#but at least feels easier to write and sounds more like my natural writing voice

[oonajaeadira]

Nadie Espera un Milagro (No One Expects a Miracle)

Fandom: Narcos / Javier Peña

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Reader: Sassy, confident, American ex-pat female who finds her parents a little tedious and enjoys both her independence and her job as a high-level admin at the DEA. No physical descriptions, no use of y/n.

Rating: T

Warnings: era-”appropriate” behavior of men towards women in the workplace (but a lot better than it was, Steve and Javi are actually pretty respectful). Overbearing and slightly infantilizing parents. Author doesn’t know anything about politics or law enforcement.

Summary: When your parents come to visit you at your job in Bogotá, you figure it’s just easier to paint a picture that will put them at ease. The idea is simple. The plan is flawed. The execution is just fluff.

A/N: Written for my Year of Tropes (part of @yearofcreation2023​) Fake dating seemed like an easy trope for a busy month, which is why I chose it for February. (Whoops. Happy April!) With all of these tropes I like to challenge myself a little and I feel like the character choice alone for this one was challenge enough for me. Not only do I not know anything about politics and law enforcement, I haven’t written Javier much. And, of all the boys I do write, I feel like he’d be the least likely candidate to participate in and fall for fake dating, so I had to figure out how to make it believable for myself. Which is why there’s more plot than I intended and reader ended up with some backstory. This is season 2 Javi, obviously not canon, and maybe a bit too soft, so sue me for yearning. Yes, reader’s parents are cartoon versions of my own parents, why do you ask?

“Well hey there, sunshine,” a wisp of smoke accompanies Steve’s greeting as he leans back in his chair and crosses his long legs at the ankle to the side of his desk, leaning over momentarily to stub the cigarette out into a shared ashtray. “We don’t often get the pleasure of a visit–looks like you remember we exist.”

“Ha ha. I could say the same about you. Did you boys finally get your morals whipped into shape, or are you just over the thrill of making me break the law for you every other week?”

There’s a halt in the clack clack clack of Javier’s typewriter as he turns at the sound of your voice. Standing to reach across the desk, he scrubs out his own cigarette, makes a futile attempt to wave away the smoke, and watches you descend the stairs into their working arena. “Hey, Sully,” he smiles like a man not accustomed to it and rests his hands on the waistband of his ridiculously out-of-fashion jeans. “That’s a new dress.”

You flash him a grin and shake your head. “Stop. Don’t waste your flirting on me, Peña. You know I don’t need greasing.”

He only shifts his weight to one hip. There’s no response but a compliant tick of his jaw.

It’s second nature with Javier. He knows he’s good looking. Knows all he has to do is flash those puppy dogs and throw some attention, and ladies will give him anything he wants. You love it and hate it. Hate it because it’s insulting to be targeted for manipulation just because you’re a woman. But you love it because the man is Javier Peña and you’d be lying if you said those big brown eyes weren’t beautiful and you’re happy to have an excuse to have them pointed your way with warmth rather than the chill he reserves for the more bureaucratic workers. It’s a safe kind of crush, the kind you can play with as long as you never expect too much.

Javier’s been stopping by your office since before there was a Steve Murphy, buttering you up and asking for favors–access to a file here, a release stamp there–hell. You’ve expedited more requests on his behalf than all of the upper cabinet combined. And how many times have you distracted the clerk in tapes archives just so Javi could walk by and flash a request form without having it scrutinized for certification?

Every request starts the same, with his awkward little smile and an actual compliment. And every mission accomplished gains you a “Thanks, you’re a miracle worker.”

“Like Anne Sullivan?” you’d asked after the tenth or twentieth time.

“Huh?”

“Anne Sullivan. Hellen Keller’s teacher. The Miracle Worker.”

That caught him off guard. “Uh, yeah. Anne–?”

“Sullivan.”

“Right. I guess you’re an Anne Sullivan. I’d be lost in the dark without you.”

You’d allowed yourself to be charmed. “Careful there, Agent Peña, or you’re gonna make me rather fond of you.”

Nothing makes a grown man blush faster than to out-flirt the flirter. Not that it was hard with Javier. He was adorably miserable at it.

But it was always fun to watch him try…and to periodically beat him at his own game.

Once Steve landed in Colombia, you got two for the price of one. But Murphy knew you could see through his games and didn’t even try. It endeared you to him that he approached you sincerely. And you knew you could always do the same with him.

“As a matter of fact, it IS a new dress,” you chirp, twisting your shoulders one way and then the other, fluttering your lashes and fanning yourself with a hand in a mock display of coy preening. “My parents are flying in tonight and I’m taking them out to dinner.”

“I thought the trade conferences weren’t for a few days,” Steve frowns and shoots a concerned glance at his desk calendar.

“They’re not. But they’re coming through to spend some time with me and tour the city. Mixing business with pleasure. That’s…um…actually why I’m here. I need to cash in a favor.”

Javi chuckles as he settles back into his chair, throwing one heel and then the other onto the desktop. “Time to pay the piper. Name it.”

“Actually,” you cringe, turning to Steve, “I thought I’d ask Murphy here.”

Throwing a surprised but self-satisfied grin over at his partner, Steve puffs out his chest. “Well I guess I can be the hero for the day. Anything you need, sunshine.”

Thankfully Javi seems to feel the need to show he’s not offended and returns to his typewriter to peck out his report. Good. This is an embarrassing enough ask. You don’t really need witnesses to this.

“So, this is going to sound like a big deal but it’s really not. My relationship with my folks is just…complicated,” you assure him, priming the agent for the stupidest thing you’re ever going to ask for in your life. “It would make my and everyone’s life easier if I was seeing someone? Because then my mother wouldn’t bring it up and pressure me and irritate my father, and he wouldn’t worry about me here so much thinking I’m a woman all alone…it’s just…it’s…,” you sigh, irritated. “This is so dumb.”

Clackety clack clack ding whirr. You look up to see Steve gaping at you.

“Are you asking me to pose as your boyfriend?”

Silence. You’re sure if you turned to look over your shoulder, you’d see a frozen Javier, two fingers of each hand hanging above his typewriter like a little T-Rex.

Oh for a trapdoor or hand of god…. Suck it up. They owe you.

“Yup.”

“Uh….”

You expected this. “I’m not asking you to make a show or….they’re coming in tomorrow and I thought if you were here you could just meet them for a second. And if you’re not, I could just point to your desk–”

“Doll,” Steve releases a confused laugh, “I’m married, you know.”

“Yeah, but Connie’s not here. Like I said, they won’t delve. If I just point at a man, they’ll accept it and leave it alone.”

“So you’re going to lie to your parents.”

A confident nod is your first response. “Absolutely. And if you’d met them–when you meet them–you’ll understand why that’s best. Or you won’t. You really won’t get to talk to them long enough to find out. Just give a couple of handshakes, be nice and I’ll move them along. It’s that easy.”

Gritting his teeth, Steve gives a disbelieving shake of the head. “I dunno. I mean, the ruse won’t stand if they mention my name to anyone. Why me? Why not that new guy in the mail room who’s been watching you walk away?”

“Jimmy?” you scoff. “Yeah, no, not my type.”

“Really. Dark hair and pretty blue eyes and a six-pack he doesn’t mind showing off isn’t your type?”

“Wellllll, when you put it that way…sure he’s not your type?” Now it’s Javi’s turn to huff a silent laugh and you give him a conspiratorial smile before rounding back on Steve. “He’s dull, Murphy. My parents know me well enough that I’m not going to go for dull. So take that as a compliment. And he’s a bedpost-notcher. I don’t want to encourage that kind of behavior. I may be lacking in male companionship but I’m not that lonely. Yet.”

Your no-nonsense, shut-em-down tone quiets both of them and for a moment you think you’ve won. But his response makes it obvious you’re going to have to cash in all your chips.

“Still. There are enough single guys around here–”

“Because,” with one hand on the corner of his desk you lean in to conspire even though his partner is three feet away and can obviously hear you, “most of them are a bunch of lazy sit-abouts and you’re always out and busy. It not only paints a good picture, it’s the perfect excuse not to join us for dinner because my mother will do her best to insist. And,” you wheedle, lowering your voice further, “because you owe me.”

“I would counter that I owe you a lot more than he does.” Javi keeps his voice at a stage whisper in mockery of your own and shrugs as you and Steve swivel your gaze to him. “What.”

“Lying to the Assistant Trade Rep of the Western Hemisphere about intimate relations with his daughter sounds like a good time to you? You can have it.” Steve taps your shoulder before pointing at his partner. “He’s not hitched. Why not Javi?”

Rolling your eyes, you stall for time as you try to find a better answer than the truth, but when one doesn’t come, a sigh paves the way. “Because you dress more respectable than he does–”

“Hey.”

“--and my mother is judgy!,” your heartfelt insisting pushes through, doing your best to placate Javi–handsome Javi–who really does know how to keep the last decade’s fashion in fashion. “Javi, you’re lovely and you look good and I don’t want you to change. But my mother is going to take you for a ladies man, which you are, you know you are, and she’s going to pick apart your choices with wanton disapproval which is almost more unbearable for me than not being attached to anyone at all because then I’ll spend hours defending you for nothing–”

Steve and Javi finally break and their sudden laughter shuts you down. It’s all you can do not to give both of them the finger and a good ol’ fuck off.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Steve says through his trailing amusement, taking his turn now to placate. “Fine. We’ll make ourselves scarce and you can use the imprint of my ass in this chair as proof of warm-blooded human male. But maybe a false name, yeah? Like…Peter or…Harvey or something.”

“Harvey?” Javi scoffs. “How about Dick. Dick Bob Jones.”

“That sounds like a hillbilly name.”

“Yep.” ________

According to your mother, your apartment is “charming,” the streets of Bogotá are “interesting,” and the department headquarters are “surprisingly up to date.” In the car on the way to the office, you managed to dodge most of her questions about your personal life, dropping one-word answers before pointing out the window and explaining certain buildings or neighborhoods.

As promised, Agents Murphy and Peña are out in the field when you walk your parents past their desks on your way through to your own department. “Well,” you wave with half commitment at it and move on, “looks like he’s out doing his job and catching those bad guys. Too bad. Maybe next time.”

The crisis is momentarily averted, but while your father ducks into a nearby restroom, your mother can’t seem to let the matter pass.

“So what does he do then? He’s a cop?”

“I told you. He’s a DEA agent. He’s on the team trying to stop the drug trade from reaching the States. Have you heard of Pablo Escobar?”

She scoffs and looks past you. “Everybody has heard of Pablo Escobar, dear. That naughty man. Oh. Oh! Is that him?”

“Hmm? Escobar?” Following her gaze and turning to look back into the atrium, you’re gifted the sight of tight jeans stretching over a familiar backside and tanned arms yanking open drawers on Steve’s desk, obviously looking for something. “No, Mom, that’s just–”

But before you can correct her, she’s striding over in her Prada heels, ruffled blouse bouncing and pearls clicking, reaching forward into an eager handshake as she interrupts the very visibly hurried agent. “It’s so nice to meet you!” she chirps. “You must be Harvey!”

“Mother–!”

Javi stops digging, having found the warrant he was looking for, looking up in surprise at this forward, fussy, American woman, his lower lip hanging in a soft V, before taking her hand courteously and introducing himself, “Javi.”

“Oh, I knew I was right! The minute I saw you I knew you had to be her Harvey, you’re certainly her type.” Her hospitable countenance flickers only for a second as she takes in his tight shirt. “She says you’re quite the cop.”

“Mom, Javi’s a government agent and–” As you catch up to her, the momentary confusion on Javi’s face melts into understanding spiced with just a hint of amusement. “--and, as you can see, he’s in a hurry so–”

“It’s okay,” he beams, continuing to shake your mother’s hand. “I can take a minute to meet the woman who raised mi milagra.”

What.

Something in your brain hits the panic button and your mother chatters on to him as your backup generators whir into gear. He gives her his full attention, smiling as she babbles about how proud she and your father are of you and how nice it is that you’ve found someone to spend time with and…did he just say–

“We’ve got a lead on a collaborator and I was just ducking in to grab some paperwork,” he explains, waving the warrant in one hand. But his other hand– “What a lucky coincidence” –dips behind you– “that you happened to stop by,” –slides across your back– “because my girl here has told me so much about you,” –settles on your hip– “ma’am,” –and pulls you flush to his side.

It’s a smirk. A smirk that he has the brazen balls to grace you with then, and it’s hard to tell if he’s fucking with you or if he’s just really enjoying being your hero and sharing a joke that only the two of you know about.

And it’s equally hard to tell if you’re about to laugh or swear or….melt… he’s holding you so tightly and he smells like cigarettes and his surprisingly light cologne… his shirt is damp, your blouse is damp, it’s a humid day and you’re sticking together a bit and he wears such fitted clothes and one of his few buttons is strained enough to give you a peek at his smooth chest beneath…

“Well, if you have to go, Harvey, I don’t want to distract you from your work, but my husband is using the facilities and he’ll be sorry to have missed you. Will you be working all evening? Why don’t you come join us for dinner! You know how well my daughter cooks and she’s making her carbonara for us–”

“Mom–”

“Your carbonara?” Javi questions you before turning back to your mother and squeezing you tighter against himself, causing you to stumble closer. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Her delight is evident. “Oh wonderful!”

“If you’ll excuse me though, my partner’s waiting. I’ll see you tonight, honeybunny.”

The world tingles a moment as a mustache and warm lips bush your temple and then you’re watching broad shoulders and slim hips swagger away from you and up the stairs.

Honey…bunny? Honeybun–

Fuck.

“Javi! Wait!” You hold up a hand as you pass your mother. “Stay here for a second, I have to…I forgot to tell him… uh…”

He stops at the top of the stairs, leaning in, anticipating your quiet brand of ire. “Your mom’s sweet.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“What. Seems to be going well, I mean, apparently, I am your type, so it all works out. I think that performance down there earned me a dinner. I fucking love a good carbonarra.” The glare you serve him loses its bite under his soft smile lacking in any sarcasm or hazing. This is the Javi you know, the conspirator that finds you working late at night and is grateful for your help in the file room or in the microfiche lab, the one that noticed yesterday that your dress was new. Doing you a favor. What else would you expect? “If you want, I’ll wear baggier pants.”

“No, just…” you sigh. “I should give you my address–”

There’s a thing he does with his smile, something that gets you every time, a little jaw tick that comes with a quick downward bounce of the eyes and a single shake of the head. “Don’t need it. I know.”

“Okay, but…. Wait. What?” You call after him as he trots toward the door.

“I’ll come hungry!” _____

“Sir,” Javi bobs his head in reverence as he meets your father’s handshake. It’s above and beyond your requests, as is the cleanup of the five-o-clock shadow, the change to his black button up shirt, and his showing up on time. And in true commitment to the bit, he didn’t even knock, just came in and found his way to the dining area like he spends most of his time in your apartment.

“Good to meet you, Javi.”

“Dear,” your mother chirps from her watchful eye at your shoulder by the stove, “it’s Harvey.” She doubts herself. “It is Harvey, isn’t it?”

Completely disregarding your mother’s interjection, your dad gestures to a spot across from him at your modest dining table set for four and offers him a packet. “Sit down, sit down, agent. Smoke?”

“Ah,” Javi falters, and when you turn your head to your shoulder, you catch him checking in with you out of the corner of your eye. “She…doesn’t let me light up in here.”

“No? Heh. Well. I don’t know how she does it but it’s always been her way or no way. I see she’s worked her magic on you.”

“That’s for sure.”

You can’t help but smile as you give the noodles another good swirl in the pot and set the spoon on the counter. That little display just earned him a treat. Pulling out two glasses from the cabinet, you give a generous pour of the whiskey you picked up on the way home especially for him and bring them over to the table without a word for the two men.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” hums your father.

Javi glances at the glass, then up at you and your cocked eyebrow that queries him don’t I get a ‘thank you sweetheart’ from you too?

But oh, he came to play.

Ignoring the glass and taking your hand, his thumb skips across your knuckles. “You need any help, hon?”

There’s a microsecond between you where laughter is very very possible. The game is on. So you up the stakes by pushing a little curl of black hair behind his ear before trailing your fingers down to pinch his chin. “No, baby. You just relax and enjoy yourself.”

The smallest flush of pink and flash of panic that you catch on him as you turn away (only because you’re looking for it) tells you that you’ve won this round.

Back at the stove, your mother’s taken over, having drained the noodles and now attempting to pour the sauce into the noodle pot rather than your tried-and-true method of bringing the pasta to the sauce pan.

“Mom! Could you not–”

You see it coming a second too late, the sauce hasn’t thickened properly and a good portion of it misses the pot and splashes onto her blouse.

There’s commotion, a shriek and an overreaction, and you reach for a towel to catch the sauce before it stains, but the towel is dirty with spills and bacon grease and you’re both trying to keep the sauce pot from toppling off the stove. “Just…hold still, Mom, here…let me get a clean towel–”

“I’m on it,” Javi jumps up, heading down the hallway.

Great. Here’s another thing splitting your attention from timing the sauce. “Javi??” you call, “The towels are–”

“I know! The cabinet behind the door!”

How did he….doesn’t matter. The woman who raised you is in need of someone to mother her at the moment and you’re doing your best to calm her down before she causes even more of a mess. In a matter of moments, your stand-in man is back with a hand towel and you join her at the sink to help her dab it off.

“Oh, well this is just dandy,” she whines. “Now I have to sit here in a wet blouse in nice company…”

“It’s fine, Mom. You can wear one of mine.”

“The pink one or the blue? She can change in the bedroom,” Javi gestures, offering to show the way. “Ma’am?”

“Uh…the…blue….” This time you don’t have time to veil your shocked and confused expression. If Javi truly notices it as your mom swans by him, he doesn’t let on.

The rest of the evening is uneventful and pleasant, your father and Javi carrying most of the conversation as the older man drills the agent on the particulars of the cartels and Escobar’s influence with his communities, how it’s affecting customs and trade, and what that means for the conference your father is here to attend in his duty to the Trade Rep.

