tenderly gliding up and down his hard cock.

His teeth clenched tightly together, Javi’s eyes flicker back to the window. Your hands slide up your stomach and over your breasts, they bounce perfectly as gravity tugs them back down. You spread the lotion over your chest and neck. His hand moves faster. He slightly hunches forward, hips jerking as if he’s actually fucking himself into you.

His mouth opens in a silent moan as his fingers grip the base of his shaft. The sensation builds until his spine is aching for release. His hips buck against his hand and his thighs clench as the pleasure courses through his veins.

Javi imagines the soft moans he'd hear coming from his mouth, your lips wrapping tightly around the tip of his cock. His body tenses at the fictitious swirl of your tongue, tantalizing flexing with each stroke that takes him closer to the edge. With each thrust of his hips your body would grind against his leg, he’d feel you quiver. He thinks of the slickness of your saliva sliding down his length as you suck him dry. You’d squeeze his hips with both of your hands. . . it feels like electricity shooting through him. He wants to feel you against him, feel the heat of your skin, and kiss you senseless.

He cums hard while you’re getting dressed, his jaw lax as he thrusts fervently into his fist. His sweatpants cling to him like a second skin. He can feel the sticky mess inside as it pools in the fabric, disgusted by the warmth of his own body as it wraps around him. There’s a short second where the urge to throw up consumes him, he thinks about running to the toilet, emptying everything out to trick himself to believe that it never happened.

But it did.

The lights of your room fade away, only the moon left to kiss away Javi’s concern. His legs tremble and ache as he gets up. Pleasure still licks at his body, making him want more. His soft cock is uncomfortable trapped under his sweatpants, throbbing and aching despite the events that just transpired.

Javi grabs a new pair, this one thinner than the other and heads to the bathroom.

Javi jolts awake to the sound of a loud knock. Groggily, he rises from his bed, attempting to rub the sleep from his eyes with a loose fist. Another knock follows, causing a small, annoyed growl to escape his chest. He reluctantly opens the door, his eyes half-lidded, only to find a familiar face on the other side that leaves him momentarily dumbfounded.

Memories of the previous night flash through his mind, and suddenly he becomes acutely aware of his morning arousal, discreetly straining against the front of his sweatpants.

“Mia?” he asks, voice thick with sleep. “What are you doing here?”

He notices the set of clean towels in your hands, but his attention is captivated by the way your eyes sweep over his body, your lips forming a mischievous smile. Confusion tugs at his thoughts while a gentle, chilling breeze infiltrates his room, leaving his abdomen colder than usual.

Oh.

OH.

He doesn’t have his shirt on—shit.

“Looking good Señor Gutierrez,” you tease, eyes going over his body one more time. “Mom told me I should help around, so I brought you your clean towels.”

“Ah,” he says stupidly. “Gracias, querida. I hope she is not working you too hard.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you shrug. “Besides, I’m staying here rent-free. I might as well do a bit of work.”

He takes the towels, his hands feeling oddly disconnected, as if they belong to someone else. You flash him a final smile before pivoting on your heel. Javi watches with undeniable hunger as you confidently strutted away, his eyes admiring the way your hips sway as you saunter off. He feels the familiar stirring in his body, his cock demanding attention that he can’t give in the middle of the hallway. He continues to gaze until you vanish into one of the many corridors.

His throat feels unbelievably tight as he closes the door and heads to the bathroom. Javi feels a flock of birds pecking at his brain, reminding him of Prometheus. He doesn’t know what he should be feeling. The only thing he does know is that he shouldn’t be thinking of you in such a way.

Javi stares at his reflection in the mirror. The whites of his eyes are stained red, the bags underneath prominent and dark. It looks as if he hasn’t slept in years.

A deep sigh escapes his lips as he undresses. He won’t be seeing you like that again anyway, there’s no point in dwelling over something that only happened once.

Javi had underestimated how frequently he would be seeing you around. Your gaze is constant. He knows you’re watching him without actually having to look; his skin tightens, the back of his head starting to tingle. You’re mostly doing chores and don’t stop to chat with him, which he’s grateful for. But still, from your gaze, he senses that unlike him, you do want to talk.

The guilt is eating him from the inside out. Your naked form is engraved into the back of his lids, whenever he closes his eyes, he sees you. The sting of his eyes is constant, aching for moisture. He can’t fight against it and blinks, and as soon as he does, his cock grows hard.

Lucía would be furious with him if she knew—she’d be absolutely disgusted.

He worries that you might’ve seen him last night. Maybe that’s why you wanted to stop and talk with him. Fortunately, the mansion is spacious enough to provide him with hiding spots, allowing him to retreat when needed.

With each passing hour of the day, his uncertainty and guilt fester within him like poison.

He hurries to his bedroom as soon as dinner is over. Normally, he would have a glass of wine, engage in conversation with the staff, and unwind. However, not today, not with you present. . . observing him. . . talking to him.

He just can’t.

Javi ignores confused glances directed at him and excuses himself. The looks linger as he walks away, though there’s a probable chance that he might be imagining it. He’s convinced that you and your mother are both counting his every step. He doesn’t turn to check.

When he closes the door to his bedroom, back pressed snug against the wood, his breathing becomes strained, lungs rattling with every struggling gasp of air. His pupils blown, his gaze immediately flickers to your bedroom window. Much to his relief, and disappointment, the lights are off.

Javi settles onto the bed, the watch on his bedside table ticking away, drawing closer to the time he had seen you naked yesterday. He finds himself waiting until the hands of the clock reach the exact same moment. The lights are still off. Another minute goes by.

Then, finally, a beam of light that comes from a far pours through his windows, shadows stretching across the floor. He can breathe again.

Standing in the middle of the room, you stretch, your arms seemingly reaching for the sun. Javi’s gaze follows your every move. He watches as you scroll on your phone for about five minutes on the bed. He watches as you disappear, leaving him to stare into an empty room. He watches as he swears he can hear the music that you’re blasting from your phone.

He watches and waits until he can see you again. Just like the day before. Bare. Soft.

His mouth waters, cock already throbbing with need.

Javi’s not sure how long he waits. It could’ve been an hour or a minute, but whatever time had passed, you appear once again, the same towel wrapped around your body.

His mouth dry, he swallows hard. Javi's breath catches in his throat as his eyes drift over your curves. Unbidden, his hand moves eagerly to his crotch, eyes fixated on you as he palms himself. His tongue peeks out, wetting his lips as you shift onto your stomach. Your towel slides up, revealing the perfect mounds of your ass, and he gulps, his fingertips trembling as he hastily unzips himself. A moan escapes him as he admires the lobes of your ass peeking from beneath the towel.

Precum already oozes from the tip, and Javi eagerly wraps his fingers around his hardening cock. His strokes are slick and smooth, his breaths coming faster.

Javi hears the rush of blood pounding in his ears as his breathing grows even more jagged with every passionate thrust of his hips. You lift your legs, spreading them apart and crossing them from side to side while watching a video from your phone, completely unaware. His hungry gaze is met with the entire expanse of your body exposed only to him as small water droplets still cling to your skin, cascading down your legs and wetting the area between them. The sinful image of your pretty pussy becoming wet and glistening spurs him on, he imagines how wet you’d be, only for him.

