Years ago, after my father passed away, my family had a new black Mitsubishi Lancer.....I loved this one there was nothing wrong with it.
My uncle spent years insisting that there was.
Not aggressively. He'd casually mention how dangerous the engine supposedly was. How something could happen to the tires. How we could get into a horrible accident if we kept driving it. Every conversation came wrapped in concern, jokes, and helpful advice. Until he got us that trusted mechanic and convinced us that the motor was swapped and that it actually belonged to another car etc....which is total bullshit.
It happened so often that eventually my mother became scared.
My cousin kept telling us not to listen repeatedly.
My grandmother kept warning my mother not to sell the car.
Guess who turned out to be right?
Years later we found out there was nothing wrong with the car at all. The whole thing had been exaggerated and pushed until my mother sold it for far less than it was worth. The real issue wasn't the engine. The real issue was that my uncle didn't want my mother or us having the freedom to go wherever we wanted.
The astrology part is
My uncle was a Libra.
My mother is an Aquarius Sun, Leo Moon, Cancer Rising.
My cousin is a September Virgo-Libra.
And the person who immediately smelled that something wasn't right was my grandmother, a Scorpio stellium with an Aquarius Rising.
One thing I've noticed over the years is that people often talk about Scorpio placements as if they're always the manipulators in the room.
Sometimes they're the ones who spot the manipulation first.
A developed Scorpio doesn't just see what people say. They watch motives, they watch patterns. They notice when concern starts feeling like control.
Meanwhile, my Aquarius mother wanted to believe family was acting in good faith. My Virgo-Libra cousin kept pointing out that the story wasn't adding up. And my Scorpio grandmother was sitting there like, "Absolutely not. Don't you dare sell it."
Controversial.....but.......stop using christian concepts to explain nakshatras.... it's weird
Like.......stop it. How do people ALWAYS manage to steal from us? Like how? I'm truly appalled by the audacity. Clothes, jewellery, medicinal practices, heck even psychological concepts and now astrology.
You do not have to force yourself to pray to Hindu gods, it's okay to be a Christian or any other religion and still want to learn Vedic astrology.
Saw this person comparing purva bhadrapada to christ cleansing the world and......no....just no
The kalki purana very clearly associates kalki (destroyer of evil forces, ending the current cosmic cycle, and is responsible for restoring righteousness) with moon in dhanistha.
It is specifically dhanishta because the ashta vasus DIRECTLY rule dhanishta. The ashta vasus are the eight elemental deities (water, earth, wind, fire, etc), it literally makes perfect sense when you think about it. You need to have the blessings of the most basic elements to change the universe. You need the alignment of all the energies, IT'S SO BASIC.
I have sun and Mercury in purva bhadrapada and I'm still disagreeing because IT'S WRONG.
Purva bhadrapada is literally associated with stability. The ruling deity of PB is aja ekapada, he stands on one foot and is considered to be responsible for permanently stabilizing all the realms.
UUGGHH. Atleast have some shame bruh đ. It's starting to piss me off real bad, you all always do this. Always steal from us and then never give any credit or proper explanation for what you're talking about.
ALSO, STOP BELIEVING CLAIRE NAKTI. All the information about the nakshatras comes from puranas and yet people flock to a white woman who only focuses on superficial stuff to learn about them.
jack traven x reader Bittersweet alternate ending AU. After escaping John Wick you move to L.A. Keanuverse encounters abound...(tom ludlow, donaka mark, et al.) *warnings: MDNI!!! did i mention this is a dark fic? violence. misogyny. elements of n0n-c0n, victim blaming herself (def not healthy)
27. i will show you my dark secret
You come back to the world slowly, a pounding headache drumming behind your eyes before you even dare to open them. Cautiously you peer out through your lashes; low golden light doesn't offer more shooting pain, so you blink, trying to get your bearings.
"FuckâŠ" you groan, sitting up on your elbows, holding your head so that your brains don't slide out your ears. You're laying on some kind of long couchâthe fine upholstery is smooth and soft beneath you. Just beyond your nose you make out it's a chinoiserie print of chrysanthemums and birdsâŠyou'd like to curl up and sleep on it for a few more hours, but something tells you that would be a bad idea.
That's when you start to remember everything else.
John Wick found you.
Your whole world is going to burn.
"There she is. I was afraid my boys overdosed you. Was it necessary to give them such a hard time?"
Slowly you turn your head to find Donaka Mark seated in a carved ebony throne of a chair at the head of a long dining room table, self-satisfied as a man who has finally won a long game of chess.
"DonakaâŠyou. Fucking. Idiot."
His amusement shifts into a terrible frown, eyes narrowing to anthracite slits.
"That's not how you want to start this off, y/n."