After a couple of hours, he makes it known that it’s time to get back to the hotel, that he has an early morning as his boss is flying in.

“Already? Dear! You boys spent all this time talking shop and I have all kinds of questions for Haaavi.”

“Well, my bride, you’re just going to have to wait to satisfy your curiosity. I’m sure it will keep.”

“Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?” Javi asks just as you take a sip of water and try your best not to choke on it. “If you’d like to try some of the local specialties, I know a place not far from here. Sancocho to die for, made fresh every day.”

The fire in your eyes is shielded, soft, but directed straight at the side of his face, hot enough that he can surely see it from his periphery if not feel the flames. The corner of his mustache rises the smallest fraction of an inch.

“That sounds a real treat, son,” your father says, rising and crushing Javi’s shoulder in a squeeze. “Tomorrow night then.”

Javi joins you at the front window when they leave so you can wave them off, having the balls to wrap his arm around your shoulder as you do. Once their car pulls away into the night though, he retracts it and ambles back to the table, gathering up a few stray plates and taking them to the sink. “Well, that went well.”

When you don’t answer, he turns to find you with a level expression and your arms folded across your chest. “What was that?”

He has the audacity to look surprised. “What?”

“We are going to address tomorrow night in a minute, but I’d love for you to explain to me why you know the location and the layout of my apartment, Agent Peña.”

Now he catches up, nodding slowly and returning to you at the window. With one hand on a hip and the other pointing to the nearest streetcorner, he explains, “Did you see that car that pulled out of there after your parents? Security. I sat in a car in that exact spot for three weeks after you were appointed to the agency. Couple days while you were at work,” he waves a hand, gesturing to the apartment as a whole, “I spent quite a few hours in here on a deep scan for taps.”

Now it’s your turn to carry the surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Standard procedure for government employees to be shadowed for a probationary period, eliminates the suspicion of inside involvement. You got a deluxe security detail treatment on top of it because…well. Your…family’s connection to Washington.”

He’s kind enough to wait for you to process this. “Wait. You mean,” peering outside at the location he indicated, noting the straight-line view into your living room, “you watched me? For three weeks???”

He turns back in search of his glass. “You dance when you’re happy. You could stand to be happy more often.” Giving you the time it takes for him to pour another finger of whiskey to stew over this, to grind through the gears of your mind and work out if you might have done anything embarrassing under the gaze of the DEA, he finally assures you, “Don’t sweat it. You’re usually a stickler for keeping your curtains closed. It was about as uneventful as a watch is possible to be.”

“So this is what they pay their agents to do? Babysit a government employee’s daughter? That seems below your pay grade.”

He downs the drink and shrugs. “I was lower on the pole back then.”

“Not that low.” But then…. The jaw tick presents itself again. His lack of eye contact confirms a sudden suspicion. “My…father paid for it.”

His nod hangs silent and sorry between you.

Independence. That’s why you took this job. Something you thought you could do on your own without your father’s help, run away from America, go live abroad and work somewhere new, somewhere exotic. How naive to think–for three years now–that you’ve done all this on your own.

The embarrassment burns.

Javi slowly runs a finger over a plate, raising a dollop of sauce to his tongue. “This is good. You’re a hell of a cook, Sully.”

It’s meant to lift your spirits, make you feel accomplished at something in your life. It’s appreciated.

“Thanks. It’s not that complicated.” Moving past him into the kitchen, you pick up your tongs from the counter and quietly start heaping half of the leftover meal into a bowl. “What’s this place you’re taking us to tomorrow? You’ve seen what a holy terror my mom is about food.”

He comes to lean against the refrigerator. “Dos Rosas Cocina.”

“I know it. Good choice. Atmosphere’s… rustic, but the food’s amazing.” Tying the bowl up in a clean towel and placing it in his hands, you sigh, all the stupid, terrible tension you didn’t know you were holding this evening seeping its way out. “I can’t believe you’re electing to spend more time on this little act.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I don’t remember thanking you, but thank you.”

“What’s this?”

“Leftovers. Lunch. Enjoy.”

“Thanks. I will.”

“You’d better.”

Later, after the dishes are done and the leftovers stowed, you curl up on the couch with the novel you’re battling your way through. But not a single page is turned. An hour goes by as you think through the interviews and steps you took to get this job, to land your working visa, to find this apartment in a nice part of town, how easy it had all seemed at the time, how accomplished you’d felt. And then there was that little look of realization and regret in Javi’s eye. That he knew. That he was the one that slipped and let you figure it out, that he never told you before. That nobody told you before. Had you come off as stupid in that moment? Innocent? Naive?

You need to confront your father about it. Probably not tomorrow, not in front of Javi. But soon.

Dammit.

You’re not getting any reading done so you turn off the light and head to bed.

Your pajamas are folded and the bed’s been meticulously remade.

Of course.

No wonder it took longer than it should have for your mother to change her blouse.

How is it you get to be a grown ass adult and your parents will never see you as anything but their little girl, even at this age?

________

“Soooooo, how’d you two meeeeet?”

Having arrived early at Dos Rosas Cocina, Javi already has a drink in him, so your mother’s question earns a contented smile. “Well–”

“At work, Mom. Obviously at work.”

It’s not a lie. It was at your desk. He needed something notarized and your new stamp hadn’t arrived yet so he wrote his direct extension on your desk pad, asked you to ring him when it did. You remember thinking that his eyes wandered too much but couldn’t be mad when you realized yours must have too if your first impression was that his pants were a good fit.

Later that night you’d come here, to the Cocina, charmed by its walls lined with picture frames full of the owner’s ancestors and descendants, how it seemed to be the center of time itself reaching backward in it’s colorful mountain-style decor and forward in its state of the art cashier’s computer and cd jukebox.

The owner had served your meal himself and sat down to chat with you, to practice his English, he said. It was a slow night and you had nowhere to be and he put you at ease right away.

“Dos Rosas,” he explained, “it means two roses. You see the sign? One red, one white. You know what it means?”

You shook your head and smiled, mouth full of some heavenly empanada.

“The red rose is for love. The white rose for friendship. Dos Rosas is a place my father made where he wanted guests to come with love and friendship.” And then he produced a single white rose, slipping it into the vase on the table. “For your luck. You are welcome here, friend. Someday you will bring someone who will share a red one with you, si?”

It had been a favorite place ever since.

Javier had been there that night too, now that you remember it. Sitting in the dim corner away from the basket lamps, nursing a beer and a plate of arepas, the curtain of his cigarette smoke nearly hiding him from view. Back then he was just the agent who needed some papers stamped and who just happened to be at the same restaurant that night.

Hindsight and new information reframes the nearly-forgotten memory now. Of course. He must have been tailing you then.

“I think,” Javi says as he drapes an arm across the back of your cane chair and leans in, “she understands where, milagra. But what she wants to know is that I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”

Your response comes with a sweet smile that hides a challenge. “I know. You watched me for three weeks straight.”

“And then some.” He doesn’t let your jab throw him off the act. “And then there were the times I had to get into the file room for nothing in particular, just a reason to come down and talk to her.”  On the contrary, he hooks a foot around the leg of your chair and yanks it closer to his own, effectively throwing you against his chest. “She used to laugh at my flirting; made fun of me, thought I wasn’t serious.”

The clench of your stomach, the cold wave of your blood pressure dropping, every method your body has to signal and react to danger begins to take over as Javi keeps you locked from pulling away with one arm, hazy smile inches from your face, his  heavy-lidded gaze dropping to your mouth.

A warm hand folds gently over one of your own, floating it upward, his fingertips guiding your palm until he ducks his head half an inch to meet your knuckles to his lips. Big brown eyes beg at you and that cold wave rebounds now as a hot tsunami.

And all you can do is stare, stare at this display of tenderness that seems so very unlike the Javier Peña you know. Gone is the indifferent agent, the shielded ego, the preference for solitary. As his kiss lingers on your hand just a second longer than necessary, you get a glimpse behind the curtain to the man beyond. For one moment you witness a vulnerability and care, a fleeting tease of what it must be like to have his perfect attention, his devotion. It’s literally breathtaking.

And then something in him stalls, shifts, as if he notices the same in you.

Is he going to kiss you? Should you kiss him? Right here in front of your mother? Why is he so warm? What is that amazing cologne? Is his shirt unbuttoned further than usual? Is that a cymbal roll in the music coming from the jukebox or is that your blood rushing in your ears? Does he always breathe this forcibly? How have you never noticed that little crease in his bottom lip or realized just how dark his eyes were?

Just as his tongue flicks forth to wet his lips, your father returns from the phone booth in the back.

“Well, false alarm. Seems the ambassador just had some bad fish, but it’s passing. Conference is still on.”

Oblivious to your predicament and drawing your mother’s attention, he’s happy to answer her questions regarding the type of fish and how long it was prepared, and she offers her wisdom to nobody in particular as to preventing such a thing as food poisoning. Neither of them notice as you slowly twist yourself out of Javi’s loosening clutches and both of them obviously assume your hasty retreat has more to do with wanting to powder your nose than calm your racing heart.

The restroom is one small room, looking like a much older sibling to the restaurant itself as if it had been built first and the rest of the building added later. You count fifteen cracks in the wall over the solitary, rust-stained toilet before a knock falls on the door, momentarily spiking your softening anxiety. It’s an old man’s voice enquiring in Spanish if you’d fallen in.

You’re far from convinced that you’re ready to face or deny whatever’s going on in your heart. But you wash your hands–one of them still stubbornly holding the tingle of Javi’s lips and mustache against it–surrender the room, and find your way back to the table where the man who is not your boyfriend leans forward on his elbows, spinning stories for your parents.

“But we’re zeroing in on him now. He’s made more than a few mistakes and we’ve just barely caught them by turning around at the right second. It’s only a matter of time.”

A smile pulls wide over your father’s face as he leans back in his chair. “That’s what I like to hear. Damn, son. I admire your tenacity. We’re lucky we have talented young men like you down here catching the bad guys.”

“And we’re also lucky to have you here looking after our daughter,” your mother helps.

“Thanks, Mom, I can take care of myself. I mean, that is,” To one side, you feel Javi’s focus tilt your way, “as long as Dad’s willing to pay for it, I guess.”

Silence blankets the table as the waiter sets down four bowls of sancocho, a plate of flatbread, a candle, and a red rose in a vase in front of you all before hastily retreating.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Staring at the rose and trying to sort out your thoughts, you’re not sure why you chose this moment to bring up the subject. Maybe your body is just in fight or flight mode and perhaps you’re diverting your fluster to this deep-seated frustration. Something is shaking the cage of your heart and wants out, wants to cause some damage–

–but Javi’s hand comes to a gentle rest on your knee, soothing whatever savage beast had awakened, somehow turning frustration and fear into calm strength instead.

“I know about the money, Dad. I appreciate the help, I really do. But it’s okay. You don’t have to pay anyone to babysit me and pull strings just to make my life easier here. I came to Colombia to challenge myself. I can’t do that if you’re sneaking in and slapping training wheels on me all the time.”

For a split second it looks as if he’s going to deny it, play dumb. Instead, he softens.

“Well, sweetheart, you’ll have to forgive me. Your mother and I can’t help but look out for you. It’s what we’ve done all your life. It’s a hard habit to break.”

The confirmation stings, but you can’t deny that you set yourself up for it. “Did you do the same for Kennie?”

“Your sister has a husband and a family. She doesn’t need us to look after her anymore.”

A frustration wells up inside, burning, humiliating, full of futility. It doesn’t matter what you accomplish, how many times you have to prove yourself, they’re just not going to change. They’re never going to overcome what their generation has held as truth all their lives, even past the recent wave of feminism and push for equality. They’ll never ever see you as complete unless there’s a man involved. There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do.

And perhaps that’s the conclusion that makes Javi’s actions feel like the only heroic course as he rubs a side hand over your back and explains, “Sir, you don’t have to worry about her. She’s capable. Thriving. She’s in no danger here. If there were any threat at all, she could hold her own. And even so, I’d do my best to make sure trouble never came near her.”

“Oh, Haaavi. You’re so good to her. She’s so lucky to have you.”

With a defensive flick of a hand, he continues. “It’s not luck, ma’am. And it’s not goodness. It’s simply part of my job. Even if she was nothing to me but another clerk that’s too smart and too bold for her position, I’m an agent first. As a U.S. citizen and employee of the DEA, I’m going to put her life before my own. With all due respect–and I’m sorry to be so blunt–but to doubt that she or any American isn’t safe here is an insult to Colombia, to me, and all government agents on a professional level.”

The hard drag of conviction in his tone. The realization on your parents’ faces. The understanding sinking in. The steadying warmth of his arm around you.

“But she doesn’t need me. She doesn’t need anyone. Most self-sufficient and confident woman I’ve ever known. I’m the lucky one; lucky she’s bored enough to keep me around. Must be for entertainment.”

Wow.

And all at once, you regret that you hadn’t taken the chance to kiss Agent Javier Peña. ________

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a ride back to her apartment, son? It’ll be faster.”

“Thank you, sir, but I’d like to walk her home.”

Javi takes your hand in his, waving at your parents with the other, and quietly pulls you away from the car window down the dark street toward your place.

Half a minute later he’s still silent. And still holding your hand.

It feels awkward not to let go. And yet rude to do so. So you find a middle ground and squeeze instead, “Thank you. For that. Back there. I hate that I have no power to convince them of my autonomy on my own, but I think they just needed to hear it from…”

Who? A man? A government employee? A “cop”? A workaholic who is cranky most of the time because he disregards his own health and safety and refuses to sleep in his never-ending quest to quash every last cokeslinger within a thousand-mile area?

His nod and squeeze in return says he knows. “You know it’s love, right?”

Your heart trips over his words. “What?”

“Your parents love you. Doesn’t matter how old you get. Doesn’t matter how far you run. Doesn’t matter how long the flight is and how repulsive they find the local guaro, they’re gonna love you.”

In the shared laughter that follows, your hands naturally part and you double over, remembering the look on your mother’s face after tasting the aniseed liquor Javi ordered for her.

“It was so beautiful!” you crow. “She tried so hard to smile and be polite…and the tears! You could almost see the fumes pushing out of her tear ducts!!!”

“It broke my heart to do it to her, but she insisted I order for her–!”

It’s not often you see Javi laugh and smile–really smile–with unrestrained joy. Playful smirks, weary grins, the occasional shy blush perhaps, yes. But it’s not until this moment that you see him genuinely happy. It takes years off him, as if he’s shed responsibility like a coat and gone skinny-dipping into life for a minute. His eyes crinkle deeply when he truly smiles, they shine and sparkle. Like stars on this dim street.

The giggles and chuckles continue as you near your block and it’s in a resurgence of his that he casually just reaches out and takes your hand again, as if dropping it had been a little mistake that needed correcting.

And suddenly, it doesn’t feel so awkward. It should be, but it’s not. It’s like you both decided it doesn’t have to be and yet, it doesn’t have to mean anything either. If anything, a shared happiness. A familiarity.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you.”

“Hmm?” His attention is slowly returning to the street, constantly scanning, every second a chance to gather information, find the next piece of the druglord puzzle.

“This. Being the perfect boyfriend. Having someone’s parents just think the god’s ass of you for once. Playacting chivalry.”

That last bit sobers him. “Yeah, well, at least I can put on a good show.”

There’s something in the response that rings…tired. You’ve hit on some old hurt, some buried regret. Knowing Javi, addressing it would only cause him to close off and dig it in deeper.

“Well, I’m enjoying it. I feel like I’m getting good value for all of the favors I’ve done for you and prettyboy Murphy. You’re good at this. A girl could get used to it. That story you told my mother about how we met? Let nobody tell you that you don’t go above and beyond in every way, Agent Peña.”

You can’t see the little grin that pulls at the far corner of his mouth, but you know it’s there. An eyebrow cocks. “So you’re saying my tab’s clear? I can put in a new order to the miracle worker?”

“Order up,” you laugh. “After all, now that I know Dad’s pulling strings, who’s gonna fire me? Bring your worst shenanigans!”

It doesn’t have quite the reaction you expect from him and he stops just short of the steps to your apartment building, deep grooves forming between his brows. “You know, it’s not unusual; landing any job has a lot to do with who you know. Keeping it is the part that’s all you. Even if you didn’t get it on your own, you still made it your own.” When you can’t seem to meet his eyes, his tone softens. “You’ve got a lot to be proud of here. Why did you feel like you had to perfect some image of your life by toting me around?”

Flustered, you scoff and jump at the chance to dodge the question. “I’ll have you remember that I asked Steve, not you. You’re the one that jumped at a free meal.” It doesn’t work. His stance demands an honest answer, his face says it’s required more for your sake than his. “It’s… a long story. There are checkboxes in my family… my sister got married and had kids and I never did. I never really felt it was important… or that anyone would put up with my attitude. i’m not exactly the picture of perfect wife material. I mean, of course I’d like to find someone someday, but it’s never been the main goal… but my parents–”

“I couldn’t do it,” he says. Not an agreement; an admission. Simple. “I walked away from the altar. Left her standing. It just felt like there was a responsibility there to be ‘the husband’, and–like you said, same thing–check off the boxes. I didn’t know if I could check off the same ones everyone else thought were necessary.”

It takes a moment to say anything. To move past the fact that he’s just confided a piece of his past and his personal life to you. That he’s let you in. It explains a little about why he doesn’t get close to anyone, why he prefers feminine relations without hangups. Which makes this admission very weighted and precious. You see that he trusts you not to judge. And perhaps it’s his way of letting you know that you’re not alone in dodging the tried-and-true life path.

“Everyone had expectations. You thought you couldn’t be a good husband. So you ran away to join the DEA because you knew you could do that spectacularly.”