He pushes his hips harder against his fist, the need to feel connected to you driving him forward. His pounding heart is accompanied by an unquenchable craving to touch and explore every inch of your body.

Javi’s grip tightens and tremors start to run through his body. His head drops back as his movements quicken, pushing him closer and closer to the edge. With a deep moan, his muscles coil tight as the pleasure cascades through him, a warm rush flooding every inch of him. He shudders joyfully and with a final thrust, he coats his fist in his own release.

His face is contorted in a blissful expression, his eyes closed in reverence. Drops of sweat slowly trickle down his toned body, drawing paths through the smattering of light brown hair that adorns his tanned skin. His lips are slightly parted as he drinks in the pleasure, a low moan coursing through his lips.

With half-lidded eyes, Javi’s gaze drops down to his spent cock. He made a mess of himself and the floor underneath, the pearly droplets glistening in the soft light.

He’s going to have to clean that.

The guilt comes rushing through. He’s disgusted by himself, the feeling tasting of bile that is thick on his tongue. It felt good at the given moment but now that his head is clearing, what he did just makes him feel sick. He’s quick to wipe the floor with one of his shirts, then tosses it into the laundry basket for cleaning.

Javi gives you one last glance before leaving the room, you’re still on your phone, completely oblivious to him.

He decides to stay in one of the guestrooms that night, but it doesn’t stop with one.

Javi stays there the next night, and the next—

And the one after that.

“Are you ignoring me?”

“What— No, why would you think that?”

Javi was lying, of course. He’d been avoiding you like the plague, turning the other way whenever he saw you approaching him. It's been about a week since he changed rooms. He didn’t tell anyone about it, the house was big enough for him to occupy another room without anyone knowing.

However, he hadn’t expected you to actively seek him out, which he now realized was stupid of him. He just wanted to do a bit of skeet shooting, a means to vent his frustrations. The morning was chilly and it made goosebumps rise across his skin. He enjoyed the feeling, which was why he skipped wearing a jacket.

You, on the other hand, were covered from head to toe.

“I don’t know,” you mutter, wrapping your arms around yourself. A faint cloud dances from your lips. “Maybe it’s just me being paranoid. You really don’t mind me being here, right?”

Javi gently leans the gun against the sturdy stone rail. His heart clenches at your question, he never wanted you to feel guilty, or for you to feel unwanted. He slowly shakes his head, his gaze rising up to meet yours.

“Por supuesto que no,” he responds, his voice quivering, the biting air seeming to grip his vocal cords as he struggles to express himself. Of course, he doesn’t mind. “You are free to stay here as long as you wish. I just…I have been—”

He chokes up, mouth gaping, his gaze still fixed on yours. You're the first to look away, shifting your eyes elsewhere, and instinctively, you hug yourself tighter, trying to ward off the chill in the air. A nervous laugh escapes your lips.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, at least, not if you don’t want to. I’m always happy to listen. I just wanted to be sure if I was overstaying my welcome or not.”

“It’s okay. As I said, you are free to stay.”

You smile at him then, asking him whether or not he'll be joining you for breakfast, he says that he’ll come after taking a couple more shots. You eye the rifle, eyebrow raised in a peculiar way. You state that it’s too cold and head inside. Javi stares as you leave, he decides not to shoot anything, instead, he follows you to the dining room.

Javi moves back into his room that night.

You had excused yourself early claiming that you felt dirty and needed a shower. Javi couldn’t help it. He waits, like always does. A week of not seeing you made him grow hungry, his body was left in a constant state of wanting. He needed to see you, he needed to cum while witnessing your naked body.

This time he has no shame in ridding himself of his pants, wrapping a hand around himself, he lazily strokes himself. He still remembers every curve and crevice of your body, it haunts him day and night, decorating his dreams and nightmares alike. Javi’s eyes travel along the windowsill of your room, the lights are still off, much to his surprise.

He’s startled as the door slams open, a triumphant “I knew it!” ringing out.

With panic, Javi attempts to pull up his pants but the stubborn fabric sticks to his legs instead, making him stumble forward and almost falls off the bed. Luckily, he manages to catch himself at the very last second, planting himself firmly on the mattress. He hears the door close, more silently compared to how it was opened, he finds himself staring at your shoes. He gulps.

“Why are you here?” he asks, voice horrified. “How long have you known?”

“Not that long,” you answer. He still refuses to meet your gaze. “I had my suspicions when you started to avoid me, then I noticed you switched rooms. One night I waited in my room to see if you were watching or not.”

Tears sting the corner of his eyes, he’s pathetic. Then, like a soothing oceanic breeze, he feels your finger curling underneath his chin, forcing his downcast gaze up. His cheeks flush at the soft touch. He expects you to laugh at him, but he finds a gaze of sympathy instead. You pull down his bottom lip and every bit of oxygen leaves his lungs.

“Lo siento, Mia,” he whispers.

“Está bien, I don’t care. I. . . I have an idea, actually.”

Wide-eyed, he looks at you with concern. Your thumb still lingers on his lip, he enjoys it there, he enjoys the comfort you provide despite his mind screaming at him how disgusting and pitiful he is.

“And what might that be?”

“We can. . . help each other out,” you answer, flustered, your breathing short. “If you want to, that is. I had a stressful year. . . I wouldn’t mind having some fun.”

His brows furrow, “I do not understand.”

Another lie. He did. He just couldn’t believe it to be true.

“I think you do, Señor Gutierrez,” you tease. His heart skips a beat at the playful lilt of your voice, his mind is racing. You squeeze his bottom lip gently and his breath hitches.

“I’m not—” he licks his lips, the tip of it touching the pad of your thumb. “I am not that experienced.”

This time his whole body burns. He had lovers in the past, of course, but not many. None of those relationships lasted long either, how could it with the family that he had? He wasn’t even sure what he liked or disliked, and after a while, he just stopped trying to form a meaningful connection with anyone. He closed up, not really knowing what else to do with the cards he was dealt with.

Your answer takes him by surprise.

“That’s okay. We can learn new things about each other, together.”

His heart flutters at the softness of your voice, the kindness of your smile. He parts his lips to speak, to tell you how grateful he is, but before he can, you drop to your knees, a sly smile stretching across your face.

“Do you want my help?” you ask, your fingers spread across his thighs. He sucks in a sharp breath as you give him a gentle, yet firm, squeeze. “Tell me what you want, Javi.”

“I would— I would love to feel your lips on my cock, princesa.”

“Princesa?” you repeat, amused. “I like the sound of that.”

He finds heaven between your lips.

#javi gutierrez x f!reader #javi gutierrez x reader #javi gutierrez x oc #javi gutierrez x ofc #javi gutierrez x you #javi gutierrez x fem!reader #javi gutierrez x mia pradera #the unbearable weight of massive talent #tuwomt fanfiction #tuwomt fanfic #tuwomt #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters

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cevansbrat0007 · 1 year

Note

Okay!! What if reader took this and sent it to Andy? It’s obvi Bebe and Koko! Andy would be so sad😂

https://www.instagram.com/reel/CmPrl-5JTKe/?igshid=NTdlMDg3MTY=

Baby Blush

Summary: You send Andy an adorable video of your girls and their playground crush, which sends his blood pressure through the roof.

Warnings: Fluff, Girl!Dad Andy Barber, Mentions of Pregnancy, Allusions to Smut, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Part of my ongoing Growing Pains Series. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. All mistakes are my own. My sleeping pills have kicked in. I'll do more edits after I wake up.

___

"Hey, baby." You smile into the phone as you watch your little BiBi chase her younger sister around the playground. "How are -?"

"Who the fuck was that?" Andy interrupts as he shuffles what sounds like papers in his office.

"Who?" You ask, pretending to be confused about the source of your husband's displeasure.

"That delinquent - the one who was making eyes at both my daughters." KitCat blows you a kiss which you pretend to catch, all the while trying not to laugh. Because you knew exactly who your man was talking about.

Just like you knew that sending him that adorable video would more than likely cause a spike in his blood pressure.

"Oh! You mean the cutie pie?" You chirp into the receiver, taking a sip of your cinnamon spice tea. "Wasn't that just the sweetest thing? And their little blushes..."

"No." Comes his stubborn grunt. "My girls are too young to blush. Especially over some player fresh out of the sandbox."

Tossing your book aside, your hand goes to rest on the swell of your pregnant belly. You listen patiently to your husband as he continues to rant while you keep a mindful eye on your babies as they take turns going down the slide.

"- And like I keep telling you, baby girl, these boys are only after one motherfucking thing! They emerge from the womb with the urge to seek and destroy."

"I know that's what you keep saying. But I would like to point out that he's also only six-years-old, my love." At this point, you can practically hear your Andy Bear raking an agitated hand through his hair.

"So what? I don't care if the kid just got out of diapers, I'm not gonna let some sticky-fingered casanova corrupt my little princesses. Ain't gonna happen." He hisses as he rifles through his desk drawers for something. You secretly hope it's that tube of lavender essential oil you'd accidentally left behind in one of the compartments during his last office get-together.

Shit calmed him down. And it was seriously beginning to sound like he could use a good whiff.

"Well, Andrew, I just spoke with his parents about getting together for a playdate. Turns out, Romeo has a little brother right around Katrina's age so --"

You're interrupted once again with more inane blustering from the love of your life and father of your two, soon to be four, children.

"His name is Romeo? As in 'oh, where for art thou'? And what the hell's his brother's name? Othello? Just no, Y/N."

Blowing out a breath, you decide that there is no point in trying to explain the differences between the two Shakespearean tragedies. Over the years you'd learned that he would eventually tire himself out all on his own.

"Actually, it's Luca. But okay, Big Man."

"Hmph! You keep forgetting that as the head of this household, it's my job to protect my girls, all five of you, from outside threats." You hear what sounds like something being slammed on his desk. Perhaps a paper weight. "And anything with a - a dangling participle is a threat, prepubescent or not."

"Uh huh. You got your oils, honey?" You look down at your nails as you internally try to justify the need for a new manicure. "I'm just curious."

"If I snort any harder, it'll be lodged halfway up my left nostril." He grouses, followed by an exaggerated sniff.

If you looked up the definition of that word in the dictionary, all you would find was a picture of your handsome man's face.

"Very good." With a sigh, you pull the phone away from your ear to check the time. Another thirty minutes and you'd be ready to head home. "You know, since you're the, uh, man of the house, how would you feel about philly cheesesteak sandwiches and fries for dinner tonight?"

"Sounds delicious. But back to this Romeo character --"

"We're meeting Romeo and his family for a playground and coffee date this Sunday at 2:00pm. And before you ask, the answer is no. No weapons, no interrogations, and no threats of jail time or anything involving any other potentially serious legal ramifications."

Had you covered everything? Maybe. Maybe not. Andrew Barber could be a lot sometimes.

"Y/N, sweetheart, I am in charge here." Andy growls, not liking any of what you just said. "And that means -"

"It means would you like waffle or sweet potato fries?" A beat goes by, letting you know that you've got him thinking.

"Waffle." Comes the quiet, bordering on sullen, huff.

"Excellent choice, sir. And speaking of choices, we'll need to leave the house by 1:30 if we're going to be on time for coffee." Standing, you begin to collect your things before attempting to wrangle the girls. "I've gotta hop off and grab the ladies, Big Man. I'll see you at home, but I also feel the need to warn you..."

"Warn me about what?" He growls, not even bothering to hide the fact that he's pouting on the other end of the phone. All six-foot-something feet of him.

"That I've already prepared my closing arguments, just in case you want to go another round about this. And I'm gonna win, with or without a jury."

"Oh, is that so?" Andy snorts.

"It is. Especially if you want me to do that thing you like tonight, or any other night for that matter."

"You talkin' about the thing you do when you wear..?" His voice trails off as his thoughts begin to drift in a different, much naughtier direction.

"Yep. C'mon babies. We've gotta go make something yummy for Daddy for dinner!"

Another beat of silence.

"So...2:00pm on Sunday. Fine." He mutters with a resigned sigh. "But I'm not gonna smile for any of it." You can practically hear the wheels turning in that beautiful mind of his. "And you're wearing the outfit tonight, complete with the heels."

"You've got yourself a deal, Big Man."

END

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nortism · 16 days

Text

doctor who liveblog pt 49

s10 ep1 the pilot

- oh matt lucas is still here

- was he always a robot or was i not paying attention

- also i like bill’s outfit

- his hair’s looking great this series

- being an eccentric university professor suits the doctor

- doctor what

- bill has already endeared herself to me

- the writers for this episode really went “how can we make sure they know she’s gay?” and then did it all

- god i want chips

- omgg he went back to take pictures of her mum 😭😭

- this heather girl is creepy as hell but i’m glad bill is happy

- THE PUDDLE GOT HER

- oh no evil bath water

- EYE IN THE SHOWER

- oh she’s def possessed

- uh oh water lady

- it’s bigger on the inside!

- she us bringing up some valid points, he really is a terrible time traveller

- space oil!!

- uh oh daleks

- how’s she surviving that

- omg heather is in the dalek

- this is some crazy yuri

- avg lesbian breakup, she turns into a puddle of space oil

#nortism liveblogs doctor who #doctor who liveblog #doctor who #dw #new who #doctor who series 10 #doctor who s10 #12th doctor #twelfth doctor #bill potts #nardole #the pilot

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youssefguedira · 2 months

Text

tog fandom's favourite luca marinelli movie: ROUND TWO

Summaries:

Trust (2018):

“The trials and triumphs of one of the wealthiest and unhappiest families of the United States, the Gettys. Originally planned to be told over multiple seasons and spanning the twentieth century, the series begins in 1973 with the kidnapping of John Paul Getty III, an heir to the Getty oil fortune, by the Italian mafia in Rome.”

L'ultimo terrestre / The Last Man On Earth (2011):

“The story of the latest week on the earth before the announce of the landing of an extraterrestrial society on earth seen by the eyes of a misogynist man with only the desire solitude and routine.”