Now it’s him that can’t look at you. “I wouldn’t say that I’m doing that well–”

“Javi.” That catches his eye. “You’re a damn good agent. I know you’re going to get the job done. Why the hell do you think I’ll jump at the chance to break every rule in the goddamn department to help you do it? Like I said. Who’s gonna fire me now if I do?” Something shifts in him, like he’s been slapped or sharply woken. As if it’s something he’s been needing to hear and didn’t have the right person to tell him. You’re suddenly honored to be that for him. He needs it. And so you gift him a little more. “Obviously you don’t have to do everything by the book to be good at something. Look at the past couple of days. Thank you for being nice to my folks. And for the encouragement. That’s all it takes sometimes, you know? You’ve been a damn good stand-in boyfriend. Your little stunts included, you asshole. That’s what made it fun. I’m sure you would have been a great husband.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it with a tick of his jaw. Regrouping, he gives you a pained look to say, “I’m sorry that you feel you were lied to…with the surveillance and all. And that’s how you found out. I meant what I said back there, Sully.” He swallows. “All of it.”

It’s so serious and vulnerable, an obvious effort for him to say. He’s a good man, Javi. You’ve read the reports. You’ve heard the rumors. He may keep others from getting too close, may come off as flippant and impatient or pour his focus into his work. But his moral center is pointed in the right direction and he’s the first person to discard his own needs in favor of someone else.

It’s probably what overwhelms him–caring about others but not allowing anyone to care for him–bubbles up so far that he has to visit his girls to vent it. He says they’re his informants, everyone’s heard that, but nobody buys that’s all it is. He needs to be cared for, but the money keeps him safe, keeps the lines drawn. It’s an exchange he can allow himself to make.

Something about that suddenly twists your heart. You could ask him in. You could take care of him. It’s tempting. It’s what he needs.

But you’re not sure if the inevitable fallout and distancing is what you need right now. It would be too easy to want him to stay.

It’s fine to fall in love just a little with Javier Peña, as long as you don’t expect too much.

Instead, you squeeze his hand. Big and warm and gun-callused. “I know you did. Good night, hero. Thank you.”

He lets you go, this transaction settled. Doesn’t ask anything more. As you expected. The perfect gentleman. When he puts his mind to it.

________

You’ve lost count of your yawns.

Even though you brought leftover carbonara for lunch the following day, you need to escape. There’s twice as much work with the ambassador’s conferences, more calls coming through and the agents and policia all have their regular requests. And you didn’t sleep soundly the night before; something whining at the back of your mind, like something forgotten or missed… Every form and file feels like an effort and you’re just so out of it. If your mother were to stop by and take you out to lunch–a real possibility–that would just be too much.

Half an hour in the outdoor cafeteria should help, even if it’s another hot day. Air and sunshine are usually good revitalizers. And you can hide in the crowd.

Or so you thought. Just as you’re settling in with a bowl of rice and veggies, a long shadow falls across your bench and you look up to see broad shoulders and dark hair.

But the eyes you meet are blue.

“Hi, Jimmy.”

“Well hey there. Mind if I join you?”

Without waiting for an answer he perches on the bench next to you with his sandwich and starts talking. About nothing. About the heat. How it’s hot here, how it was hot back home in Arizona but nothing like the hot here. Humidity. Dry heat. Sweat. How he once baked a cookie on the dash of a car parked in the sun. How he never understood the calculations between fahrenheit and celsius, just that one is higher and one lower. Something about mercury in thermometers.

You stop listening after a minute and just chew and smile and nod. You’re not that lonely. Yet.

There’s a little old man who sells flowers from a bucket, sets up a little stall on the sidewalk across the other end of the courtyard. He’s out here most days. He’s out here today. Carnations, chrysanthemums, birds of paradise, roses…

You should get some flowers for your desk. Something nice. Might wake you up a little. You watch absently as the flower man speaks to someone in a tan shirt. A man with dark hair like so many others here. He looks like Javi from the back.

You’d rather not think about Javi’s back. Or front. Or deep brown eyes.

So you listen to Jimmy ramble for a while before he finally asks you a question.

“Don’t you think it’s hot?”

“Yeah, Jimmy. It’s hot.” _______

“I’ll take one red and one white, por favor.”

The little old flower man’s smile is even warmer up close.

On your way back into the office you muse that you’ll put the roses in a vase and let them decide for you, depending on which one lasts longer. Do you really feel the need to entertain the possibility of infatuation? Or can you be content with the easy friendship you have?

But upon arriving at your desk, you find that your little bouquet will be unbalanced and one of the two choices will have twice the advantage.

There’s already a red rose laying on the credenza.

Next to a bowl that held carbonara leftovers when last you saw it.

And a note. Fast scratches on a torn piece of yellow steno paper. Probably from the ripped piece on your desk. Next to your pen.

“I meant all of it, Sully.”

Suddenly the clack of keyboards and whine of printers and ring of phones fades away. You lift the little note to read it again. “All of it.” As if the words aren’t enough, as if you need more empirical evidence–or maybe because it was with the flower–for some odd reason you bring it close to your nose only to confirm what you knew you’d smell there.

Rose. And cigarettes.

All of it? That’s the last thing he said last night. I meant what I said back there, Sully. All of it.

It had been a heartening thing to hear, reinforcing how he would protect and serve, how he thought you were competent and confident, but why remind you now–

Oh.

Oh. Not just that part.

All of it.

“I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. And then there were the times I had to get into the file room for nothing in particular, just a reason to come down and talk to her. She used to laugh at my flirting; made fun of me, thought I wasn’t serious.”

Suddenly you understand what was keeping you awake last night.

The look on his face as he stood by your steps. The way he rethought the words before he spoke. It wasn’t easy for him. He tried to tell you and you just…

All of it.

You just thanked him and walked away.

He’s been…this whole time…he’s…

“Darling?”

Yanked from one confusion to another, you turn to find your mother rounding your desk–even though you told her not to, that only government officials are supposed to be around your files–coming to take your hand.

“Your father and I are going on a tour of the city with the Representative. I dropped by to see if you’d like to join us.”

“Hi Mom. No… no, thanks. I’m…swamped today. I’m sorry.”

She coos, worriedly. “Are you alright? You seem tired. Those are pretty…”

Blinking down at the roses in your hand and stepping slightly to the side to shield her view of the third on your credenza, you agree, “Yeah, just tired today. It’s the heat. Here,” handing her the flowers, you smile. “The red one is for you. Please give the white one to the Representative’s wife. I hope you have a nice tour.”

“Oh. Thank you, dear…but…how did you know I was coming?”

“I didn’t. There’s a nice old man who sells them. Sometimes I buy some to cheer up my desk.”

“You’re buying your own flowers? We should stop by Haavi’s desk and tell him he needs to do that for you.”

“Oh. No need. He does.”

Once she’s on her way, you swing out to the atrium, but find Steve and Javi’s desks unoccupied. There was talk of a situation on the east side of the old town, no doubt the whole department will be out most of the afternoon.

Good. Maybe you can get some work done.

Still carrying the note, you flip it over on Javi’s desk and scribble five words with the same pen–

You know where I live.

–tuck it under his typewriter with just the tiniest corner sticking out, and head for the coffee room. One cup and three more work hours should shrink that stack of paperwork on your desk.

If you can just shut it all out and concentrate.

And try not to expect too much. ________

The door to your apartment is unlocked when you get home. Well, he certainly jumped at your note.

It shouldn’t surprise you. There’s got to be department keys in some file somewhere. After all, how could he have done all that snooping around when you first got the job?

Dropping your bag and keys on the table in the hall, you head for the main room. “Javi? You here?”

Heart ramming against your ribcage, you emerge into the apartment…

…and find your parents seated at your dining table. Waiting.

“Mom. Dad. How…how did you get in?”

“Your father talked to the landlord. It wasn’t difficult, dear. We wanted a word.” Even though there’s an endearment, your mother’s tone is anything but.

“Okay. That’s kind of excessive. You could have just swung by my desk, you know where I–”

“This is a more delicate matter and we thought you might appreciate the privacy,” your father grumbles. “Sit down, sweetheart.”

There are two things on the table. Your mother’s purse, and a box of tissues. Not the brand you own. Provided for.

“I don’t think I will. What’s going on?”

They share a glance, a starting gesture as if to choose who will begin, even though it was always going to be your mom.

“We had a very nice tour of the city today. We saw the opera house and the capital. It’s a beautiful city. You must really like it here–”

“Representative wanted to go into some of the deeper parts of the city,” your father interrupts, already going off book it seems, “to see the neighborhoods that really reflect the majority economy, get a feel for the true people of Colombia.”

What’s this all about. There’s a silence. Of course there is. They’re waiting for you to prod them. “The old town. I know it. It can get rough, but mainly only if you’re already involved in something shady.”

“Well, there’s plenty that’s shady there, I’ll tell you.” Your mother’s nose lifts more than slightly. “Did you know that it’s crawling with brothels?”

“I do, actually. There are a lot of women who don’t have any other way–”

“Well, Haavi certainly knows about those brothels. We saw him coming out of one today.”

Oh. Shit.

Wait. What?

Fuck.

Your mother continues, something about being sorry to be the one to tell you, something about your heart and how it must be breaking, how it’s hard to be lied to….

The tissues sit on the table, a pretty pink box with daisies on it. They expect you to break down. Cry. How good of an actor are you?

“...and if you want to come home for a while, you know you are always welcome–”

Not good enough.

“Javi’s not my boyfriend, Mom.”

The silence that follows is thick, it mingles with the humidity, curdles it like cream in the air. You let it sit until it sours.

“He posed for me so you wouldn’t worry about me here. Like you always do. As if I could never make it on my own without someone.” Their shock sustains. The quieter they become, the easier it gets. “And Javi went along with it because he works with me. Day in and day out. If anyone ever thought I was in danger here, or couldn’t hack the agency, he’d be the first to say so. And I trust him.” Your mother opens her mouth to run her tongue, but you cut her off at the pass. “I trust that man. Yes, you saw him coming out of a brothel, but I’m not his girlfriend and he’s there for his job. Those women sleep with the people Javi’s trying to catch. It’s a brilliant tactic, actually. And they trust him too. Because he is good to them. He’s a good man; one of the best I know and deserves respect. He takes care of them and protects them as much as he would anyone else. You should have seen what he did for this girl Helena–”

It’s here that you notice something out of the corner of your eye and turn to find Javi standing silent in the hallway, still close enough to the door that your parents can’t see him around the corner into the room. But you can. Wide eyes. That tight fitting tan shirt. Slightly off balance as if he came to a stop immediately at the knowledge of walking in on something.

Why do you feel….caught?

“Anyway,” turning back to your parents with a sigh, “I appreciate your concern. But you don’t have to be. Not about him, not about me, not about anything. I’m sorry I lied. It just seemed…easier. Because you have never just believed I was fine. I’m fine. I’m more than fine. Like Javi said the other night, I’m thriving here. Even if he was posing, everything he said was true…”

But if everything he said was true…

A glance to the hallway finds it empty again. Even if the door is slightly ajar.

“Well. You can’t blame us for wanting the best for you, sweetheart. You’re never going to stop being our daughter.”

“I know, Dad. You keep saying that. It’s right there on my birth certificate.”

“There’s no shame in accepting help if it’s given freely and if it helps you achieve a goal.”

“I understand that, but I really wish you’d told me about it rather than let me think I did it all on my own. Do you understand how that feels? To be lied to?”

Your mother huffs. “I do now.”

Thank god for office coffee. Without the edge taken off of your exhaustion, you might have had more bite. But for now, you’ve said what was necessary and you’re not up for a fight or managing their feelings; you have enough of your own to sort out. If they care about you as much as they say they do, they’ll let what you’ve said sink in and not push the matter.

“Are you flying out tomorrow morning or afternoon?”

“Tomorrow morning, sweetheart.”

You nod and move into the kitchen. Seems they do care. You have to give them credit. “Okay. Do you want some dinner? I’ve got leftovers.”

“We have a dinner scheduled with the ambassador.”

“Well good. I’ve had a long day and I’m really tired. I probably wouldn’t be good company anyway. You’re coming back in for the trade agreements in January?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Good. I’ll get to see you for a whole week then.” The sad smiles you exchange with them signal that everything’s going to be okay. For now.

There are hugs and kisses, a wish for safe travels and a promise to call in the coming days. Your mother apologizes loudly for cleaning your bathroom mirror. Your father apologizes softly for your mother’s volume. This time, you walk them all the way out to the street.

Your mother’s halfway to the car when your father doubles back, digging in his pocket, just barely remembering to give you the key he got from the landlord.

Or maybe he didn’t really forget.

“Your mother and I are proud of you, sweetheart. I’m sorry if we gave the impression that we weren’t.”

“Thanks, Dad. It’s good to hear.”

“I should have said it sooner.” He hovers as your mother gets into the car. “You tell Javi that it was nice to meet him. And that we’re proud of the work he’s doing here too.”

There’s something in the way he tells you this. Another apology. Or a knowing. You’ve never been sure with Dad.

“I will.”

As they pull away, waving, your plan is to go collapse on your couch and just be alone for a minute.

As you come back into your apartment, you have to amend that plan to collapsing on your couch next to Javier Peña.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You heard all of that?”

He doesn’t answer the question. You sink in, lean back, let your eyes close. He sighs.

“You mind if I smoke?”

“I do, actually. You know I do. And I don’t have an ashtray. There’s still some whiskey if you want though. Knock yourself out.”

The couch shifts a bit as he gets up. The pop of cabinet doors. The clink of ice against glass. After a few seconds, the couch shifts again and a cool tumbler slides gently against your hand.

You open your eyes to ice water.

“Thanks.” You take a long drink, not knowing what to say. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“I never do. Bed’s too big. Sleep better when I’m not alone.” When you look him in the eye, he knows enough not to turn away. “One of the girls was called into one of Escobar’s regular haunts. Didn’t see him, but got a good look at some clients he’s courting. It was info worth delivering a retainer. And a final thanks.”

You do your best to keep your hope from shining through your cracks. “Final thanks?”

“Yeah. For all the…help in the past couple of years. Told them there’s a woman I’d like to spend some time with. Get to know better.”

The sly smile spreading across your face will not be contained. “Really. You told your informants that you were shoving off to the boring world of dating.”

“No. But I did let them know that if there’s a next time I darken their door, I won’t be in a very good mood. I don’t have a Jimmy to turn to if this doesn’t work.”

“Oh. So that was you today in the courtyard. That’s what inspired this? You jealous of Jimmy?”

“Nothing to be jealous of. He’s not your type. But. It might have sped up the process.” When you don’t laugh at that, he sighs. “Listen. I’m not good at this.”

“Yes, you are, I told you that you arrrre,” you yawn and go after another sip. “But I’m the one who’s going to be cranky and crap at it unless I take a nap. I’m sorry. It’s been a day.”

“Can I join you?” His dark eyes search yours as you empty the tumbler.

There’s something like a hope there. And something else, not quite an apology, not quite yearning, a worry that he’s going to do this right or die trying and he waited far too long to start.

Like he’s fighting the urge to expect too much.

“I said a nap, Peña.”

“Good. We were called in early. I could use it.”

It comes naturally. A smile. A matching smile. A whispered okay. He leans forward and slowly, softly, presses his lips to yours. Lingers a moment. Traces your nose–one side then the other–with his own.

“And what happens when we wake up?” you ask quietly in the space between you, in the space before the next slow, lingering kiss.

Javi stands, wraps three fingers around your glass and lifts it gracefully out of your grasp. Setting it on the end table, he reaches for your hand to help you up. “This is technically the third date, isn’t it? We could just…check off the usual boxes.”

“I think we established that I don’t especially love to do everything by somebody else’s rulebook.” Using the inertia of you coming off the couch to pull you straight into his arms and into a deeper kiss--one full of holding breath and clutching fingers--he chases it with a nip to your lip, which coaxes a chuckle. “But I’m open to actually following some rules for once. Especially the good ones.”

“Good. I think it’s time I worked you a miracle or two.”

“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you. Well, lead the way. You obviously know where the bedroom is…”

He smirks, guiding you by the hand. “I’ll give you the tour.”

________

MASTERLIST

CHARACTER MASTERLIST

#narcos fanfiction #javier peña #javier peña x reader #javier peña x f!reader #year of tropes #javier peña x fake dating

[kechiwrites]

This is previous ghost anon can I request ghost being mean (in horny way) to reader 👉🏾👈🏾

you absolutely can babes, more ghost x medic!reader because they bring out the bitch in each other.

wc: 1k

cw: pussy spanking, dirty talk, mean ghost, degradation, teasing, brat taming (naturally), edging, overstimulation, maybe one day i'll write them being cute w/ each other...mdni

It is near impossible to not wrench off the bed when his palm makes contact with the already puffy flesh of your cunt. It is impossible, however, to stop yourself from helplessly wailing when he does it again.

"Shut up." His voice is quiet and thick in his throat, like he wants to say more, wants to push you further. And dear God, how could the two of you go further when your hands are tied behind your back while your not-boyfriend slaps your clit with his calloused hand.

"I fucking can't, Simon. Maybe you should stop fucking slapping me?" You hiss, your chest and throat burn with exertion and you wriggle against the binding around your wrist. It's been two hours of this, of Simon trying to force an apology out of you by taking you as close to the edge as he can manage before backing off when your hips start to twitch and your breath stutters. Two hours of his thumb grinding against your clit and his digits curving against your insides and his knees pinning your legs open so he can see you drip onto your mattress, all while he whispers a filthy gospel into your ears. Psalms and passages about the way your body shakes, the feel of your tongue on his cock, how wonderful you look when you come and how badly he wished he could see it, if only you could be a good girl.

The hand not actively engaged with edging you sits just under your chin, not quite squeezing your throat, because according to Simon; "you haven't earned it yet".

"You know what I need to hear to get this to stop. You want to come, you want me to give your cunt a break? You say you're sorry. Simple as."