RULES:

ideally vote based on which film is your favourite, but if you haven't seen both / either vote which one you'd like to watch most or prefer the vibes of

or any other reasonable metric of your choice

propaganda IS encouraged and can be sent to me or added to the post

go forth and have fun!

#lm movie showdown #trust #l'ultimo terrestre #luca marinelli #i feel we have another hydrogen bomb coughing baby scenario here. but we'll see

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pwlanier · 1 year

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Lucio Fontana (1899 - 1968), Concetto spaziale, New York 8, signed, lacerations and scratches on brass.

Lucio Fontana in his studio. 1962

Executed in 1962, Lucio Fontana’s gleaming brass painting Concetto spaziale, New York 8 is a resplendent example of the artist’s celebrated investigations into pictorial, physical and cosmic space. The work comes from Fontana’s body of Metalli – or metal sheets – which were created between 1961 and 1968. Begun when the artist was 62 years of age, the works in this series explore the possibilities of gestural expression on incandescent sheets of metal, including copper, zinc, aluminium, and, as in the present work, brass. Scratching, gouging, and tearing violent incisions into these sheets of metal, Fontana opens out the flat pictorial plane into the depths of the third dimension, revealing an infinite vortex of space. Desirable and extremely rare, the works in this series were dedicated to the twinkling, light filled ‘City that Never Sleeps’ that inspired their creation: New York. Fontana’s vast impact on the course of contemporary art is being commemorated this year in the first major survey of the artist’s work in more than forty years at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

In 1961, Fontana was invited by Paolo Marinotti, the owner of the exhibition centre at Palazzo Grassi, Venice, to create a cycle of paintings known as the Venezie for the acclaimed Arte e Contemplazione exhibition. Exhibiting alongside the likes of Jean Dubuffet, Mark Rothko and Sam Francis, Fontana produced a number of lustrous oil paintings in a thick lavishing of metallic paint, inspired by the Baroque characteristics of the city of Venice. Manipulating the surfaces of these works, Fontana tore into the canvas to create his iconic tagli (cuts) and buchi (holes). The works dazzled the public and, later that year, they were exhibited in New York. Fontana travelled to the city for the very first time in November 1961 and was enthralled by its powerful magnetism, unlike anything he had seen before: “New York is more beautiful than Venice!!” he exclaimed, greatly affected by the immense verticality of the city, and the vast metal structures of the high-rise buildings that filled Manhattan’s skyline. “The skyscrapers of glass look like great cascades of water that fall from the sky!! At night it is a huge necklace of rubies, sapphires, and emeralds” he wrote in a letter to his friend, the architect and collector Mario Bardini (Lucio Fontana cited in: Exh. Cat., New York, Guggenheim Museum, Luca Massimo Barbero, Lucio Fontana: Venice/New York, 2006, p. 37).

Concetto spaziale, New York 8 invokes the immense and dynamic metropolis of New York City. Radiant with energy, charisma and charm, bustling with people, and filled with endless, towering skyscrapers, the city captured Fontana’s imagination. In a natural progression from the sparkling surfaces of his Venezie paintings, Fontana turned to the medium of metal in order to evoke the omnipotent and awe-inspiring wonder of his newly discovered New York. In the present work, five bold lacerations cut forcefully through the flesh of the brass, in an echo of the city’s skyline, as countless scratches and indentations score its surface. They reflect and diffract the light, creating a play of brightness and shadow that flits across the pictorial plane. “New York”, wrote the artist, “is a city made of glass colossi on which the Sun beats down causing torrents of light” (Ibid., p. 43). Indeed, the present work seems imbued with the warmth of the city’s rich and golden sunlight. Just as Venice, with its sensual allure and antique charm, had powerfully inspired Fontana’s aesthetic, so did New York captivate and enchant him with its grand industrial force. Thus does Concetto spaziale, New York 8 offer a compelling metaphor for this utopia of man-made modernity.

The Venezie and New York cycles represent some of the most sublime and opulent works of Fontana’s career. Indeed, the present work was exhibited in a number of eminent exhibitions including Fontana’s major 1977 retrospective at the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York, as well as at the Musée National d'Art Moderne, Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris (1987-88), and the Palazzo delle Esposizioni, Rome (1988). More recently, the two series became the focus of a celebrated exhibition, Lucio Fontana: Venice/New York, which travelled from the Guggenheim in Venice to New York in 2006-7. Held in important museum collections worldwide, Fontana’s Metalli works have achieved an almost mythic status within the artist’s career. With its iridescent and mesmerising beauty, Concetto spaziale, New York 8 encapsulates the radical aesthetic of this sought after series.

Courtesy Alain Truong

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averagestudent03 · 1 year

Text

I Know The End: Chapter Five, The Russian Elevator.

(Pairing: Robin Buckley x fem!reader, stranger things rewrite - Also, skin tone and descriptions of reader are INCREDIBLY vague, so anyone with she/her pronouns can read!)

(Word Count: 4.4k)

(AN: Welcome to Chapter Five! This one took a while to write, My God, but they finally kiss at the end! Stranger Things dialogue, plot and all characters besides yourself belong to the Duffer Brothers. Please comment, I love to hear your opinions, criticisms, or thoughts for the future of the series! Reblogs, likes and comments are always appreciated! Comment if you'd like to be added to a tag list in the future, and thank you for reading! Enjoy, and I hope to get Chapter Six out tonight or early tomorrow!)

Series Warnings: swearing, jealousy, fear of abandonment, era-relevant homophobia, mentions of nausea, mentions of blood, slight angst? etc.

More warnings included in future chapters.

-----------------------------------

01/07/1985

On the first of August, 1985, Mike Wheeler sat with Will Byers and Lucas Sinclair in his house, desperately calling anyone and everyone he could get his hands on.

His hands shook as he clung onto the phone for dear life, voice stern as the whining of Max Mayfield filled his ears.

"I'm sleeping, go away-"

"It's Mike. Do not hang up." Max nearly dropped the phone, instantly silencing herself as she gripped it tighter.

"Something bad happened. Something very bad happened." She stood in shock, glancing over to the curled-up figure of Jane Hopper slumped on top of her sheets.

He paced back and forth, demanding she rush to his house immediately before slamming the phone on the receiver.

"Dustin's not answering." Lucas spoke, voice wavering slightly as his eyes skirted around the room.

"So try him again." Mike forced out through gritted teeth, attempting to pull at the quickly unraveling threads holding what remained of his life together. He slumped against the wall, screwing his eyes shut as Will looked over him with concern. Leaving only one thing racing across his head, taking priority over anything and everything else.

Something very, very bad had happened.

Meanwhile, Dustin Henderson had his rusted walkie-talkie turned on to a lone channel, shoved to the bottom of his backpack as he clutched onto the same pair of black binoculars. His eyes were caught on the shipment entrance to the Mall, men in black loading through hundred of packages, all armed.

All ready to fire at a moment's notice.

His gaze trailed from one of the men's head, following his arms right down to his slender fingers, tainted black with years of oil, ash and soot. In his left hand, he pressed am ivory key card to a panel on the wall, a shrill piercing sound echoing off the concrete of the road.