You try to breath through the sensation when he starts fucking you again, when he forces you to watch, but it's not working. He mouths at the curve of one of your tit and drags the blunt edge of his teeth over your nipple. When you try to jerk away the asshole rolls his eyes, like you desperately trying to keep your mind from shattering like glass is a nuisance to him. And maybe it is. Maybe he's expected somewhere and he thought you'd break much easier. Maybe after this is done he'll have to will his dick to settle down while he runs off smelling like you, your sweat on his tongue and your slick on his hands.

The visual is not enough for you to give in though.

Not a fucking chance.

"Respectfully, Lieutenant? I fucking hate your ass." You huff, letting your head fall back.

"Jesus, you are stupid." He scoffs, spanking you again, and the sting makes you clench down on nothing. Simon's hand forgoes your sex entirely, rubbing small circles into the fat of your thigh, and after hours of direct contact the light touches are somehow worse.

"Are your wrists getting tired? We can take a break if this is too much for you?" You goad him, because it’s almost automatic at this point. You can’t help yourself.

"I should've gagged you." He groans.

"Then how would you h-have gotten your apology, genius?" Your voice is strawberry sweet, just to annoy him that tiniest bit more.

He stops rubbing your thigh at that, and you know you got him, at least here. The consternation in his eyes chokes a laugh out of you.

"I should've known this shit wouldn't work on you. You were made for this weren't you? Next time i'll just choke you on my dick, right there, in front of everyone." The hand around your throat tightens just as three of Simon's fingers slide back into the clutch of your pussy. He’s mad now, again, and it’s hard not to be happy about it. The sound of how wet you are echoes in your head while he fucks you full, the tips if his fingers dragging against your walls, nudging at the spongy bit inside you that pulls tears from your eyes. Your heartbeat ratchets up, pounding in your chest in time with Simon's hand.

"C'mon then. You want to come. Do it. I won't stop you, it's all your little brain can handle anyway."

Which is stupid and untrue. You're a doctor for Christ sake, but it makes your climax burn hot in your abdomen when he talks to you like that, when he talks down to you. It's probably why you rile him up so bad, why you embarrassed him in front of the rest of 141, called him 'cuddle-bear' where you knew everyone would hear it.

"I'm fucking speaking," the hand around your throat slaps not-so-lightly against your cheek, encouraging you to meet Simon's gaze. He looms above you, his still-clothed body blocking out the dimmed light of your room. "If you only act this way to get me to fuck you, maybe I'll keep you on my cock permanently. Strap you down here and visit you every night. They'll find another medic. You've got more important things to do, yes?"

You bob your head along mindlessly while you clench down on his fingers, your whole body shivering as he forces an orgasm out of you. It hits like a freight train after hours of being so close, your legs jerk, trying to close but Simon keeps you exposed, fingering you through the height of it. His hand tightens around your neck until your ears are ringing, making it impossible to force a breath out of your mouth. It feels like your brain is on fire, your lips parting to choke on his name.

He finally lets go, and you gulp large lungfuls of air, even with his fingers still inside you.

"Good?" He peers down at you and you wish you could rip his mask off his face, find some way to disrupt the smugness in his eyes, his tone.

"Yeah." You rasp, if only to get him to stop staring at your sweat slick chest and fucked out expression.

"Good." He murmurs, pushing your knees apart. He flexes his fingers inside you and pushes down on your abdomen with his free hand. "Try to be a little louder on the next one, I don't think the men's barracks heard you." A fourth finger slides into your cunt, stretching you wide while he pinches the hood of your clit. You choke on your own spit.

Apparently he has nowhere to be.

fingering is so underrated imo. requests are open, support content creators and city girls, reblog! part 4 here!

#simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x black reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x black!reader #ghost x you #simon riley smut #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley smut #ghost cod #ghost smut #cod mw2 fic #cod mw2 smut #cod x reader #kechi chat #kechiwrites #requests #cod x you #call of duty x reader

[strawb3rry-acid]

König attending one of his child's school event's.

Hopecore melts my heart, and I seen a video of people surprising their kid's by showing up too their school event's, and I, admittedly, cried because their reactions are absolutely heart warming.

It gave me an idea to write something about König surprising his little one by showing up to one of their school concerts (Did anyone else use to have those? I hated them as a kid).

I've already written a bit about how König would be as a father, and wanted to write a bit more about it. The trope of a man who's fairly awkward, and distant with other's, but is a loving father is one of my favorites. It's like chicken soup for my soul lol ♡

『⚊⚊☕︎︎⚊⚊﹄

König felt his heart pounding with every step he took, trying to keep his breathing under control with methods he'd learned long ago, and ignore the gawking of other parents, and school staff members as he roamed the halls that seemed to be never ending with ever corner he turned. It wasn't like he hasn't stepped foot in this school building before. In fact, he wished he'd been able to walk these halls more often with every event he ended up missing on his days spent deployed overseas.

It never seemed to get easier being away from his little one. Instead, the hole in his heart only seemed to grow bigger with every milestone he missed, and couldn't be apart of in real time. After all, videos, and pictures could never capture the feeling of warmth that would engulft his chest upon witnessing his child tripping over their own two feet to make their way over to him for the very first time, and fall into his waiting, loving arms.

Despite all of the difficulties that came along with his field of work, the way their eye's seemed to light up, and sparkle when they seen him, and the way they reached their little hand's out towards him as a silent plea to be held in his arm's after being unwillingly seperated from him for months at a time had always seemed to make all of the internal struggles he battled with during the time he spent away in order to provide for his little family worth it in the end.

After what had felt like an eternity, the faint sounds of a piano playing, and children singing filled his ears. Naturally, it sounded horrendous of course, like nails scrapping slowly down a chalkboard, but then again, anyone who would expect musical concerts performed by young children to sound like the next big thing would be sorely disappointed. He wasn't sure what sound was worse, what was most likely the music teacher playing the piano, or the small, high pitched voice's trying to remember the lyrics that went along with that awful tune. Either way, it drew a faint, amused chuckle from him. It was quite cute too listen to say the least.

He wandered his way over towards where he could only assume his child was, and mentally prepared himself for what would undoubtedly be the onslaught of various individuals, loud noises, and cameras. At least, that's what he hoped to see despite his nervousness to face it all at once. It was important for children's loved one's to show up for them after all. It wasn't going to be his favorite thing to endure, but he was looking forward to seeing his pride and joy's surprised expression of utter excitement once they noticed him standing there.

Stepping into the room, he stationed himself in a corner, leaning up against the wall too get himself as out of view as he could, while still being close enough to where his child could see him. Not that he'd be hard to miss anyway, much to his displeasure. Sharp eye's scanned the room, and it didn't take long for him to notice them trying to hide behind classmates in the backrow. If he ever had doubts before that they were his child, then they were completely washed away as he took note of their lost, nervous expression while they messed with their finger's in front of them, and tried to catch up with long forgotten lyrics.

It was clear they'd found comfort in the wooden floorboards in front of them, their eye's locked on them as they tried to ignore the gaze of the sea of people in front of them. Well, they had definitely got their anxiousness from him. König stood still as he silently thought of ways he could steal their attention, and keep their eye's on him in order to block out all the other stares in the room. He worked through the crowd to move closer to the side of the room where his child was, before moving up further ahead.

Thankfully, this was enough to grab their attention as they recognized those run down black boots they knew all too well. Their widened eye's met this, then a big grin began to tug at their chubby cheeks as they stared over at him. A little hand was pointed out towards him as it frantically waved in the air, and he could've sworn they were practically vibrating with happiness as a rush of excitement, and pure, unmatchable joy rushed through them at the mere sight of his towering presence alone.

With a soft smile, he subtly waved back, and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement as his own silent way of saying "I see you." Now, all he could only see, and hear was the apple of his eye standing in front of him as everything, and everyone else in the background seemed to fall nonexistent. The nervous energy that had built up felt like it had been drained from his body in an instant, and he found himself feeling at ease. Nothing else mattered to him in this moment. In his eyes, moments as precious, and as simple as this one is what made life worth living.

#cod mw2 #konig cod #konig mw2 #könig #könig call of duty #könig cod #könig mw2 #cod mwii #cod x reader #mw2 #modern warefare 2 x reader #modern warefare ii #cod modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare #modern warfare #cod mw3

[ryuryuryuyurboat]

under the mistletoe

synopsis: christmas brings out quite the interesting sides of people.

genre: fluff, little bit of crack at the end

characters: lyney x gn! reader

warnings: reader is referred to in 2nd person, mistletoe, uhm reader n lyney interaction is a little awkward, i'm going by my personal thoughts on how the house of the hearth (and arlecchino) would be like (kind of)

a/n: i really really wanted to write this and i had to get it out of my system so here is a very belated christmas fic for y'all hehe likes, reblogs and comments highly appreciated!!

©2023 ryuryuryuyurboat. do not repost, translate, plagiarise, or modify in any way, shape or form.

masterlist

christmas at the house of the hearth had always been rather… anticlimactic, to say the least. ‘father’, of course, would make time to celebrate with her children, with a larger-than-usual spread for dinner, and she would make sure to prepare small gifts for everyone, but there was always something about the atmosphere that simply felt off. maybe because of the nature of this family, you’d tell yourself, but you just couldn’t help feeling hollow every time the festive season rolled around. this year was no exception.

you’d volunteered to help out in the kitchen with a few others; and you were assigned to deal with the pastries with none other than lyney. big win, considering how his deft magician fingers would make folding the puff pastries much easier. 

to no one’s surprise, thanks to great teamwork (read: him doing the work and you being moral support with a side of helpfulness), you both sped through your task and completed it way earlier than you were expected to. a little disappointing, though, for you were hoping to spend more time with him– you inwardly sighed as you rinsed the flour and butter off your hands.

it seemed your hopes weren’t completely dashed— for you did run into him again, quite literally, just as he re-entered the kitchen hoping to nick a quick snack. a quick apology, and you moved to your right to walk past him; he moved to his left in an attempt to walk past you. he smiled apologetically, moved to his right— alas, you’d also moved to your left. repeat. then a sigh.

“we’re quite the uncoordinated pair, aren’t we?” lyney shrugged, no sign of exasperation anywhere on his face.

“seems like it.”

“yeah, well–” he stopped himself, looking upwards. “mistletoe,” he observed, and your breath hitched.

“...yeah.” well, you know the rules; and so do i.

a beat of silence.

“you could’ve moved away, y’know.” his periwinkle eyes bore into yours. 

“so could you.”

lyney gave a light laugh, though it sounded forced. “but i didn’t.”

you could hear your heart pounding in your chest– it was a wonder he hadn’t. now or never, hm? “yeah? well, neither did i.” you finally pointed out, watching as his eyes widened ever so slightly.

“so…” his voice was barely above a whisper now. “does this mean that, you– i– um.” 

he glanced aside, something forlorn in his expression. “you’re sure?”

it took you a moment to formulate a reply. “i don’t think i’ve ever been more sure about anything.” you finally breathed. 

his face was inches away from yours– you could feel his warm breath fanning your face, he was moving even closer…

a clink caused the two of you to jump apart, looking around for the source of the noise. 

“...sorry.” a pair of cat ears twitched as his silver-haired twin blinked at you both.

“lynette!!”

taglist: @yinyinggie @lynyluvr @kazemiya @meidnightrain (send ask to be added to taglist!)

if you liked this, do consider dropping me a follow for more :>

#astronetwrk #・ nouveau livre ˎˊ˗ #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #lyney #lyney x reader #genshin #genshin impact #lyney fluff #genshin fluff #༄the vessel’s voyages #scrolls of yore✒️ᝰ

[tea-plantz]

Hello! I absolutely LOVED your yandere!Bill Cipher x reader headcanons! Can I please get a part two where the reader loves Bill back? I’m a huge simp for the Dorito man 💛💛

Si mi amigo, I can of course write that for you, love! I swear, I’ve gotten sooo many Bill Cipher request lately, so I just had to do some more Bill content!

Also, like mentioned in the request, this is sort of a part 2 to my other Bill hcs, so I would recommend reading that one first!

He/him for Bill

They/them for the reader

<Yandere! Bill Cipher x reader HCS, where reader loves him back>

The dream demon had kept you with him for quite some time now, always staying by your side. Now, you might have heard of something called Stockholm syndrome, which is basically when a victim starts forming and emotional bond, and starts feeling sympathy for their kidnapper. You can probably guess where I’m going with this.

You were well aware of the fact that Bill had abducted you, taken you away from everything you loved, but for some odd reason, you started… viewing him differently. The more time you spent with the triangle, the more you actually started caring for him, and in time, full on loving him.

When you first told Bill you loved him, he didn’t believe you. Of course he had told you that himself multiple times, and made you say it back, but you always sounded nervous when you did. Moreover, you’ve never voluntarily gone up to him and just blurted it out yourself so casually, without him demanding it. Naturally, he was suspicious. Was this an attempt to gain his trust to escape? Or perhaps you were just toying with him?

When Bill finally realized that you were genuine with your little love confession, he was absolutely over the moon! Bro was flabbergasted.

The person he loved and adored oh so much finally loved him back! And he didn’t even have to force you in any way! (At least not too much) Oh what a joyful discovery! He was so happy, floating around while giggling like a little girl.

——————————————————————————

After that, the dream demon showed you hella lot affection, we’re talking hugs, kisses, picking you up, petnames all day, playing with your hair, cuddles, constantly complimenting you, all that stuff. It was a lot easier too, since you didn’t push him away or act scared anymore, which just made him more enthusiastic. Thing is, in the start Bill loved your fear, but it got boring quickly. What he truly longed for was your heart (not literally), so when he finally got it, he was overjoyed!

When you suddenly returned the affection one time, he almost passed out. “Hey Bill, how’s it going honey?” “H-h-honey?!” *Bill.exe has stopped working*

You would expect someone to get less angsty and possessive once they got confirmed that the person that they care about shares the same feelings, however, this was NOT the case with Bill, per say. He got even more over protective than ever, if that was even humanly possible, craving to be by your side at all times, day and night.

The fact that you love him would definitely boost his already big ego A LOT! This man would feel like the most important person in the whole wide universe, including you of course~ He would also brag about his awesome and beautiful s/o all the time.

In my previous headcanons, I mentioned that Bill would play the piano for you. Well, now that he doesn’t need to force you to sit still, he would most certainly do music duets with you! Preferably with love songs. The demon finds them so enjoyable, plus you’re angelic voice drives him absolutely crazy! He craves to hear it at least once a day, and you can’t really say no to him, whatsoever.

——————————————————————————

Bill did ease off of the punishments, mostly because he didn’t really need to punish you anymore. Since your little escape attempts had finally come to an end, and you didn’t really cause that much trouble for him anymore, Bill felt no need to lash out at you. However, if you did do something he didn’t particularly like, he would still punish you, just less intense then the methods he used before.

The Dorito man would probably also get fewer anger tantrums. Don’t get me wrong, he still gets pissed of if you or somebody else rubs him the wrong way, but it’s a lot less intense then what it used to be.

He shows you off a lot to every single one of his henchmen, ALL THE TIME. Bill takes great pride in you, y’know?

Now that you have finally given in and stopped being so stubborn, you and Bill are able to rule together as king and queen/king/ruler of the universe for all eternity, at last. When the dream demon and his crew finally conquered Gravity Falls, he kept you proudly by his side, while showing of his powers to you *wink wink*. Bill even made you your own throne! And even though you hesitated a bit to actually sit in it (since y’know, it’s made out of actual people), he stared you down until you finally gave in. All with love of course! Bill really couldn’t wish for more, everything was just perfect! His dream finally came true, and better yet, it came true with you ruling beside him, just like he’s always daydreamt about!

Bill is definitely never EVER letting you go. If you thought he was a lovesick psycho before, he’s a literal monster now. All the affection that you provided him of, really made him lose it, and now he craves you more than ever. This triangle is going to keep you with him til the end of time, and there’s nothing you can say or do to get away. Not that you would really want to though, since Bill has finally managed to sneak his way into your heart! Forever…

#bill cipher #bill cipher x reader #gravity falls x reader #gravity falls #yandere bill cipher x reader #yandere gravity falls #yandere bill cipher #yandere gravity falls x reader #bill cipher fanfic #bill cipher x y/n #bill cipher x reader hcs #gravity falls x y/n #yandere x reader #gravity falls bill #gravity falls bill x reader #cartoon #fanfiction #yandere fanfiction #yandere hcs #bill cipher headcanons #part 2

[lovesosweeet]

KNOW IT ALL x THE BAND CAMINO

part 1

a calum hood songfic

Tillie Beckett isn’t known for sticking around, and maybe that’s why touring had come so naturally to her, even as an amateur when she first began as an opener for 5 Seconds of Summer a few years ago… hopping from city to city, bed to bed, hookup to hookup. She broke hearts and left messes behind. And she didn’t care about it all, too wrapped up in whatever whirlwind she found herself in next.

The habits became religion as she propelled to stardom. Her music — angsty, energetic, unapologetic, and unpolished — took the charts by storm following her self-titled album’s debut. Her words were raw and honest, and they resonated with her audience, with upbeat and electric sounds that even the grouchiest and grumpiest of listeners couldn’t help but nod along to. It was the perfect mix of relatable and catchy, and that’s what made her the perfect opener for 5SOS.

Ashton had found Tillie’s videos on Instagram, where she often teased her emotional and early versions of songs she was writing. Her raspy voice caught his attention quickly, and he became a follower very early on, before she’d gone viral… which, she has done several times now. When 5SOS was prepping their latest tour, he threw Tillie’s name out as his top choice as an opener, and the rest of the band quickly supported it after they watched her cover of their very own, very old song “Lost Boy” and put a fresh spin on it. It was a song that the band themselves had honestly forgotten about that she gave an entirely new life. They were hooked and called her just hours after Ashton’s initial suggestion to offer her the spot.

Her friendship with the Australian quartet was forged in what, at the time, seemed to be an unbreakable bond. She was invited to dinner at Luke’s house to review the plans, the money, and all the other logistics of the tour, but the nitty gritty was long forgotten as the five of them stayed up until the sun rose the next day, just talking, jamming, drinking, and smoking the stars out of the sky.