"That key card opens the door," He relayed, thinking back to the morning he'd spent on the roof, Russian-watching. The revelation that you and Robin had solved the code was met with grins twice the size of their faces, twisting at the corners and excitement bursting in their eyes. Dustin had squealed (although he would never admit it,) wrapping his arms around you and mumbling thanks repeatedly, whilst Steve headed straight for Robin, hugging and praising the girl (far too long for your liking) as she stiffened in his arms.

"But, unfortunately," He continued, reminiscing on how his gaze flickering back to the tall man with the moustache, "the Russian with this key card also has a massive gun." He choked out, disappointment building in your chest as you realised it might be slightly tougher to investigate than you thought.

"Whatever's in this room, whatever's in those boxes, they really don't want anyone finding it." He paced around the back room of Scoops, the three of you sat around a table as Steve fiddled with his sailor's hat.

"There's gotta be a way in." Robin insisted, much more invested now she had proof of the Russian's existence. This was no longer in the subjunctive or the metaphorical, this was real, and this was happening.

"Well, you know, I could just take him out?" Steve offered, leaning forwards to emphasise his point as you immediately stood, heading briskly for the door while holding in a laugh, attempting not to damage his already-bruised ego.

"Take who out?" Robin asked, Steve's eyes widening as he watched you rush, doubling over behind the counter before walking back in, slumping into your seat and wiping stray tears from your eyes.

"The Russian guard." He said, absolute certainty in his words. You stifled another laugh, Dustin doing the same as you both recalled the same memory of you both getting your asses handed to you by Billy Hargrove himself, and a few months prior when Jonathon Byers hit him across the face. You spent a little too long daydreaming about that one; although you didn't hate Steve, per se, you strongly disliked him for the moment as he tried to pursue Robin. you weren't blind, and you most certainly weren't stupid when it came to his sly words and wandering gaze.

Not that you were any better than him, of course, you were just better at hiding the stray longing looks and flirtatious comments.

Robin simply looked through him in disbelief, genuinely impressed at the size of his own ego.

"What? I sneak up behind him, I knock him out and I take his key card. It's easy!" He boasted, offended as you shook your head, laughing slightly.

"Am I the only person here who remembers the last two years? No?" You chuckled out, glancing at both Steve and Dustin.

"What, like you could do any better?" He remarked, looking slightly confused as you nodded sincerely.

"Yeah, I started boxing when I realised that there were-" You started, hesitating when you realised Robin was still in the room, "that there were assholes like Billy Hargrove around and I needed to be able to defend myself."

"Mhm, like you're stronger than me."

Dustin simply winced on behalf of the boy, realising that Steve had entirely skipped over the time you had broken his nose in response to his stunt regarding the cinema and Nancy Wheeler.

"She broke your nose, Steve."

"She what?" Robin exclaimed, glancing between the two of you as you hung your head slightly, laughing as you reminisced.

"He did some messed up shit to his ex-girlfriend last year, he came to me for help and I hit him in the face. I patched him up after because I felt bad and helped him try and win her back, but the damage was done- couldn't breathe properly for like a solid week. Sounds like someone had stuck one of those plastic wheezing rubber ducks into his sinuses." You murmured, slightly more confident than the day before. Of course, realising that your chances with Robin Buckley had slimmed from a decent-maybe to an absolutely no way in hell overnight had definitely contributed. Now, you could be slightly more flirty without risking too many consequences.

That wasn't to say that even the mere thought of her didn't turn you bright red, sent you spiralling into thoughts of her and the future.

"Steve, did you not hear the part about the massive gun?" Dustin asked, trying to skip over the nostalgia as Steve backtracked, stammering as he tried to appear certain in front of his new crush.

"Yes, Dustin, I did. That's why I would be sneaking." Steve emphasised, spitting out every syllable as he tried to erase the ridicule from his mind. He'd tell him off for it later, anyways.

"Well please, tell me this, and be honest, have you ever actually won a fight?"

"Okay, that was one time-" He tried to play it down and you couldn't help but let another few snide comments slip out, counting them as purely collateral damage for the shit he'd put you through a few years back. You'd forgiven him completely, but it didn't mean you couldn't have fun with it. And if that meant embarrassing him a little bit to make his chances with maybe the love of your life Robin Buckley any slimmer? So be it.

"Three times. Jonathon, year prior, then me-" You started, quickly interrupted by Henderson and his ramblings.

"And then Billy."

"Jonathon didn't count!" Steve proclaimed, struggling for words at this point. He'd had many verbal slam-downs in his life but only a few from the boy, and none in front of Robin Buckley.

"Why wouldn't it? Because it looks like he beat the shit out of you."

"It was-" "You got a fat lip," he continued, ignoring Steve's desperate pleas for the boy to shut up, "crooked nose that just got worse when she hit you, swollen eye, a lot of blood-"

"It was just things that added up-" He tried, Robin rushing to her feet as a smile crept its way onto her face, a confused look flashing across yours for a second.

"That just might work." She muttered, rushing out and grabbing the tip jar as the boys continued bickering, albeit running after her too.

"Robin!" He called, Henderson still rambling quietly about just how weak he was, "Hey- Robin! What- what are you doing?" He questioned, watching her through the sliding window.

"I need cash."

"Well- half of that's mine! Where are you going?!" He spluttered out, desperately trying to get her to stay so he could redeem his reputation.

"To find us a way into that room! A safe way! And in the meantime: Sling ice cream, behave, and don't get beat up! I'll be back-" She shouted, turning on her heels and sprinting out the Mall entrance.

You realised quickly after that your break had, in fact, ended, and you were running ridiculously late for your next shift. You stood up, racing out with both Henderson and Harrington calling after you, shouting your name at the top of their lungs.

02/07/22

The next day and a half were filled with screaming children (although that was mainly you, given the fact that Rob and Steve were hardly working and instead plotting a way to get into the Russian room through the air vents,) Dustin Henderson arriving every hour on the hour to demand your input plus a free go on Dig Dug, and you using your free breaks to go and help the others with their planning.

Not at all to stare at Robin Buckley.

When you finally arrived after your final shift, another brown paper bag in hand that had become tradition, you climbed up to the roof as the three of them stared at the door.

"Why are none of you downstairs?" You were rudely interrupted by a familiar voice crackling from the walkie-talkie.

"Commence Operation Child Endangerment." Your eyes widened after the shrill tone of Erica Sinclair rang out around the roof.

"The hell are you doing? You brought Sinclair into this? No! Absolutely no way, she's too young!" You cried, disregarding the bag to one side as you moved closer to all of them, Dustin looking offended.

"It was Steve's idea! And besides, she's only like a year or so younger than me! How come she's too young but I'm allowed to do it?" He replied as you tugged him to one side, bringing your voice to a hushed whisper as the others stared.

"I didn't want you involved, Short! It's dangerous! that's why we keep it to ourselves and don't involve Lucas' younger sister! How do you think he would feel if he found out we put her in danger, huh?" You scolded him, guilt immediately seeping into your thoughts as you watched the grin he was wearing twist into a frown.

"....sorry." He mumbled.

"It's fine." You sighed, trying to regain your composure, "Just think next time, okay? Not much we can do about it now, though."