She and Calum weren’t instant friends, at least, not the way she was with Michael. Tillie and Michael had bonded instantly over being gamers with an affinity for ever changing hair colors. He could also dress in her wardrobe and no one would’ve been able to guess that they weren’t his clothes, that is, if her clothes were big enough to fit the 6-foot-something Australian giant, since she was a mere 5 feet tall.

But, her friendship with Michael isn’t what landed her on the cover of tabloids.

No, the pictures of hers and Calum’s necks covered in matching bruises were what landed on the homepages of gossip websites. The videos of her and Calum whispering in what they thought were private corners of dive bars spread like wildfire amongst their somewhat overlapping fan bases. Them stumbling down the cobblestoned sidewalks of Montreal, hand in hand, for an impromptu “bachelor party” for Michael littered their tagged photos on Instagram for weeks.

It was a pair nobody expected but nobody questioned. It wasn’t predictable but it made sense.

At least, it did to Calum.

part 2

my masterlist! :)

—

A/N: hi i’m actually quite stoked about this one?!?!! sorry to anyone who wanted a self insert i personally feel more comfy in the OC x RP world and that technically won my poll! feels easier to separate as fiction/“characters” :)

#5sos #5 seconds of summer #luke hemmings #calum hood #ashton irwin #michael clifford #fanfiction #fanfic #5sosfam #imagine #calum fic #calum 5sos #calum imagine #songfic #calum x ofc #calum x fem!oc #know it all #the band camino

[inevesgf]

KISS ME ⠀,⠀ callux.

synopsis ✩ in which a drunk callux wants to kiss you, but holds back until he is sober.

authors note: had a request to write a callux fic awhile back so here it finally is <3 i’ve been a little busy recently, but i’ve been trying to crank out these fics in my free time. currently working on yet another chrismd one and a stephen tries blurb for a request — stay tuned lovelys x

word count: 1.5K.

THOUGH YOU HAD SWORN YOU WERE NOT THE PARTY TYPE, that is exactly where you found yourself that friday evening. with some convincing and bribery, your friend, talia, had successfully dragged you along with her. she told you it was a get together with friends — only 20 or so people would be there — but she had lied. as you entered the doors of the club, your eyes scanned the crowd. instead of the 20 she promised, there was at least 50 sweaty, drunk people in your view. “you’re not serious, are you?” you spoke, your voice sounding irritated as you glanced over at talia. in return, you received a look of fake sympathy, “looks like todays the day you’ll have to get out of your comfort zone!” you rolled your eyes. though talia was a good friend, she wasn’t afraid to push you into uncomfortable situations. you sorted of thanked her for that though — without her you would have never met most of the people you were friends with. an introvert being friends with an extrovert sure has it ups and downs — talia knew exactly what she was doing by pulling you along.

talia had introduced you to a lot of her friends over the course of your friendship. harry lewis, her boyfriend, simon, calum airey — the list of them went on for a bit. because of her, you had created a lot of bonds that would last a lifetime. you had to admit, some of the men she had introduced you to were gorgeous — others not your type. one in particular you had your eyes on was lux, and knowing he’d be there that night made talia’s bribery easier.

as you pushed through the waves of drunk people, you scanned your surroundings for a particular man. before you had spotted him with your other friends in the corner, talia had taken your hand and began to pull you into the crowd. you staggered on your feet, almost tripping on your heels as she guided you. after getting ahold of yourself, you and talia crammed into the small circle your friends had been talking in. “hello ladies, a lil late, don’t ya think?” chip teased from across the way, winking at you in the teasing manner he always used. you rolled your eyes sarcastically, meaning no harm. “took me practically hours to drag this one out the door,” talia sneered, tapping your back in a reassuring way. as much as you loved her, sometimes you wished she’d stop embarrassing you. “well she looks lovely!” your eyes darted across the circle, landing on callux, as a dark red hue flushed your cheeks. you knew he was absolutely battered, in fact, you could barely make out what he said through his slurred words. still, you could not help but smile a bit — drunk words were sober thoughts are after all, right?

it had taken you a few to adjust to your surroundings; the once painfully loud music feeling natural to you. the group had dispersed, leaving you with lux as simon pulled talia away. you couldn’t help but let out a little sigh as you leaned against the back wall of the club, lux standing to your right. he was very much gone, it was clear to see. his body swayed slowly — whether it was to the music or because he couldn’t hold himself up, you couldn’t tell. a hint of sadness hit you as you realized all of your friends had ditched you. you knew it wasn’t on purpose — some of them were too drunk to stand — but you couldn’t help feel alone in a crowded room. “y.n,” lux began to speak, making you turn you head over to him. you wished you were more intoxicated than you were as your vision only blurred a bit, the tipsy-ness making you slightly dizzy. “mhm?“ you responded as you sat your empty pint glass on a nearby table. his body inched closer to you, leaving little space in-between, “can i kiss you?” lux’s drunk spoken words poisoned the air and you could not help but let out a little laugh. “you’re drunk.” you spoke, a slight huff escaping your lips; one of anxiousness, not of disappointment.

to admit, you would have kissed lux. like you had thought earlier, you had always seen the boy as handsome. his personality, his looks; it was a whole package deal for you. he was drunk, and if anything, you wanted your first kiss with him to he sober at least. lux huffed, setting his now empty pint on a nearby table. “please?” again, you laughed. out of most of your friends, lux was one of the worsts drunks. he wasn’t mean or sketty, moreso clumsy, out of it and needy. “ask me when you’re sober.” you didn’t want to leave him alone, but that’s what you found yourself doing. looking back at him once last time, you disappeared into the crowd to find talia.

the rest of the night went by swimmingly. you didn’t get too drunk in order to spare yourself from a hangover the next day, but you still let yourself let loose a little. the next morning you were awoken by the sun hitting your skin; peeking through the blinds as it raised from the horizon. your eyes stung slightly as you let yourself sit up, only a slight headache present. you praised god for sparring you from a hangover, especially on a day where you had to film.

today you had been invited on a sidemen shoot, which probably wasn’t the best idea to hold considering most people had been sick from last night’s events. “SIDEMEN BRUTALLY RANK YOUTUBERS” was the main idea of the video — you being one of the youtubers who will be ranked for various things. the shoot had concluded within the span of two hours, a lot of the shots having to be cut out due to the group descending into madness. though a lot of the shoot included poking fun at theo and taking the piss out of chris about his breakup, it was fun nonetheless.

though it was only half past four when the shoot concluded, you were already exhausted. making your way to the back, you grabbed your bag as you slung it over your shoulder. as you began to walk out, you were stopped dead in your tracks. leaning against the frame of the door was lux, looking a lot less disheveled than last night. “no hangover?” he teased, receiving a nod from you. “nope, im spared. you must be having a rough day though.” you clicked, stuffing one of your hands into your jean pocket. “lucky you! it was a harsh recovery this morning. i’m still feeling the consequences.” lux hummed unsatisfied, walking his way into the room more. “do you remember what happened last night?” he added as he approached you, leaving enough space for one more person between you two. you thought through the events of last night, and probably unlike him, you remembered everything. “which part? the part where you said you wanted to kiss me and i told you you were drunk?” a teasing manner escaped your lips as you sat your bag back down onto the table, knowing you’d be there for a bit in conversation. lux laughed, putting his head down a bit in embarrassment as his pale cheeks turned red. “well,” he took a step forward, “im not drunk anymore.” your breath hitched, your bodies now closer than before. a dark hue flushed your cheeks as you stayed stunned in your place. “i—“ before you could get out a word out, his mouth came down on yours. you didn’t let yourself think about what this meant to him; for fun or for feelings. you just gave in. lips locking onto each others, you let your body melt into his as he pulled you closer by the waist. what if someone walked in? what if he didn’t mean it? you let the thoughts drift away as you focused more on tangling your lips with his. you let your hands travel up to his hair, tangling your fingers in his slight curls. a breath escaped your lips as he pulled away, looking down at you with swollen lips and red flushed cheeks. a noise erupted in the hallway, causing you two to pull away from each other fast. as simon entered the room, he looked back and forth between you too, a smug look on his face like he had known something happened. he laughed slightly as he grabbed his phone off the table, slipping it into his pocket. “thank you two for coming, the video should do well.” he smiled an awkward smile before slipping back out into the hallway, leaving you and lux alone once more. you sighed, earning a questionable look from lux. “someone knows something he shouldn’t.” you stifled a laugh, once more grabbing your bag. “goodbye, lux. i’ll see you later, yeah?” as you approached the door you turned back to look at him, the red hue still prominent on your face. “you will.” he shot a wink in your direction as you exited, the butterflies in your stomache still remaining as you left.

#callux x reader #callux x y/n #callux #sidemen #ksi #miniminter #sidemen fanfic #chrismd x reader #calfreezy #fanfic #chrismd #calfreezy x reader #calfreezy x y/n #uk youtube #jj olatunji #simon minter #sdmn #vikkstar123 #harry wroetoshaw #harry lewis #w2s #wroetoshaw #w2s x reader #w2s x y/n #zerkaa #george clarkey x reader #george clarke #george clarke x reader #chaos crew #f1

[sevikasleftpussyflap]

Heyo! Just randomly found your blog and i CAN'T with the URL, all the chefs are kissing 😩👌

Might I ask how you'll think yandere!sevika if her sweetheart is totally cool with just being at home and is introverted by nature (chill with not socializing)? Stay at home? Hell yeah. Not talking to anybody besides Sevika? Sure.

Love the annoying reader, btw. You write Sevika so freaking well, by the gods.

Thank you and sorry for the long write!

- A

Thank you! Don’t apologize, I absolutely love asks like this. I’m always craving some yandere Sevika too

Okay but the idea of Sevika referring to her partner as “her sweetheart” has me dying that’s so cute. Her using older phrases to refer to her lover!!! I can see you getting annoyed when she calls you her “main squeeze”

Also her referring to you as “the one I hate the least”

Now, onto your ask.

Warnings: obsessive/possessive relationships, mention of kidnapping but it’s brief. Brief NSFW but nothing detailed.

Sevika’s overprotective and itching to have someone to protect and give her a reason to maim people, show off her strength and status. You’re a recluse and desperate for someone to help you avoid interacting with the public. You fit together beautifully.

Your quiet nature made it easier for her to target you and keep you isolated all to herself. She made sure that you noticed how people would avoid you when she was near, so you started following her around and associated her with safety.

Probably started an unlikely friendship. She would invite you out to get drinks about a hundred times until you finally accepted. Pestered you the whole night to just sit on her lap so you’d stop anxiously looking around to make sure people didn’t get too close.

“I told you. No one’s dumb enough to try anything with you on my thigh.” Her low, timber voice somehow drew your focus away from the loud music and noisy crowds that were congregating at the bar. Your new friend had taken the liberty of holding you against her with her hand on your waist, attempting to comfort you with light caresses. There was nothing comforting about this woman who you’ve seen dismember people for making her drink wrong.

Yet for some reason, she’s taken a shine to you. She wants you to feel safe with her, come out to get drinks with her even if you don’t talk, and boy, did you not talk the first time. You had been fed up with her pushiness and lack of taking no for an answer so you had agreed, planning on being the most unpleasant company she’s ever been in. When you bothered to respond to her, it was curt, harsh words that seemed to amuse her more than anything. Sevika had eventually let you both sit in silence while she bought you all of the food and alcohol you could want. The silence became hospitable, easy. You would still have preferred to be at home but a small part of you aches for companionship.

Which is how you’ve been roped into regular dinners with her, your new best friend.

“That you did.” You feel her eyes cut to you, see her signature frown deepen from the corner of your eye.

“What’s the best life you can imagine for yourself down here? Stuck in your partner’s house, waiting for them to come home like a dutiful little pet?” Sevika has an alarming curiosity with your romantic life, or the possibility of what it could look like if you ever got one. She often made forward and intrusive comments about your lifestyle. How you survived down here, how you planned to live a successful life without leaving your house, if you ever gave thought to being someone’s sugar baby just to avoid interactions with the public.

“Sounds good to me.”

After far to little time, she makes you the offer. She surprisingly doesn’t expect sex from you soon into the arrangement, but you’ve been attracted to her for a while and initiate the next step in your relationship. Sevika didn’t need to be convinced and got you to scream for her, made you tell her all of the things you liked, how she was making you feel, what you wanted her to do next so she could hear that sweet voice you so often deprived her of.

You being introverted makes her life so much easier. She enables you and gets you whatever you need.

Would probably show you more affection for not making her worry. She knows she can come home and find you safe and needy for some attention. She’s your only source of human contact and she loves that because it means you’re reliant on her in yet another way. You wait for her at the door to get off of work like a dog, flinging yourself into her arms to give her some sugar, as she calls it. The only time you don’t greet her is when you’re angry at her but you eventually relent because she’s your only friend.

Sevika isn’t exactly a social butterfly herself. You’re also her only friend, and I hope you like to play cards because she’ll make you play with her. It’s her favorite game yet she’d much rather spend time with you than random men at the bar. You’ll see a chattier side to her than usual as you become the only person worth seeing in her eyes.

“Rotten luck, babe.” Sevika swiped the cigars that were piled up on the middle of the table, bringing them towards her growing mountain of winnings. Cigars, candies, even your books and art supplies she had included in the bet for shits and giggles and to, “get you to actually try.”

You barely stifled a sigh as she began dealing again. Using the word, ‘excitedly’ to describe Sevika’s actions felt wrong, but for her usual behavior the word felt like an apt description.

“I even gave you some tells there, hon.”

Since she doesn’t have the opportunity to be overprotective of you in public as often, she’ll start fights just at the mention of your name. They have no reason to talk about you.

The times you do want to get out though, she gets moody and inquisitive. She’d offer to bring whatever books you want back but you insist you love the feeling of browsing for books in a bookstore. She’s more on edge and is as mean as she can be towards everyone else.

(Master sass came up with this one) Using her to get rid of people you don’t like. If someone’s being too chatty with you, all you have to do is exaggerate a little to Sevika and she’ll make sure they never bother you again. Sevika’s status also keeps people from interacting with you, which you adore. You’re truly a match made in Hell.

Guilt tripping you when you do want to leave. Voicing her rare desire for cuddles. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s stay in. Don’t you have a book lying around here somewhere? I’ll let you read to me.”

Reading her a horror/thriller book and making connections between her actions and the murderer. “Ha, I do that.”

Or noticing how you two fit into the roles of the kidnapper/kidnapee

“Wow. This book is making me realize some things.”

“Yeah? You want to start buying your own groceries again?”

“…Now that you mention it Stockholm syndrome isn’t that bad-“

#sevika imagine #sevika x reader #arcane sevika x reader

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Hi, this is my first time requesting. I hope this is not utter bullshit. Could you maybe write Eddie x male reader, where he comforts the reader about struggling to eat?

Hi! No this isn't bullshit. Not in the slightest! Thank you for trusting me enough with this request! I hope I've done it justice for you.

Eddie Munson x male reader.

Send me request here! Currently writing for Eddie Munson.

Feel free to look through my masterlist here!

____________________

There are days where everything makes your throat tighten. Foods that you normally loved made your stomach queasy. There is no warning when these days hit. You can literally eat the sandwich, the pasta, whatever it is, without problem the day before. And then the next day as your work to prepare or reheat it, your feel the bile rising in the back of your throat.

Today is one of those days. It's day three after grocery shopping and everything you've bought feels unappealing. You don't even know what you want instead. You just know you don't want what you have. And it's just easier to avoid the problem and survive on handfuls of cereal and water and crackers.

Eddie notices it though. How you've pushed the food around on your plate today just like you did yesterday. He's only got half the bag of pretzels left but he wants you to actually eat something. There's still a few more classes left in the day. The last thing he wants to hear is that you passed out in the middle of Drama because you just hadn't eaten.

So he pushes the bag a little closer to you. You notice it inching in but try not to think anything of it. Eddie talks with his whole body sometimes. This is no doubt just a byproduct of his wild gestures. He laughs with the rest of the group and the conversation floats like it always does in the loud cafeteria.

The bag inches closer again. This time Eddie's hand is resting on outside of the package as he moves it your way. You bring your gaze from the cross ring up to his face. He's looking at you with a small cocky grin. "C'mon, don't you want to grow up big and strong like me?"

You snort. "Munson, a strong wind could blow you over."

"I am only human after all," he returns. "Mother Nature is a force to be reckoned with." He punctuates by moving the bag directly in front of you. "I'm not sick, promise."

You stare down at the bag. Your stomach doesn't seem to reject the thought of the pretzels. But you're worried that after the first bite it's going to be a done deal. But Eddie's big eyes are staring at you, poring over you like he's genuinely worried.

You take the end of the bag with your fingers and Eddie grins before letting his grip go. You take one pretzel and snap into it carefully. The first bite isn't terrible to get down. You take it slow though. You give yourself a minute to let the first pretzel to settle.

When your body doesn't lurch, you grab a second one. Eddie's smile is brighter as he chats. By the time lunch is over you've only four of the remaining 8 or so of the snack, but it feels like a breakthrough from the stint you'd been in. As you toss the contents on the the tray of cafeteria food untouched into the trash, Eddie gingerly reaches for your elbow. You know it's Eddie because he's only as gentle as Eddie can be. It's a firm enough grip but Eddie's pressing closer and closer into your personal bubble.

"Wanna skip next period? Nurse has all the best snacks," he reasons. "Or if you want something different, I'm more than okay with skipping Mr. Randall's class to take you off campus for something."

You start to shake your head, start to tell Eddie he doesn't have to do all that but Eddie voice cuts you off. "C'mon, it's your choice. I just--I know it's not easy to like actually eat when the food is so shit. Whatever you want, man."

"That's the problem, man. I don't know what I want. Nothing sounds appealing."

"We could at least get orange juice. That's good, yeah? Nurse Jenkins is a sucker for a bad boy and I can score you at least two bottles."

The sugar wouldn't hurt. But you're not sure if you can go for two bottles. And you don't really want Eddie skipping his classes. "You're the last person to need to skip. Like ever."

Eddie gives an indignant squawk in return. His offense is clearly jest, but he still pouts just a little at your words. "Rude."

"But I'll let you walk me to the nurses office if you promise to go straight to class."

Eddie purses his lips together. His grip still hasn't fully left your elbow. "I need to see you take at least two sips before I go."

Of course he would. He's that type. "Deal, Munson. Since it's going to kill you if I don't eat."

Eddie nods at the remark. "It's breaking my heart."

The sentence sits ful at the utterance. There's no dripping teasing tone. There's no faux concern or sarcasm. It's a full sentence and you wonder if Eddie's noticed these days. Why would he be worried at all about someone like you?

As the two of your breech the doors of the cafeteria, Eddie's hold grips and the two of you walk with a couple inches between the two of you. It's mostly silent between you, though the hallways are still full with students heading to their next classes.

"Does this happen a lot?" Eddie questions a few feet from the nurses often.

You shrug. "It happens enough."

"What-what do you usually manage to eat?"

"Water. Cheerios--boring as it fucking sounds they're not too sweet. Crackers are good."

Eddie nods, fingers tapping against each other and the rings softly echo with their clinks. "How long does it last?"

"No longer than a couple days. This stints kicking me in the balls though. I don't know if I like ate something bad and it's lingering or if it's stress? Just...everything sounds gross most of the time."

"I mean, the school lunches would never actually help anyone if they were having issues eating, ya know? They look like slop sometimes."

The two of you linger outside the door, never reaching it fully to make you warrant the knock, but clearly you two have passed here because the intent is for you to be there.

You give a soft tuft of laughter in an exhale through your nose. "Yeah, they're not always appealing."

Eddie pushes forward, hand raising to the wooden door. It's a two knock warning and then he cracks it open, gesturing for you to enter in the increasing gap. It's quick really as you explain that you'd appreciate some orange juice if she can spare it because you've had trouble getting much down and are hoping the juice will get you through the day. She offers you a pass to head back home if you need, but you decline it saying that you'll come back if you really need it.

Eddie lingers as promised only long enough to see you get two sips down before he takes the pass to make it to his class. The juice is just enough and by the time you get home you feel like you have an appetite again.

But you notice later in the week and early next week when Eddie cracks open his lunch pail there's a roll of crackers in them. And the next week it's rotated out for a second bag of pretzels .

"Don't you, like, hate those," you say pointing into the pail and seeing what is definitely Cheerios. About a month after Eddie walked you to the nurse's office, you notice he's got a whole rotation of foods he doesn't even touch each week. You're not even sure why he's keeping food he's not going to eat. It's a waste in the end if he's just tossing them out at the end of of each week.

Eddie shrugs. "Keep spare, sue me," he huffs. The conversation ends there. Until the next day, he notices about halfway through that you're pushing the peas around and then slides the sandwich bag to you.

"Should I still sue?" you mutter digging in for a handful of the cereal.

#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x male reader #h writes #stranger things

[meowzfordayz]

Hi, uhmm, could I maybe request either a fic or HC about Kyojuro being protective over a fem reader? Like maybe she's in the corps but her trainer is being too harsh on her or he protects her from a demon? I'm feeling pretty vunerable right now emotionally, your writing is amazing and the thought of Kyojuro being protective just makes me feel a lot better.

Heyo lovely. 🥺 Tyvm for trusting me and my writing to fulfill your request — I hope this provides at least a sliver of comfort. 💗 Sending you quiet sunsets and blooming tulips vibes. 🌅🌷

Author’s Note: if this doesn’t show up in tags, then- 😡😭🤞🏽

pinky promise

Rengoku Kyojuro x Reader

Word Count: ~1,400

CW: canonical violence

~faqs~

Pinky

Kyojuro is a relatively private man. Not, necessarily, of conscious design: he simply, naturally, operates on a need-to-know basis. He doesn’t pry, badger, or impulsively butt in on the affairs of others. Doesn’t usually question, let alone doubt, the logic or motive behind that which he isn’t explicitly involved in. Whether due to his upbringing or his rank as a Hashira—which, if he’s being honest with himself, then it’s certainly due to both—he dutifully follows the command and will of his superiors. Namely, of course, Oyakata-sama, and his father to an extent when he so chooses to visit home — to visit Senjuro. Admittedly, he doesn’t have many superiors: an almost amusing thought to ponder when he can’t fall asleep at night—Rengoku Kyojuro, Flame Hashira, at the top of the Demon Slayer Corps—because Kyojuro is humble at best, and, at worst, surprisingly unaware of his capability and charisma. While slaying demons requires a high degree of adaptability, he is, at his core, a man of routine and direction. An amalgam of discipline, ambition, and integrity. 

Honor.

Deference.

Responsibility.

“[y/n]!” he exclaims, startling your hurriedly moving figure.

“Rengoku-sama! I didn’t- My apologies- Uh- I’m in a rush!”

“Of course,” he waves sheepishly, “Do not let me interrupt! I am glad you are well.”

You nod, stalling for a moment, “What brings you to the Butterfly Mansion? You seem physically sound.”

He smiles unabashed, pleased by your observation, “I am alright! I am merely passing through.”

“Oh,” you swallow a disappointed noise Duh.

Oh? newfound curiosity flits across his expression, “Were you hoping to enjoy my company for longer?”

“That’s very forward of you,” you retort briskly, eyes narrowing in a poor attempt to hide your fluster.

Kyojuro’s confident chuckle warms your ears as his smile widens, “You aspire to become a Hashira, correct? I am always eager to familiarize myself with potential colleagues!”

Just in case he encounters a situation where he has to fight demons with you: the better he knows you, the easier—the more effective—collaboration during battle will be. Not because he’s already memorized the color of your eyes despite only meeting you twice. His intuition rarely leads him astray, is all, and when it comes to you — his intuition wants to burrow cozily and securely into your radiating sincerity.

“I’m pretty sure everyone aspires to become a Hashira,” you mutter.

“You are mistaken. Many slayers do not have the desire or courage to achieve such a rank! You are special.”

“Who’s special?” a third voice sneers.

Kyojuro wishes he’d imagined your slight wince, but the abrupt, involuntary fog glazing over your eyes tells him otherwise.

“Rengoku-sama,” a shrewd man bows stiffly before him, “I pray you were not inappropriately entertaining the dreams of my apprentice?”

And why would doing so be inappropriate? is what Kyojuro intends to remark — a swift and stern utterance to rebuke this strange, belittling man. But years of habit and instinct restrain his seething judgment. Instead, he firmly reminds himself that You do not know or understand their relationship, sparing you a faintly apologetic glance.

“I was sharing a casual greeting, sir. I would not dare interfere between a sensei’s teaching and their apprentice’s learning.”

If he’d turned a shade slower, then he would’ve seen the sharpness in your stare. The disappointment curling your fingers; the loss of respect tightening your throat. But he turns quickly, uneasily, oblivious to your plight. At least — that’s how his reaction feels to you. You have no way of knowing that, even though he doesn’t see it, he absolutely senses it: senses the edge of your frustration, the cruelty of your so called sensei. You have no way of knowing that, as Kyojuro stalks away, shame settles heavy and foreboding in his gut.

Promise

“... did what?”

“Rengoku-san, please … wait …”

“Don’t … where … Kocho-san”

“It’s none … you can’t …”

And then you hear him enter the ward.

“[y/n]?”

You’re too battered and weary to flinch, but your heart twinges nonetheless.

“[y/n]. I-”

He’s standing at the end of your cot—that much you can discern—as you refuse to open your eyes. Let him assume I’m asleep you scoff inwardly.

“I had no idea,” the remorse in his tone catches you off guard, “I should have said something.”

That holds your attention—in an anger inducing manner—your eyes flashing open.

“You should-”

As determined as you are to insult Kyojuro’s behavior, you find yourself choking at the sight of him frazzled. Fatigue tempers his typically bright gaze, eyebrows pinched worriedly; nose flared, chin scrunched; fiery hair messily tied back, stray tendrils framing his taut cheekbones in concerning disarray.

“I should have defended you,” he murmurs, uncharacteristically quiet, “That man—your sensei—felt… vile, yet I ran from his challenge.”

Kyojuro hardly ever despises himself. He’s resilient. Independent. Mature. And I failed to protect you. Who else can he blame for your puffy eyes — swollen from exhaustion? Who else can he blame for your bruised and bedridden body? Pushed beyond its limit. Forced on a perilous mission—far above your current ability—without any chance to recover from that man’s brutal, sadistic training. Preparing inexperienced, lower rank slayers for the relentless onslaught of pain, violence, and injury is an important and inevitable aspect of, well, being a slayer. But not like this Kyojuro’s jaw clenches You should not be here.

“I am responsible for you, and I-” he exhales raggedly, gripping unforgivingly at his haori, “I failed to protect you.”

Of course, he feels responsible for anyone below the Hashira rank. Slayers and civilians alike. Not, out of arrogance, but of duty and morality. And you? Well. He doesn’t detour to check on just anybody at the Butterfly Mansion. You watch him carefully, silently, stiffening as someone appears in the doorway.

Kyojuro notices the shift in your demeanor — especially as that presences seeps into the surrounding air. Harsh goosebumps raise along his flexed arms, albeit invisible under his unmistakable Flame Hashira haori, a cacophony of righteous rage bubbling in his chest.

“Rengoku-sama,” slurs that cold, slimy voice, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I, Rengoku Kyojuro, Flame Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps, strip you of your position and affiliation. You will never deserve the title of sensei. You are the utter disdain and opposite of sensei.”

Can he actually do that? is your immediate thought. He really does regret his previous inaction is your second. How will Sensei that man react? is your third thought, How will I progress without guidance? soon following.

“You do not have that authority.”

But he has intimidation. And connections. And uncanny finality that, with or without authority, his word is enough to ensure the reality of his declaration.

“And you do not have an apprentice. Not now. Not ever. Understood?”

Comprehension dawns, smirk morphing to an indignant, blustering facade of innocence and protest.

“You can’t do that?”

Kyojuro smiles coolly, “I can. I promise you. I can.”

The tension snaps. With a warning hand resting on his hilt, he strides toward the shriveling man. Unhinged. Gleaming. Dangerous. He won’t unsheath his katana—he isn’t that rash—but the pathetic man doesn’t know this.

“You should go,” he practically hisses.

The humiliated man swivels extravagantly, exiting the ward with a feeble flourish of his kimono, hardly disturbing the dominant, blazing aura rapidly devouring the lingering remnants of his presence.

You’re stunned by Kyojuro’s blatant exercise of power, frankly shocked by how smoothly he slipped into the roles of judge, jury, and executioner. But his next role unravels you. Unravels you as his fury dissipates, soft anxiety taking its place. As he gauges your emotional and mental state, removing his haori in a single motion, draping it across your lap. Is he blushing? Blinking unsteadily, nervously—repetitively—interlocking, separating, and interlocking his fingers.

“I apologize for depriving you of a sensei,” Kyojuro hesitates, heart in his throat, “I would be honored to fill the void I so untimely created.”

“But I don’t use Flame Breathing?” you squeak, fixated on the comforting, unexpectedly gentle scent emanating from his haori.

“I am optimistic that we can overcome that logistic!”

“You pity me,” you whisper, mindlessly tracing the flame pattern covering your legs.

“I admire you!” he’s resolute, “And I am responsible for my missteps. You would be doing me a favor, allowing me to amend my prior neglect.”

The tiniest of smiles tugs at your mouth.

“Okay,” you shrug, teasing mirth crinkling the corners of your eyes, “I suppose I’ll allow it.”

#kyojuro rengoku #rengoku kyojuro #kyojuro x reader #rengoku x reader #flame hashira #one shot #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #emergency request

[tsarisfanfiction]

Eclipse: Chapter 27

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Teen Genre: Family/Adventure Characters: Apollo, Hades Unsurprisingly, the ichor warning continues for this chapter... I have a discord server for all my fics, including this one!  If you wanna chat with me or with other readers about stuff I write (or just be social in general), hop on over and say hi! <<Chapter 26

APOLLO XXVII

Mother of monsters And her horrific husband We can’t win this fight

Apollo was terrified.  It was taking everything he had to stay upright, to not fall over in an ungainly lump of ichor and leaking essence as his form desperately tried to heal, but without a miracle, he couldn’t see how they were going to escape the monstrous couple.

It wasn’t even his looming erasure from existence that terrified him the most; he’d faced that before, with Python on the very edge of Chaos, and it was hardly a comfortable feeling but it paled in comparison to dark glittering eyes and the knowledge that the moment he fell, Will would be Styx’s.

Perhaps Koios was right, and he’d been trying too hard to fulfil the prophecy after all.

Typhon responded in a language long dead before Apollo had been born, the rumbling noise of an off-key orchestra as clashing sounds pierced through his essence, words unintelligible.  The elongated, bloated fingers tipped with serpentine heads – what was it with monsters and snakes – were easier to understand as they lashed out at Hades.

His uncle slashed back desperately, cutting off the snake heads of the first to reach him, but he was off balance and barely holding himself together.  Apollo had no weapons, no time to even try and summon a fresh bow from the distant Overworld – and never had the Overworld felt so far away as it did at that moment – but he couldn’t just stand by as his uncle was torn to shreds.

Koios got there first, massive sword blocking the initial onslaught.  “We will make it to the surface,” he grit out, his countenance devoid of amusement for the first time since he’d caught up with them and made things complicated and threatening in ways Apollo really didn’t want to deal with.

There was something about his insistence that had been bothering Apollo.  The future wasn’t solid, nothing more than a trail of potentials unless events fell in the exact manner to draw one into existence, and Koios should know that at least as well as Apollo did – better, arguably.

And yet.

Koios was convinced that he would make it to the surface, had mentioned his sister but not his mother, and Nico and Will had been talking about Artemis, so it made sense.  Apollo was certain that his grandfather had seen it, not just as a possibility but as a very, very rare certainty that Apollo in four and a half millennia had never experienced himself.  Even now, the Fates had shown him nothing of the sort, but it wouldn’t be the first time they hadn’t shown him something important.  For all that he did see, he didn’t see far more, and he could believe that Koios saw different things.

The only thing that was missing was how.

How they were going to get out of Tartarus – how they were going to get away from Typhon and Echidna long enough to even try.

Bob had joined the fray, spinning his broken spear aggressively to keep Typhon back, but it only seemed to be extending the inevitable.  Apollo threw himself closer, letting out a shout because his voice was the only weapon he had left, but Typhon was so loud he didn’t seem to even notice.  A tail swept past him, catching him in the stomach and smashing him into Hades, which in turn sent them like skittles into the titans.

They landed in an ichor-covered mess at one of Typhon’s feet.

Being so thoroughly beaten had become a second nature to Apollo as a mortal, when Lester could barely fight in the first place, but as Apollo, as a god, it was alien.

Not even Python had been this powerful, but Typhon had always been known as the strongest of Gaia’s children, had sent them scattering to Egypt the first time they saw him for a reason.  Adding Echidna into the mix hadn’t even been necessary.

“The way out?” Koios hissed, detangling himself from his position at the bottom of the heap.  Apollo found himself flung to the ground and clawed his way upright slowly, feeling more than seeing his uncle’s dark essence trying to pull itself together again.  He reached out his own, battered essence to support Hades – if he couldn’t fight, he could at least heal – and felt the streak of light within his uncle respond sluggishly.

“A way out?” Echidna repeated, laughing lightly behind her fangs.  “There isn’t one, titan.  You will cease to exist here and now.”

There was a crack, too sharp and crisp to be natural, or Tartarus tearing up beneath them.  The resulting force shoved the monsters back a pace, but Apollo wasn’t looking at them anymore, not when two massive doors had appeared right in front of him.

For the briefest moment, Apollo’s startled mind thought that somehow the doors to Olympus had reached Tartarus, before he realised that the colours were all wrong – black and silver in place of white and gold – and that the disembodied frames were the pitch darkness of Stygian Iron.

Then they opened.

“Lord Hades!” Thanatos called, as pale as Apollo had ever seen him – the exact shade of pale he’d been in his vision – but gripping his scythe in a way that was clearly meant for battle.  “Lord Apollo!”

“Th-” Hades began, but Apollo wasn’t hesitating and wasn’t going to let his uncle hesitate either.  His vision in the prison hadn’t been the present, it had been the future and that future was now, Thanatos had felt Tartarus rising, realised that they would never escape without help, and for reasons Apollo couldn’t even begin to fathom, come to get them.

There was no time for any other thoughts, for everything else Apollo had seen in the vision and their implications.  He grabbed his uncle and ran.  Hades didn’t fight him, missing the context Apollo had but clearly realising what Thanatos’ presence meant: a way out.  It was hardly graceful or elegant; neither of them were much more than spilling essence barely contained within an ichor-coated, fragile form.

“No!” Echidna roared, echoed innumerable times by Typhon’s deep growl.  She lunged for them, but Thanatos was there, his scythe blocking the massive body and covering them as Apollo and Hades all but fell through the Doors of Death, a bright streak of golden ichor in their wake.

Bob tumbled through after them, and then, to Apollo’s resigned horror, Koios barged his way in just as Thanatos retreated after them, scythe whirling and slashing in a way the god of peaceful death rarely used – but not never, and it was clear Thanatos knew how to be violent and vicious as he opened up a gash along Echidna’s flank, hacked off reaching snake-headed fingers as Typhon reached for him, then took the split second opening of their clear surprise at a god not known for his combat causing them injury to turn tail and fly through the doors.

They slammed shut the instant the last iridescent black feather of his wings passed through, and everything shifted.

“Who is pressing the button?” Koios demanded.  “What is stopping them from following?”  His sword was still at the ready as he warily watched the closed doors.

Thanatos ignored him, crouching down by Hades and Apollo as they slowly pulled themselves together.  “I trust your business is concluded, Lord Hades,” he said, with a glance at Bob.