"How'd you lot even bribe her in the first place?" You turned, looking between Robin and Steve, who had both temporarily stopped listening to Erica, letting her crawl and make her own way towards the room.

"Ice cream. Lots, and lots of ice cream."

"Makes sense." You hummed, glancing over the map and looking at the plans. It didn't take long for her to get in and work out how to open the door, allowing all of you inside as Dustin giggled.

He grabbed one of the larger boxes, hauling it onto the table as Steve cut it open with your pocket knife, met with the sight of bubbling green acid in weirdly-shaped vials in a metal box.

"Well that's definitely not Chinese food." Steve spoke, watching closely as white fog seeped out from inside the box.

"Maybe you guys should- uh, you know, stand back." He ordered, gesturing for all of you to move away before Dustin took a step closer, looking Steve dead in the eye.

"No."

"Just step back-"

"No!"

"Just step back! Seriously-"

"No!" The two bickered, eventually reaching a conclusion as Dustin blurted out, "If you die, I die!"

Steve seemed to back down after that, shrugging and letting the boy stand closer as you, Robin and Erica took another step into the corner. A slight hissing sound could be heard from inside the container and in response, Robin flinched and took a quick step towards you, wrapping your hand in hers for comfort.

You looked down, and she seemingly realised what she'd done, pulling her hand from yours and blushing.

"Sorry," She murmured, unenthusiastically as you shook your head, smiling as your hand chased hers once more, fingers entwining and relaxing you both.

"What the hell?" Steve muttered, holding one of the green vials up to show the rest of you.

"What is that?" Robin whispered, eyes narrowing as they focused on the swirling bubbles inside the glass. It was nothing like any of you had ever seen before, and would likely ever see again.

In an instant, all of you were silenced by a horrifying mechanical whirring echoing in through the vents as the floor shook slightly. You felt Robin's hand clutch yours tighter, Erica Sinclair muttering a quiet "Booby-traps," under her breath before the room began to shake again, repeating the metallic groaning from the vents.

"You know what? Let's just grab that and go-" Robin insisted, leaning forwards and snatching the vial from Steve, Dustin rushing towards the panel of buttons again, desperately pressing the large blue one in the centre with the words 'door open' printed on it in large black font.

"Which one do I press, Erica?" He begged, voice growing tenser with every second.

"Just press the damn button, nerd!"

"Which one? I'm pressing the button, okay?" He rushed out, fingers still hovering over the button and repeatedly slamming it into the wall as Robin took another step closer to you, beginning to panic slightly.

"It's okay." You whispered, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before she returned it, levelling her breathing.

"Press 'open door!'" "I'm pressing 'open door!'" They quarrelled, Steve chiming in as they all screamed at each other, fawning over who was pressing the button correctly.

"Guys get out of the way so she can press the button-" Robin offered, hesitation evident in her voice as she was cut off by another long, mechanical whirring sound.

"Just open the door!" She begged, all three of them shouting over one another, giving their two cents, rudely interrupted by the slamming down of a red metal door inside the room. It covered the exit and all of your eyes widened in surprise, looking at the crimson cover.

The lights shut off and in a second, the room was shaking, lights flickering as Robin Buckley fell back and stumbled into you, clinging to your side for dear life as Steve noticed the small sliver of wall, showing the outside of the room rapidly rising as they fell.

"Oh shit." He whispered, holding onto the nearest wall as it finally occurred to him where they were.

It wasn't a room, it was an elevator, and it was falling, fast.

All four of you were screaming now, clinging to nearby surfaces as Dustin scrambled to what used to be the door.

"Shit! SHIT!" He cried amongst shrieks, attempting to slam any button he could find.

"We're going down! We're going down-" Steve repeated, hyperventilating and clutching the side of one of the boxes.

"Yeah no shit Harrington!" Robin exclaimed, returning to screaming as they dropped at least another fifty feet.

"Why won't these buttons work?" Dustin yelled over Steve's screams, Erica rushing to his side and demanding that he press the button.

"What do you think I'm doing?!" He retaliated, looking at her in surprise.

"Come on, press something! Just- just press the button!" Steve begged, gesturing wildly as his other hand faltered from the boxes for a second, Erica slamming her hand on a random button whilst the elevator came to a grinding halt, throwing you all against the nearest wall.

Coincidentally, Robin fell into your lap, hitting her head against one the shelving units and slumping into your shoulder, groaning whilst Steve was launched into a corner, mumbling about the pain in his groin when one of the boxes fell directly into his lap.

You were certain you got the better deal of the two of you.

Dustin and Erica gathered in the corner, clutching their heads before scrambling over to Steve, moving the box off of him.

"I can't move!" The room jolted again, sending your head flying into the same shelving unit that Robin had hit (except with much more force,) as you winced and your vision blurred.

"Is everyone okay?" Robin questioned, hand still placed on the back of her head as she quickly scurried off your lap, blushing wildly as she tried to focus on helping Steve.

You were only slightly aware of the crimson dripping from the back of your skull onto your hand, more focused on Dustin and Erica, attempting to stand and failing miserably, slumping back into your original spot and screwing your eyes shut.

"Yeah, I'm great now that I know Russians can't design elevators!" Steve yelled, heading towards the buttons and shoving both Dustin and Erica out the way.

"I think we've clearly established that those buttons don't work." Robin pointed out, stepping closer to Steve and gesturing to them, unaware she was leaving you slumped in the corner. She assumed you were following her, blissfully ignorant regarding the lost weight of your hand in hers.

Instead, you were fighting the verge of unconsciousness, having caught the back end of one of the nails in the shelves, a pounding in your head ricocheting off of every corner in your mind.

"They're buttons! They have to do something!" Steve insisted, punctuating every syllable with a wave of his hand, bitterness seeping into his tone as Erica winced, not wanting to break the charade but also decently afraid.

"Yeah, if we had a key card!" You chanced one look at the flickering white lights from above, promptly screwing your eyes shut as the high-pitched shrieking in your ears returned tenfold. You'd never ever tell Robin to be quiet on a good day, but this wasn't looking like an overly good day, and you wished they'd all just be quiet to give you a moment's peace.

"What?" Steve questioned, Robin quickly confirming her own suspicions.

"It's an electronic lock! Same as the loading dock door. If we don't have a key card, it won't operate, meaning-"

"-we're stuck in here." Dustin finished, Steve groaning and running a hand through his hair, you finally losing the battle and allowing sleep's claws to dig themselves into you, head lulling to the floor.

Erica stepped forward, unintentionally distracting both Steve and Robin as they started another few lines of meaningless bickering, as Dustin rushed to your side, only now noticing the absence of your usual snarky comments.

"Shit. Shit!" He whispered, attempting to pull you up, eyes widening when he noticed his hand come out from behind your head a dark red.

"Just so you nerds are aware," Erica started, "I'm supposed to be spending the night at Tina's, and Tina always covers for me. But if I'm not home for Uncle Jack's party tomorrow, and my mom finds out you four are responsible, she's gonna hunt you down, one by one, and slit your throats." Robin had her arms wrapped around herself at this point, attempting to breathe out through her mouth as Steve continued the screaming match.

"I don't care about Tina! Or Uncle Jack's party!" Steve began, finishing every word with a loud smack against the cardboard boxes, "Your mom's not gonna be able to find us if we're dead in a Russian elevator!"

"Shit, don't say that!" Dustin yelled, taking himself by surprise as he once again propped you up, trying desperately to find a pulse.

"What?" Steve muttered, trying to find Dustin, eyes quickly landing on your slumped body in the corner and the steadily growing stream of blood on the floor, coming from the back of your head.

"Shit. Shit!" He yelled, rushing over to your side as Robin's eyes widened, Steve immediately moving and relaxing slightly when he found a pulse.

"What if we climbed out?" Dustin tried, pointing to a trapdoor in the roof, searching for anything to distract himself from the sight of your unconscious body on the floor. He'd only dealt with it once before, and even then, he had Steve to deal with it until he went and got himself knocked out too. You were a constant in his life, and he really didn't like the idea of having to deal with this whole Russian elevator thing alone.

Erica remained calm, for the most part. Robin, on the other hand, had gone from quietly stressing to borderline-panic attack, completely unaware that any of you had dealt with anything similar before. All she could see was the red leaking from the back of your head, looking nothing like the hair she used to stare at in English towards the end of the last few terms.

Dustin quickly clambered towards the trapdoor, lifting himself onto one of the boxes as the roof let out a small hiss at being opened. He let out a sigh of relief at your muffled voice, a more than irritated groan slipping past your lips.

"Oh fuck." You mumbled, clutching the back of your head with the previously bloodied hand, Robin letting out a small gasp at the notion you were still alive. She was having a real struggle with keeping the whole "I don't care," thing under wraps, and she was growing less and less afraid of the others finding out about her, and more and more afraid of something happening to you.

"Hey Buckley-" You chuckled, coughing slightly as Steve helped you up, propping yourself up against one of the walls.

"Hey, Sweetheart," The nickname slipped out of her with no care for anything else, and she prayed to whatever God was out there that Steve Harrington thought she meant it in a joking manner because she really couldn't deal with any possible comments right now. You, on the other hand, turned bright red but allowed a small smile to creep onto your lips, letting a small hiss through gritted teeth as you winced, your head moving far too quickly.

"Don't do that again, you hear me?" She scolded, walking over to your side and gently shoving your shoulder before sitting next to you, watching as Steve finished checking you didn't have a concussion and bandaged you with a spare scrap of fabric he found in the corner, before heading up and following Dustin and Erica through the trapdoor.

They all spent their time exploring, Robin resting her head on your shoulder and inevitably falling asleep. Dustin shot you a look, raising an eyebrow as your heart began to race, worried about what he'd think. Instead, he rolled his eyes at the display as you held your fingers to your lips, telling him to be quiet.

Erica had taken less than half an hour to fall asleep, curled up beside Steve as he let her lay her head in his lap, gently stroking his fingers through her hair, knowing it was something that the stubborn girl would never let him do if she were awake. He glanced over at you, and watched for the way you looked at Robin.

The way you stared over her, smiling, as if the girl herself was the centre of the universe. As if nothing else mattered, as long as she was alright.

He knew the look all too well, because it was the way he looked at Nancy.

It didn't stop his newfound feelings for the Buckley girl, only halting the crush in the size of its enormity; shrinking it slightly as he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his chest, knowing that she may be forced to choose between the two of you.

He was more than happy to give her up, as long as he had a fair shot, and as long as it was her decision. However, he was more worried about her reciprocation of his feelings. Not for himself, but for you. He didn't think he could stand to see the look on your face as he took something else, the devastating heartbreak that replaced every other expression.

He's not a stupid man, and Steve Harrington wasn't ever blind. Not then, and not now, either.

It was the same way you looked at Robin Buckley, and the same way he looked at Nancy Wheeler.

It was the same way you used to look at Nancy Wheeler.

Though, he didn't want to guess anything, or make either of you uncomfortable, so he dropped the thought as soon as it came. A doubt in his mind, but he was certain you didn't feel that way about her. He wasn't blind, or stupid, but he could be blissfully ignorant.

You couldn't feel like that, she was a girl.

The brunette tossed in your arms, and you stiffened, moving away slightly as she rubbed at her eyes. She called your name quietly, whining at the loss of contact as you started to climb one of the boxes.

"Robs? You alright?" You asked, her stumbling to her feet as she followed you.

" 'M okay, jus' need some air-" She murmured, following you and shutting the trapdoor, legs dangling off the side of the elevator, leaving Steve and the others to sleep.

A moment of quiet.

Another.

"So." You started, and the girl simply left you both in silence.

"So." She waited before finally responded, taking in a deep breath, every nerve in her body on fire in fear of being found out.

"Sweetheart, huh?"

Shit.

She'd been so torn up in her worry over your safety and Steve finding out, she hadn't thought about the repercussions from you if you caught onto her slipup. It didn't matter at the time, she figured you'd been too out of it to remember.

"Yeah. Sweetheart."

" 's nice, Robs. I like it."

"You do?" She questioned, brows furrowing as she glanced over at you, hands in your lap as you fidgeted nervously with the skin of your fingers.

"Yeah. Always wondered what it'd sound like coming from you."

"Was it all you hoped and dreamed?" She chuckled sarcastically, slightly more at ease now she knew she hadn't upset you.

"God yes. Was worried I was gonna pass out again-"

"Really?"

"Absolutely, have you seen yourself Buckley? You're a total catch." You rattled out in one go, taking in a deep breath as you realised the rest of it could be played off as meaningless flirting, but this was more.

"...yeah?"

"Yeah, Robs." She paused, hesitating for a second, a thousand thoughts racing across her mind.

She may never get another chance at this.

Robin Buckley was never the best at picking up social ques, but she swore she'd never begged harder to the Gods above that she was reading something right, than this very moment.

She quickly grabbed the side of your face and brought her lips to yours before she had a chance to regret it. You kissed her back, reaching up and threading a hand through her hair (something you had always wanted to do and Jesus Christ was it worth it,) just relaxing in each other's embrace.

It was slow, and sweet, and tasted just a little bit like ice cream and pink bubble-gum.

Better yet, Robin Buckley tasted like a fresh start.

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rpmarmy · 1 year

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NHRA Top Dragster Eliminations JEGS SPORTSNationals

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indycarnews · 2 years

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oddsconvert · 2 years

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Day Eight - "Everything Hurts and I'm Dying"

Stomach pain | Head Trauma | Back from the dead (using very loosely for Declan because he was essentially living dead-)

Alt prompt: Carried to safety

Whumptober Masterlist!

This includes my OC's Declan, Vince, August & Lucas from my series 'Shattered'

CW: Nightmare, Panic Attack, Fear of recapture, Whumpee thinks caretaker is new master, Vampire whumper, bloodbag whumpee, vampire caretaker, previous captivity/torture, sleep paralysis, mentions of blood/blood drinking, adult language, noncon drugging

"It’s been a while, Deccy…"

A hoarse, wailing scream rips from Declan’s throat before he’s even opened his eyes. Before he can even throw the duvet covers off, dive out of the bed and scuttle away to cower and hide.