“It had better be,” Hades replied, his voice slightly husky – not that Apollo could comment when he was in at least as much of a state.  “I am not returning there.”

That was a sentiment Apollo whole-heartedly agreed with.

Koios, on the other hand, didn’t appear to take being ignored kindly as he bashed his sword into the floor hard enough that the ichor pooling around them splashed up.

“Have you trapped us here?” he demanded.  Even Bob looked disquieted, and Thanatos finally turned to face the titans, looking extremely unimpressed.

“These are my Doors,” he said firmly.  “Unlike titans who steal them and then bastardise their use, I do not need outside influence to use them.  We will shortly arrive in the Overworld.”

“You are no match for Tartarus, Typhon or Echidna,” Koios retorted.  “They will pry these open and follow.”

“They won’t,” Thanatos replied, with a certainty that even paused the aggressive titan.  “There are no chains.”

“The Doors are no longer in the Pit, are they?” Bob realised.  “They moved.”

“The Doors of Death do not belong in Tartarus,” Hades said, straightening up fully.  His form had fully coalesced again, although Apollo could tell it was still fragile, more a mask than a reflection of his true state.  Apollo stood next to him, and was only somewhat startled when his uncle clasped his arm and his essence extended towards him, not mingling but the intent there.

Before this experience, Apollo would never have considered being able to mutually heal with his uncle, let alone actually doing it.  If Hades was willing to do it in front of Thanatos – in front of the titans, although he suspected Koios had seen it already, if he’d been following them as long as he claimed – then Apollo wouldn’t refuse.

Besides, they still had Koios to deal with.  He was dangerous – not that Bob wasn’t, but they had an accord with him and a mutual interest.  With Koios, there was none of that, and that worried Apollo.  Was Koios truly just looking to escape Tartarus, or did he have more intentions?  Was his vision of being out with Apollo and Artemis truly enough for him to throw himself into the worst Tartarus had to offer?

Apollo feared it wasn’t.

He clasped Hades’ arm in turn, and let the light of Elysium, of the Isle of the Blessed and rebirth mingle with his own light of healing.  Thanatos glanced back at them in surprise, but didn’t comment.

“I was not expecting you, titan of the north,” the god of death said instead, focusing his attention on Koios.  “Iapetus – Bob? – I was aware would be there, but there was no mention of you.”

Koios scoffed.  “I would not be so sure about that,” he said.  “Tell me, grandson, what was the exact wording of that prophecy you’ve been attempting to subvert?”

Apollo bristled.  “I have not been attempting to subvert it!” he insisted; the titan was wrong, he’d claimed it as his own, and with two – no, three, he realised, the golden ichor running across the floor of the Doors catching his attention – lines now coming to pass, he was confident that the Fates had accepted his and Hades’ claim.

“Are you not supposed to be the god of truth?” Koios laughed.  “But if you want to lie to yourself, that is of no concern to me – the prophecy, Phoebus.”

“We are no longer in the Pit,” Bob added.  “You said you would reveal it once we were out.”

Apollo sighed, but felt the words build in his throat regardless.

Sunshine and darkness go deeper than earth Topaz and silver search for rebirth Gold passes through the shadow of death A fading light to take one final breath

“One more line to go,” Koios observed, and Apollo disliked that he’d unravelled the meanings of the first three lines so easily, but Apollo’s own prophetic domains had been inherited from the titan side of his lineage – not just his maternal grandmother but his grandfather as well.  If there was anyone else in existence who could tell when prophetic lines had come to pass, it was his maternal titan ancestors.

“One more line to go,” he agreed reluctantly, gesturing at the golden ichor they’d dragged through the Doors of Death when Hades and Thanatos looked at him in askance.  No-one needed explanation for the first two.  As for the single one still to go, it was, as the final lines of prophecies tended to be, the direst one.

Thanatos walked over to the closed doors and pushed them open.  “We’ve arrived.”

Koios was the first to barge past, almost knocking Thanatos aside in his determination to get out.  The god of death looked at him disparagingly before fixing Apollo and Hades with a stare.  “I could not stop him from entering, but did he have to be with you?” he asked in clear disapproval.

“It seems as though he did,” Hades grumbled.  Interestingly, Bob didn’t protest at their complaints at his brother’s escape; perhaps the titan realised how much of an issue Koios might be, loose in the Overworld.

Realising that they had to do something about him before the other gods – his father – realised that not one, but two titans had escaped Tartarus, Apollo reluctantly separated from Hades, putting a stop to their mutual healing as he followed his grandfather out into the Overworld.

They emerged in the large, dark hall of the Necromanteion, a temple Apollo hadn’t spent much time in but recognised nonetheless, even if he hadn’t already known that it was the location of the mortal, unmoving, side of the Doors of Death.  They were underground, but compared to the depths of the Pit they’d just – miraculously – escaped from, it felt like he was on top of the world.  Strength swelled as he ran after the titan, before remembering what being out of Tartarus meant and simply dematerialising, appearing outside the temple, under the fresh air and the sun as it passed to the west.

It felt like Sol was the one covering that shift, and Apollo spared a moment to watch it on its downwards arc – dusk was approaching, soon Artemis would take to the skies in her chariot for the night.  Despite the lateness of the day, the warmth of the sun revitalised him further, and with a thought, a new bow materialised in his hand, his quiver filled to the brim with arrows.

Everything that Tartarus had tried to take from him was back, or near enough.  He was still wearied, weakened from the ichor loss he hadn’t fully replenished, but bathed in the rays of his own celestial domain, he felt stronger.

“Phoebus,” Koios greeted.  The titan had stopped just outside the temple, likewise looking up at the sky.  “Join me.”  He gestured for Apollo to approach, seemingly unconcerned that he was fully armed again.  Then again, he, too, was standing stronger, wounds closing with his hand draped over the hilt of his sword.  “Your sister is coming.”

Artemis was.  Apollo could feel her clearly, the moon to his sun on a collision course.

He could also feel that she was not happy.

Koios gestured again, and warily Apollo stepped closer, staying out of immediate sword range.  “It’s a shame Leto and Phoebe aren’t here,” he commented, almost idly.  “It would have been nice to have the whole family.”  He shrugged.  “I will have to find them.”

“What do you want, Koios?” Apollo asked, aware of Hades and Bob behind them, not intervening but present.  Thanatos was nowhere to be felt, but Apollo had not expected him to stay.

Knowing his uncle was there, that if Koios attacked, he wouldn’t be alone, was a strange yet comforting feeling.

“Freedom,” the titan said, “much the same as you, grandson.”

“I have freedom,” Apollo dismissed, ignoring the small voice in the back of his head that pointed out he wanted to be able to do more than the Ancient Laws allowed.

Koios laughed, full of humour but also derision.  “The freedom to be stripped mortal whenever you displease your father?” he challenged.  “The freedom to cower behind as many masks as you can conjure rather than risk making the wrong enemy?  You have a strange way of saying the truth, Phoebus.”

Apollo was saved from finding an answer to the titan who knew far too much for his liking – titan of knowledge, he couldn’t not remember, Koios was somehow worse than Athena – by a bolt of silver light exploding into existence in front of him.

Artemis had never been a fool, and a single glance around the scene had her pinning Apollo with a heavily disapproving look.  “Phoebus Apollo, what have you done?”

Despite himself, Apollo couldn’t help giving her a genuine smile.  “It’s good to see you, too, dear sister,” he said.  Almost automatically, he took a step closer to her, further from Koios.

“Granddaughter,” the titan interrupted, and Artemis’ silver eyes snapped from assessing Apollo – and no doubt racking up an entire list of grievances to air at him in the process – to instead inspect the ice-blue titan.  “Artemis, yes?”

They had the same eyes, Apollo realised, seeing his twin and their grandfather regard each other, clearly assessing.  Artemis’ posture was rigid, the fact that she was in her favourite pre-pubescent form doing nothing to detract from the way she was as taut as a drawn bowstring.

“Koios,” she said after a moment, no doubt but plenty of suspicion in her voice.  “You should be in the Pit.”

“And yet, here I am,” Koios replied, spreading his arms and bestowing a smile upon them.  It was a self-satisfied look, not a kind smile.  “Thanks to Phoebus here.”

“You forced your way out,” Apollo corrected hurriedly, sensing his twin’s increasing ire and feeling the need to set the story straight.  “You were never the aim.”

“But Iapetus was,” Artemis said, looking far more terrifying than twelve year old girls had any right to – not even Meg could hold a candle to a four and a half millennia old goddess, even if they looked of an age.  “Apollo.  Are you trying to be punished again?  Father is furious at your disappearance; once he realises exactly what you’ve done…”  She trailed off, seemingly unable or unwilling to elaborate further.  She didn’t need to.

“There is a way to prevent punishment,” Koios murmured, drawing both Apollo and Artemis’ attention back to him.  The fading light of the sun reflected off of his cold, cold eyes, calculating at best and a promise of cruelty at worst.  The smile he gave them was too full of teeth, too full of malice for Apollo to trust it for even a moment.

Artemis’s bow materialised in her hand, an open sign of her own mistrust.  “And that is?” she demanded, with the air that she knew she wouldn’t approve of whatever their grandfather had in mind.

“He can’t punish Phoebus if he isn’t in any position to do so,” Koios said slowly.  Behind him, Apollo felt Hades lurch forwards.  “Or you, nephew.”  The titan had also noticed.  “You asked what I wanted,” he said, addressing Apollo directly.  “What I want is that tyrant gone, for those upstart gods who mocked me to grovel at my feet, knowing that they will never rule again.”  He glanced sideways, where Hades had halved the gap between the two of them and was standing a little way away from Apollo.  “You are different, Hades.  Your brother rewarded you for your help by shutting you away, too, did he not?  Then you protected my brother, when you could and should have handed him over, and finally came to rescue him.  I have no interest in the Underworld; so long as you do not oppose me, I would be perfectly content to leave you alone in turn.”

“You want to overthrow Olympus,” Artemis said bluntly.  “Did you learn nothing from your previous attempt?”

“From my youngest brother’s attempt, you mean?” Koios corrected.  “None of those plans were of my devising, but yes, I learned plenty.  Your father has held that throne far too long; how can you call yourselves gods when you whimper and cower behind masks and shields, constantly in fear of your own father’s retribution?  Sometimes,” he grinned, all sharp again, “fathers need to be disposed of.  Isn’t that right, brother, Hades?”

“No,” Artemis said sharply, before either could respond.  “Your father, and the Crooked One, but if you insist on extending that to my father, I will stop you here and now.”

“Even if it’s the only way to save Phoebus from his wrath?” Koios pressed.

“No,” Apollo agreed.  He remembered previous attempts to talk Zeus down, even overthrow him, and they had never worked – and Artemis was right, Koios had not just spoken about Zeus.  All the gods that had opposed him, save Hades so long as Hades did not fight back – Olympus.

Apollo could never stand aside and let Olympus fall.

He glanced up at the darkening sky, disconcerted at the lack of thunder or lightning.  Koios was forcing them to talk about treason – surely Zeus would have noticed by now?  Once, Apollo might have thought Zeus was waiting to see what their response would be, but in recent centuries, even a hint had been enough for the lightning to come down.  The silence was disconcerting.

“No?” Koios repeated.  “Phoebus, do you want to be punished?  If I was not clear, I am offering for you, children of my beloved daughter, to join with me.  You would be honoured, finally in the position beings as fine as you should always have been.  Even if you are too afraid to stand against your father, all you have to do is stand aside.”

Instinctively, Apollo and Artemis stood closer together, close enough for the familiarity of his twin’s essence to wash over and through his, and despite their differences, despite Artemis’ disapproval at his various antics across the millennia, especially those their father had deemed rebellious, he could feel nothing but a thrum of agreement in this.

It was the same feeling they’d had when Tityos had tried to rape their mother, when Niobe had boasted of being a better mother than the titaness of motherhood herself.  The moment of being fully in sync, two halves of one whole.

Koios could not be allowed to tear down Olympus.

As fast as thought, golden and silver arrows combined flew towards the titan, who growled as he ducked away, his massive sword coming up to act as a shield.

“Do not be foolish, Phoebus, Artemis!” he scolded.  “The glory days of Olympus have passed; she will fall, and you will fall with her if you do not step away now.”

There was Koios’ certainty again, an absolute confidence in an unchangeable future, but this time, Apollo wasn’t so convinced that he was right.  He’d seen Olympus crumble, stones cascading down and the mountain turning to the same broken shell Mouth Othrys had been for his entire existence, yes, but he’d also seen her thriving, glorious days that spanned millennia more.  Apollo had seen possibilities, different paths that the future could still take, and even now, faced with Koios’ certainty, not all of those paths belonged to defeated potentials.  Many, many still laid open, Olympus’ fate far from sealed.

“No,” he said, calm and measured.  Certain in his own way.  “One day, in the far future, the time of the Olympians will come to an end, but not now.  Not from this.”

“We are Olympians,” Artemis added, as though she thought Koios needed reminding of that.  “We are loyal to Olympus.  If you insist on attacking, then you are our enemy.  Sometimes, it is the grandfathers that must fall.”

Rage flashed through icy blue eyes, but Apollo and Artemis were ready for Koios’ attack and scattered, arrows flying in their wake.  There was no delay between thought and materialisation now, no split second of weakness as Apollo was unguarded, unarmed.

“Iapetus!” the titan barked, stamping his foot and summoning a wave of ice that rushed to Apollo.  He shimmered out of existence just before it struck, reappearing in mid-air with the setting sun at his back, and let loose another barrage.

Bob moved, stepping forwards, but his spear was still half-broken, and he seemed hesitant.  “Brother-”

He was stopped by Hades, the god gripping his arm tightly.  “Koios would see the demigods you promised to protect dead,” Apollo heard his uncle say.  “It is not just Olympus he wants to destroy.”  The underlying threat was there; if Bob stepped in, if Bob turned on them, then their alliance was moot and Hades, too, would join the fray.

“I am aware,” Bob said, his voice hard.  “I will keep my word, Hades.  I had plenty of time to think in that cell; I know that you showed me mercy, the day Nico brought me to you.  More than that, you protected me, for reasons I still cannot fathom.  We were mortal enemies from the moment you were born, and yet when you had the chance to destroy me, millennia later, you did not.  And if a god can do that, then so can a titan.”

“You were always the most honourable,” Hades replied.

“Iapetus!” Koios shouted again, dodging a hail of golden arrows and ending up in the path of the silver projectiles instead.

“My name is Bob, Koios,” the titan called back, crossing his arms.  “Why do you insist on doing this, brother?  Our brothers are gone; the age of titans is passed.  We should co-exist with the gods, not seek to destroy them.”

Koios roared, and Apollo took advantage of his split-second distraction to plant an arrow in the small of his back, knocking him forwards half a pace.  Artemis drove several arrows towards his front; off-balance, Koios didn’t manage to block all of them, and received a silver shaft to his shoulder.  “You’ve gone soft, Iapetus!” he snarled.  “You were always the weak one but now you’re just pathetic!  Co-exist with the gods?  Did your memories come back diluted of the atrocities they did to us?  Was millennia in Tartarus not enough to teach you that the gods will never be our allies?  The time of the gods has run its course; it is time for the titans to return.”

“Kindness is not softness!” Bob replied.  “How is it that for everything you see, brother, you have never seen that?  I will be kind, now, as Hades, Phoebus and the demigods have shown me is possible, but I will not be soft.  Stop this madness, brother, and I will stand by you, but not until then.”

Koios let out a howl of betrayal.

Chapter 28>>

#trials of apollo #trials of apollo fanfiction #riordanverse #riordanverse fanfic #pjo apollo #pjo hades #pjo bob #pjo iapetus #pjo koios #pjo typhon #pjo echidna #pjo thanatos #pjo artemis #tsari writes fanfiction #eclipse

[dktrps]

Fancasting tips from an anxious author

First, I am writing this because I want to be clear with whoever stumbles upon this. I do think that fan casts are a fun way to diversify your character's mood board, have something to base your OC upon or have fun with some wishful thinking.

However, I wanna give some thoughts about how this little thing present in fandoms for years can actually be beneficial to your writing process. If anything from this is not groundbreaking, or stuff you heard about, then sorry.

Having a person who'd portray your character in mind can help with a nuisance that I haven't seen many talk about - the tone of their voice. If you have such a person, this can save you some time when it comes to struggling with coming up with this feature, whether you want your character to sound the same or just model their voice after that person.

Sometimes, certain mannerisms or other stuff people notice when it comes to an actor's performance can make it easier if you want to make your character's body language stand out.

In case you have considered multiple people to model your character off, just go for it! When designing an OC that is supposed to be likeable and seem like a real person, deriving from as many sources as possible is a simple way to make it so. I've often found myself in a situation when I was convinced that several people would fit my character perfectly and just couldn't choose.

Don't be afraid to mix it up, it's your character after all!

Also, I wanna mention that this whole debacle may differ from fandom to fandom. In Doctor Who for eg. (at least on Twitter) every one year or so I see the post:

"Ok guys, who would you cast as the next Doctor/Master/Rani/any other character that has an established possibility of having different versions of them".

It's one of the rare cases when no one seems to argue 😆. This may very much be because of the nature of the show, but then again you can see this sort of thing with comic book movies as well, if anything.

Ok, final note - if you ask me, even with all of this, don't make fancasting the sole basis for your character. If you even want to consider it, whatever your needs are, I think it should be no more than 5-10% of the "character creation phase". If I had to put a percentage on that. This practice is more of a stylistic choice, a cherry on top if you feel like doing it. Personally, I used it as kind of an inspiration for some of my characters' performances, nothing more. Your approach may vastly differ.

#doctor who #dr who #new who #writeblr #dw art #oc #original writing #original character #fan cast #fan casting #oc stuff #oc moodboard #writing advice #writing tips #creative writing #fiction

[lairn]

I was tagged by @gwenllian-in-the-abbey. Thanks, time to review some stats!