He can’t. Obviously. His useless body, limp limbs and fatigued muscles stay perfectly frozen, statuesque. Even when he has the spirit to fight back, the drive to survive - his body has laid down its weapons and surrendered.

That voice. That demeaning nickname. Please…no.

The voice Declan prayed he’d never have to hear again, striking cold fear into him like a stake through the heart.

If only he had a stake-

Sleep-riddled eyes blink rapidly to clear the blurry lens over his eyes, eyelashes fluttering so quick it could create gusts of wind. A pitch-black room surrounds him, the bedroom his new master keeps him in - it’s submerged in a shadowy darkness in the dead of night now, warm hues of light leak through the curtains from the oil street lamps outside.

Still Declan scans the darkness. Whoever teaches their children to not fear the dark, the monster under their bed - are idiots. They’re real threats. Monsters are real, and they lurk in the shadows, hiding where you least expect it. They’re called vampires…leeches.

Eyes. Glowing red eyes. Hovering in the doorway. The dark figure emerges slowly from the shadows, Declan feels the tears already drip down his cheeks.

This can't be happening. Please.

Vince.

"You honestly believed I'd wave you off into the world that easily?" Vince skulks closer to him, bearing his fangs in a predatory smirk, "Stupid, stupid boy. Not a chance. I told you, I'd always find you."

Declan never doubted that. Not for a second. His walls have not and will not come down.

But he had to hope, even if he didn’t truly believe, and every alarm bell in his head clanged from the moment he found out August bought him. A small part of him really did wish that Vince’s threats were hollow and empty. He was right to not place his trust in his new captors, they’re giving him back.

They hadn't even given him a chance, he doesn't know what they want from him so how can he behave?

Declan’s jaw stutters open, dropping into a choking gasp trying to speak but still the words are so far from reach. He can see the words, the letters floating around all jumbled up in his mind but whenever he tries to grab them, they dissolve in his hands.

He tries to reach for his notepad, hoping he can write down his pleas to the foul creature but his body won’t respond. Not so much as a twitch of the finger. Paralysed, all he can do is sit like bait in the lion's cage. As Vince draws near, Declan can only let out a petrified whimper and a distraught sob.

It’s like he’s dead again - well, not dead. Living dead? Zombified? He’s trapped within himself again, almost comatose. A prisoner in both body and soul.

Maybe it’s supposed to be this way. If it’s so easy for vampires to drag him this way, that way, pull at his strings like a puppet and throw him around like a ragdoll. Is there much point in fighting it? If his body is giving up, maybe he should too.

No - he tries to blow the thought away. He can’t go back with Vince. Why can’t he stay with the new master? At least here he’s a glorified prisoner. He’s got an actual bed, for crying out loud! A mattress he can sink into and feel like he’s floating on a cloud and not the damp mattress in Vince's basement, where he’d wake up covered in bug bites.

Vince’s hand wraps around Declan’s windpipe and he shrieks, but flops as he’s lifted up off the bed. The fangs near his neck again, the nerve-endings on the barely-healed scars light up in white agony.

“My food. My blood bag. My fridge. You know your place, don’t you, Deccy? Or do I need to beat that back into you?” Vince mumbles against his neck, his teeth scratching against the sore skin, Declan’s whole body trembles. Still he can’t respond, but the wet sob answers for him.

The fangs instantly pierce Declan’s neck, sinking deep and aiming to drain Declan dry.

Everything goes black in an instant, and the world seems to implode around him with only the sound of his guttural screaming being the only thing left in existence.

*!*!*!*

Declan wakes up screaming, drenched in cold sweat and writhing against the damp bed sheets. His hand swings up to clasp around his throat... no blood? No pain? Just fear. He can't catch his breath and the tears still freely flow without restraint.

It was just a nightmare, Vince isn't really here. One threat down, one left to go. Unbelievable relief washes over him when he realises it wasn't real -

Until it is real. And when he glances to the doorway, the red eyes are still there, still glaring and a figure steps out again.

"Nnnnn!!!!" Declan whines, throwing himself out of bed and thudding on the floor, sliding against the wood and backing himself into the nearest corner near the bookshelf. He grabs a pile of books and uses it as his ammunition, lobbing the books with as much strength as he can muster. One after the other, no holding back. Until he he hears a pained yelp.

"Ow!"

That doesn't sound like Vince? Though it doesn't matter, not in the midst of Declan's petrified and foggy mind. He just feels vulnerable and threatened, and he'll protect himself for as long as his body holds out.

August and Lucas run further into the room, horrified by the sight of Declan, shivering and cowering in the corner - crying out as he throws books defensively.

“Declan, it’s okay! You were having a nightmare, we’re not going to hurt you!”

Declan doesn’t listen, he continues squealing. He's beside himself, utterly inconsolable. August and Lucas make the wordless call, a silent nod of agreement to go and drag him back into bed.

His legs kick wildly underneath him, swinging in the air as they both hook their arms under his armpits and lift him up, walking him back over to bed and trying to shush his growing cries.

"You're okay! You're good! We're just helping you back into bed, bud. Nothing more."

It doesn't work, Declan makes all his muscles as heavy as lead and tries to slump to the floor, thudding like a tonne of bricks and refusing to budge, like a child having a temper tantrum.

August scoops him off the floor with ease, cradling him close in a bridal carry and walking him back over to the bed. Letting him roll out of his grip and back under the blankets. But still Declan fights, bucking and trying to jump up, pushing against August's hands as they try to tuck him in.

"Lucas, I need you to hold him down-"

Declan panics, he knew it. He fucking knew it. They're going to hurt him. It was too good to be true. All of this, all the false promises and the deception.

He’s just so damn scared and confused, nothing makes sense to him and all his trust in the world has been shredded. And they’re going to punish him for it.

"I need to give him something to help him sleep. He's too worked up- he's going to hurt himself."

"Nnn!" Declan moans, thrashing in resistance to the hands pinning him against the bed.

"It's okay, mate. It's to help you, not hurt you. I promise" Lucas tries to console, it goes in one ear and out the other.

Where does the deceit end? Vince may never have used drugs but this was just another way to make him feel powerless, to take his control. To be at someone else's mercy.

"Declan, I'm going to give you some Midazolam, okay? It's just going to help you calm down and get you to sleep."

It's important he's kept in the loop every step of the way. To give him back that humanity. He deserves to understand what's going on, even if it needs repeating over and over to sink in.

August pushes Declan's overgrown hair to the side and plunges the needle in before he can resist and pull away. Declan's mouth drops open in a silent gasp before he flops in Lucas arms.

This isn't fair...he's spent so long without any control, unable to even talk or move, stuck inside himself. And whilst he never believed a word of it, August promised - the vampire had promised time and time again that he was safe here, that they wouldn't make him do a single thing he doesn't want to.

Well, he doesn't want to go to sleep. He doesn't want to stay here. He doesn't want to be a bloodbag. He doesn’t want to see another vampire for the rest of his life.

He wants to go home.

The sleep comes for him to steal him away, darkness cornering the edges of his vision. Weak, trembling fingers clutch onto August's dress shirt.

"L-Liar-" he croaks, before his head lolls to the side and he's dragged into forced slumber.

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