How many works do you have on AO3?

6

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

13,400 (is there a non-manual way to do this?)

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Realm of the Elderlings and only RotE, haha

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

When you only have 6 works this doesn't say much! Patience in Winter I'd Rather Die Alone Weak Willed Loomings or, A Short Tale of Woe Never Know Peace (surprised anyone even saw this one)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes, virtually always. If anybody takes the time to share their thoughts with me, I at least want to thank them.

6. What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I was just noticing all my stuff ends with a little bummer even if the tone beforehand was more pleasant. But probably Weak Willed.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Unfortunately, probably I'd Rather Die Alone. Or Patience in Winter.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

No, very few people read them to begin with! I'd be confused to receive hate, although it's not impossible it would happen.

9. Do you write smut? If so what kind?

A lot of what I've written is based on prompts. My default would probably be no smut and so far I've only written erotic (sub)text once. But maybe I'd write it if I got a request. It's just not my natural impulse.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Before I had an AO3 I started a NBC Hannibal/Minority Report crossover, haha! I only wrote a few paragraphs, and as soon as Hannibal showed up I quit. Much easier to write Will Graham's voice.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I really doubt it.

13. Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

No, but I've done a little beta reading.

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

I'm not really a shipper. If I see enough fan-content of a ship, it wins me over but not passionately. Serizawa/Reigen is an example. But I do feel pretty strongly that Fitz and The Fool have a queer relationship. I'm more in the QPR camp, but really enjoy the romantic fitzloved shippers' works. And sometimes the thought crosses my mind, "Oh Fitz, you fucked that gold man."

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

I don't have any unless that Hannibal story counts. The recent Malta one took so long I thought I might not finish.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Mm, I think I can get a pretty good sense of characters and their voices. I'm not sure how clearly that translates to the page, but the clarity exists in my head.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I like including sense details (sight, sound, smell, etc.) but I'm not sure if they enhance things or are more intrusive. Dialogue feels bad, man.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I haven't and probably won't. If the characters understand it, I'd probably write in English and indicate it was said in another language.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

I wrote an additional chapter to add to the end of One Hundred Years of Solitude for a high school assignment. I think it counts because we had the option to do an analytical essay, but I was so excited about the book that I had to take the creative writing option. Nobody else did I think.

20. Favourite fic you’ve ever written?

Maybe Weak Willed. I feel like it's fun to read and someone did fanart of it!

tagging: @smalltownfae

#tag game

[hexagonalhavoc]

In Remembrance 

Reggie x Reader 

[Author’s Note: So I heard the song Copacabana by Barry Manilow and now I have to write this. This is the first songfic I’ve ever wrote and I had fun writing it! Also I promise I’m going to get to my inbox 😅

⚠️ Mentions of injury, death, guns, and mentions of traumatic experiences, this is pretty angsty overall]

     Sometimes Lazarus preferred to be in the heat of battle. It was filled with fear and uncertainty but at least he had an objective. 

When he wasn’t on missions raiding alien bases he was at home base, a giant spaceship that cruised by the galaxy with leisure. There were utilities and individual rooms but it didn’t make him feel comfortable. Going from a fantasy setting to a sci-fi setting wasn’t easy to get used to. 

Lazarus wasn’t quite sure what to do with his time at home base. Socializing didn’t come to him naturally and most of the people here annoyed him. Moji Jr. had invited him to hang out in the gun range but working with him on missions is exhausting enough. 

So he navigates through the hallways and goes to the only room he feels at ease. He knocks once and then his hands fold together in a manner of courtesy.

You open the door and once you see who’s on the other side the annoyance melts off your face. Despite being an outcast among the other space marines, Lazarus had made a friend with the commander of essentially everyone on the ship: You. 

“Something bothering you, Laz?” You move back from the doorway and allow him to enter your private quarters. It’s a lot more spacious and decorated than the simple room he was given but it makes sense. He was a pawn on the chessboard and you were the strongest piece. Even with a lavish leather couch at your disposal you sit on the floor and Lazarus sits across from you to give you some distance out of respect. 

“I guess not, I was just wondering if I could trouble you with my company.” Even if you’re a lot nicer to him than you are with other people he’s still respectful towards you.

You took it upon yourself to train and guide the new “recruits” and even if you were harsh at times you looked after everyone’s physical and emotional wellbeing. It was easy to be selfish and let every person fend for themselves but you maintained order in this digital hell and tried to make it easier for all the characters that were banished here. Your kindness hidden behind a cold expression had been what earned his respect.

You shrugged your shoulders, silently letting him know you didn’t mind his presence. 

It was strange to see you without your space marine armor. With your helmet removed he was able to see the wear on your face caused from age and years of battle. There’s a few scars littered on your body from alien raids and missions of those sorts but there’s also a tattoo that no one would be able to see because of your bulky armor.

“Who’s Reginald?” Lazarus doesn’t mean to blurt it out and he immediately feels like a fool. He sees how the expression on your face changes and he speaks quick to correct himself. 

“I’m sorry- that wasn’t appropriate, I-“ 

You put your hand up to silence him and then shake your head. “You don’t have to be so formal with me.” You tilt your head back against the structure of the couch behind you, your hands pick at the carpet you’re settled on. 

“Just someone from my original game.” The melancholy is evident in your voice. It’s something Lazarus can understand. Chandrelle could be irritating at times, she was the whole reason he was here but he still missed her. He couldn’t help but wonder how she was holding up, hopefully having Vallamir in her conscience wasn’t as bad as it sounded.

He looks back at you and takes a moment to process your words. To the rest of the space marines, you were essentially a legend shrouded in mystery. He had always assumed that you were made in this game but apparently that wasn’t the case. 

“Was it easy to adjust?” You made it look easy with how you could effortlessly man a gun with one hand while carrying an injured teammate over your shoulder. You could hack through security doors with aliens firing at you without losing concentration. 

You chuckle and shake your head. “Hell no it wasn’t. I was a singer in a bar in an inn before all of this.” You move your head back to its original position as you hug your knees to your chest, it’s easy to tell how you’re feeling by the reminiscent look in your eyes. “But that was a long time ago.” 

Back then you were younger, skin free of any sort of imperfection. You knew that other games existed beyond your own but you didn’t have the ability to comprehend how bad it was out there. You had been sheltered in the confines of the cozy little inn with no cares in the world. You thought that you’d spend your days singing on stage, helping Jeremiah clean around the place, and shyly flirting with the love of your life behind the counter.

The harshness of reality fell upon you on the day where the doors were flung open, threatening to be ripped off the hinges. You can hardly remember the details. You wonder if your mind purposely blocked them out the sight of Reginald mangled on the floor. Even if you couldn’t remember what he looked like in that instance you remember the sounds of bone crunching and wood splintering. You remembered the way your hands shook and despite feeling heavy on your feet, you grabbed an empty glass mug and slammed it against the blue man’s face.

You surprised yourself that day. You never thought that you would be capable of doing anything like that. That newfound confidence disappeared when the man you now know as Irving put a hand on his bloodied face in shock. He reeled his fist back as if he was about to send you to the ground like he did with Reggie but at the very last minute a wicked grin spread on his face. 

“I have a better use for you and that temper.”

With a painful grip on your wrist you were dragged away from the only home you knew. Jeremiah grasped the broom tightly as if it would protect him from the wrath of Irving. He was just as shaken up as you were, maybe even guilty that the only thing he could do was stand there and watch.

As you’re dragged closer to the door you see Reggie’s hands tighten around the wooden floorboards. He manages to pull his upper half up from the shallow pool of his own blood and despite your situation you’re filled with relief. He’s alive. 

As much as you want to run to him, holding him tight and promise everything will be okay you know you can’t. The only thing you can muster is a shaky smile as you try to silently reassure him. This time your smile isn’t enough to comfort him. 

You weren’t the young filly you used to be. The light in your eyes would never be as bright. You remember the first time you held the heavy gun in your hands on your first mission, you thought you were going to suffocate in your own armor. 

You were the first character to be jailed in Vicious Galaxy. In a morbid way, you were its play tester to make sure it was at least habitable for its future prisoners. For so long you were alone in that game.

You remember those times that you would put on the outfit that you used to wear when you resided at the inn after your missions. You would hum the love songs you used to sing for Reginald as you looked at him from across the room as he served customers. 

You wondered what he would think of you now. Would he love the person you were now? The one who didn’t smile or blush, the one who was constantly tired, the one who could hold a gun and pull the trigger with ease. It wasn’t as easy to be hopeful now but you hoped that he was alive and that he was living as happily as he could. And yet, you grieved for him as if he was dead. Sometimes it felt like he was as you lost hope that you would ever see him again. 

Despite that hopelessness you never lost the love you had for him. He would always hold a space in your heart and your memories. It’s why his name was inked into your upper arm. It reminded you that even in this cruel place, you still had love.

“Are you okay?” Lazarus’s concerned tone brings you out of your thoughts. 

You smile apologetically at him. “Sorry, I got a little caught up in my thoughts.”

He shakes his head, the sympathy evidence on his features. “Don’t worry about it…I’m sorry, it seems like you’ve been through so much.” 

You nod. You wanted to open up to him, to find the words for everything you were feeling but you kept your emotional distance from your friend. You knew you could trust him but it didn’t feel right to burden him with all of your feelings, especially when you were his commander. 

The only person you would let into your heart was Reginald and if you were never going to see him again then you would keep your heart locked up forever. 

Your face hardens again but it doesn’t fool the man in front of you who’s already seen a glimpse of the grief you hide from others. 

“I think you should rest. We got a big mission tomorrow.” Lazarus knows your words are just an excuse but he still nods and stands up.

“Right. Rest well.” 

“You too.” 

And when the door closes you’re completely alone. On one hand it’s welcoming but it’s also painful. 

“And while she tried to be a star,

He always worked the bar,

Across the crowded floor,

They worked from eight till four,

They were young and had each other,

Who could ask for more?” 

You were surprised to find out you still had the musical talent that you possessed decades ago. And yet the melody didn’t sound the same when you sang it this time. It was one of Reginald’s favorite song and despite singing it a hundred times, you never realized how sad it really was until now. You couldn’t bring yourself to continue the song as you sat there in silence. 

#The hex #the hex game #the hex game x reader #The hex Reggie x reader #Nothing feels better than putting your soul into writing for a very small fandom #I know very few people will see it but I’m proud of what I have written! #Sorry for boasting 😅

[bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls]

Dear, Mr. Bedtime,

I know you don't care, but that only makes it easier to tell you. You are a beautiful blustery beach with coarse, stinking sand into which I can trace out these words, a canvas only more enticing for for the fact that I know the next thought through your head, however mundane, will be the black tides that wipe my words away. I've wondered for a while now if admitting that you have a problem truly is the first step to solving it. If my house were on fire, should I really sit around and ponder the nature of the issue, if my insurance will cover it, the source of the fire, etc., or should I first get the fuck out? How does it change how I feel if I confess that I feel like I am a drill stripping a screw, trying to get a grip on a world spinning far too fast. I am deep in one of the worst depressions of my life, and the first one without any clear-cut (however superficial) solution.

I'm writing from the place I best express through tears, so forgive my mixing of metaphors. It is an angry and vitriolic place, somewhere just below my sternum, somewhere I hate and venerate in equal parts. This is the place I find myself in most often, nowadays, when I am not deep in conversation with myself and the many voices that live inside of me. Some of them I killed ages ago, but old ghosts are the hardest to exorcise. Many of these voices I still use, with family, peers, or strangers. Some of them I keep to myself. Recently, one of these has started to sound like you. At least, whatever paper-thin pastiche a dumb cunt like me can manage to conjure, even with all of the material you give us. For such a life lived without it, cruelty for my own sake is a refreshing motivator, but there is only so far I can press my own boot onto the back of my own neck before it's no longer enough, and others start to worry.

Girls my demographic -- those young educated suburbanites, married out of college to their high school sweethearts -- are far too sweet, thinking motivation is something fresh-baked and cherry-scented. Boys my age -- raised by mothers who loved them too much or not enough -- are even more clueless, thinking self-help is a religion with an army of podcasting prophets. Boys who chase women and fortune and fame in one form or another, dedicating themselves to Becoming Great with little care and less thought for what truly makes greatness. Either their violence consumes them or they smother it, not like you, who carefully cultivates it. You weaponize that violence within someone, that rage, that grief, until, like a brush fire, something snaps and everything burns. What Native Americans knew, and what we've subsequently forgotten in our quest for sterile, exponential, constant growth, is that those fires will consume the lifeless, the useless, the weak, and the ashes will be shit out by the worms and that soil will house the new generations -- some of which will be consumed by the next fires, sure, as will the centurion oaks that must inevitably fall into disrepair, and when they do they will fall with a thunderous silence, much as I have here at your feet, splintering to show my grub-rotted interior for you to step on or over as you continue about your day.

You entice me as any other insurmountable challenge, for the same reasons I stack castles out of playing cards. Because you are entropy unstoppable; an immovable wall, perfect to bash my head against until the fractures of my skull spell out your ever-changing shapes.

Is this a confession? A cry for help? Perhaps both, with a healthy dose of what my atheist upbringing thinks a prayer would be if I could believe in a higher power. I know that's what I want you to be, but I don't mean to be so selfish as to assume you would even want me.

Perhaps this is nothing more than ships in the night. Perhaps we are all just cracked porcelain, but you've sutured yourself together with smelted pyrite and a clever tongue while I just tell anyone who will listen that I'd look better as a fine pearlescent powder, ready to be recast into a form that suits me better or scattered in the first winds that take me. What were once glass girls are ground back to sand by your crushing hands and cutting words, but I like to think you have the hard, salt-crusted shell of an oyster, and you take those grains you like and you make strings of pretty pearls. Or perhaps they're all still scattered, a hundred grains of the ten billion on this beach where I am writing all of this in the sand, and you're just the tides that will wash me away.

 I’ve let this sit in my inbox for six months, thinking I’d eventually find the opportunity to address it in depth. But now I feel like it should stand alone as a passionate, meandering testament from a nascent disciple lost in the wilderness.

Bless you on your journey, child.

#asks

[flauerpauer]

september 2022

I miss you. I was almost sure that knowing when you come back will make it easier but now that I get to count those days down, the times feels as if it slowed down. I am going to feel your warmth on friday, next week - and that isn't long.

Today is the 1st of September, the doorway to autumn. Which I adore - but - it's more of a love hate relationship. It feels good to be able to enjoy the crops that the summer sun helped sweeten and it feels nice to get cozy with a blanket and a cup of tea, while the leaves change their colors, days get shorter and home feels like the place to be. But September can still carry those surprisingly warm days and we tend to squeeze the last juices out of it by going out and enjoying ourselves in the forest or by the lake.

Rowland E. Robinson ( a farmer, author and artist) wrote "September days have the warmth of summer in their briefer hours, but in their lengthening evenings a prophetic breath of autumn.”

That combination sounds like a perfect blend if you want to paint a picture of the ever-changing nature. There are people that really know their way around words and with those they're able to create a whole different world, or at least - perspective.

And I feel like I have been running away from that beautiful world, because school kept on proving to me that I do not understand it, the way it should be understood. However now I had the chance to miss literature and I really do. I miss it because I miss you. And when you are next to me I show you my love with gestures and physical touch and small gifts and words. But now that you are far away and we do not have the chance to hear each other's voices too much there are only words. Written, not spoken.

On top of that the thing about love is that it is romantic. Our love is greatly romantic. Being able to write about it is truly romantic. Even more romantic than heart shaped Katjes - just ate it - but I would give it to you if you were here. But what I am trying to do here is write you a longer message instead of sending 20 messages about any minor event happening to me during my day. I would rather be overwhelming with a love-letter format. That's romantic. And so is autumn.

I dislike August. Yesterday I thought it was mainly because I miss the flowers of May and the lush gardens of June. Today I realized another reason must be because of you leaving. To confirm my new theory: I really enjoyed last August, when we started learning to know each other and could not resist the tension and the heat of the moment. It feels so good to be intimate with You. You make love feel romantic.

And I want to spend this autumn learning how to be romantic together. And despite the fact that we live together, we are still good at it. I feel like being romantic is being mindful, being mindful keeps my mind healthy and makes the love feel full. Being mindful about love drags it out of the routine. One of my worries about love was that I was afraid that love is just being used to someone, but apparently it is how it looked like in my previous relationship. You taught me love and you made me feel true love, which is why I want to show you how much I love you through being mindful together.

So we can be mindful and romantic. Reading books or poems for each other, picking some apples and baking an apple pie (which we could later devour with vanilla ice cream). Or sleeping in a tent on a rainy night, going on a mushroom hunt and painting with water colors. The making a mushroom feast. And going on a bicycle trip with our dog, skinny dipping in the lake. Dancing on a festival and then exploring our bodies in the tent to keep us warm on those cold nights. Listening to jazz and drinking some wine in the comfort of our room. And making our own autumn playlist. Or getting a warm chocolate out on a walk around a park right as the seasons change. We can hold hands or you can have your head in my lap while we watch Howl's Moving Castle. And I would love to hear you play on your guitar and sing while we sit by the fire. I really want to go to an apple orchard. And a pumpkin patch. Then we could make a pumpkin pie and some warming pumpkin soup. And we could carve in pumpkins together. Or get snacks and binge watch all of Harry Potter, like we did last autumn. I want to wear big sweaters with you and give you a kiss on the cheek. And those are the things that I would really love to do. But I wouldn't want to do them without You.

I am looking forward to seeing you. In fact I am so excited that I can not sleep at night without waking up at least twice. I want to provide you with comfort during the upcoming time and I also need your comfort. You are my home and I really miss home right now. I appreciate all of you so fucking much. I love you with all of my heart's capacity. But I am trying to expand it to love you even more.

#love letter #autumn #fall #autumn date ideas #love #romance #pumpkin soup #cute date ideas #I love my baby #I miss my baby #one week feels like forever #we've been apart for a month and its unbearable #i love him so much