You sit up, too fast, and the vast room spins. You brace yourself, and wonder how mad he'd be if you threw up all over his beautiful silk pillows. What the fuck did he drug you with?
You swallow back the urge to blow chunks. You can always save that for later. "I'm going to level with you," you groan, closing your eyes against another wave of nausea.
"At long last."
"I am on the run from someone."
"I know."
"He found me. Tonight. I locked him in a room at the shop, but that won't hold him for longâ"
"I know."
"What do you mean you know?"
He smirks down at you, having fun again.
"I told you I've been watching you, y/n. We noticed a new player skulking around your normal haunts a few days ago. It was obvious."
You blink, the urge to slap that smug smirk off his handsome face burning so real that you clench your fist. He knew. He knew, and he didn't tell you.
"He's a very dangerous man."
Donaka just chuckles at you. "So I hear."
"You don't understand."
"Has it occured to you that maybe you don't understand? Come eat something, I promise you'll feel better." He removes a lid from a dish to tempt you, and an amazing savory smell wafts through the room.
Shaking your head, you finally feel well enough to push to your feet. "I don't have time for this."
You make it two steps before Donaka is on you, lithe as a panther, picking you up like you weigh nothing at all. The current state of your muscle control is no match for himâgod he's a big manâhe actually laughs as you struggle, pushing against him until he plops you down in the chair next to his, pinning your hands on the arms.
"Calm. Down."
"I'm warning you, Donaka. I'm a curse you do not want a piece of. He'll kill you. He'll kill everyone here."
With a sigh Donaka picks up a set of chopsticks and expertly starts doling out bite-size tidbits onto your plate. "You do remember my business is security, sweetheart? I employ the most skilled and ruthless ex-military contractors in my personal detail. If that man comes here, he'll have a bad night."
He holds up a small dumpling to your lips in offering, and a pregnant pause weighs between you like a physical testing of wills. "Eat."
"I can't," you plead. "Please, just let me use your phone. I have to call Jackâ"
You push out your chair from the table, trying to scramble away, but he's on you again in the blink of an eye, catching you with an arm around the waist. This time he's not so gentle, slamming you down on the table and pinning you beneath him. Silverware clatters and ringsâchina shatters on the floor. You try to get your leg under his torso for leverage but he locks his lower body against yours, wedged between your legs, holding your hands over your head with a grip that makes the bones in your wrists creak. You scream and thrash and snarl against him until you physically cannot do it anymore, heaving for breath while baring your teeth.
The buttons of his shirt strain across his broad chest as it heaves, looking down at you with all the sympathy of a tiger with a tasty deer in its jaws. He smirks, assessing your disheveled state, all wild eyes and still ready to bite. His usually so carefully coiffured hair has fallen down into his eyes; they are sharp and shining as obsidian blades.
He is beautiful, and terrible, and you would stab him with a fork right now if you could only get your hand free.
As though to emphasize your defeat he deliberately grinds his hips against yours, punishing you with the hard bulge of his erection at your center.
"Creep!" you snarl, struggling again for spite, though you really are out of steam.
"You are a little fighter," he pants, short of breath from your battle. "I have to admit. This is the most fun I've had in a long time."
He shifts to hold your wrists with one massive hand, reaching down to unbuckle his belt like he has all the time in the world to play with you now. This is when you start to cry, your lips trembling as fat tears roll from the corners of your eyes. All you can think is I'm sorry, Jack. You fought as hard as you couldâŠbut you aren't strong enough to prevent this betrayal. You're afraid you'll never be able to look him in the eye again. This all flashes through your mind in a matter of seconds, this pervading feeling of defeat and treachery sinking into your bones.
"Aw, don't start crying now, you little hellion," he mocks you. "Surrender, and I'll still let you cum."
The thought twists like a vile knife in your guts.
"DonakaâŠplease don't. I know you're a better man than this," you plead, choking out your last word.
Strangely this is the thing that gives him pause, looking down at you with that timeless dark gaze that has always made you squirm. He lays his palm flat over your chest, not groping you, but to feel the hammering rhythm of your heart beneath the spread of his hand. "I'm really not, y/n. Though I might have kept up the charade for a little while longer, just for you."
"I'll hate you forever," you warn him, your words like sandpaper in your throat.
"No you won't," he scoffs. He has not taken a single word you've said tonight seriously. You wonder if he'll pay for it with his life.
"Just you wait."
"Suit yourself. I've got you where I want you now."
He goes back to his belt, flipping it free, undoing the top button of his designer slacks.
The bark of a gunshot startles both of you, plaster raining down from the ceiling.
A booming command of "FREEZE, MOTHERFUCKER!" cuts through the room, and you sag with relief, your head knocking against the table.
Jack.
He stands in the doorway with his gun drawn, your knight in shining white t-shirt.
Thank god.
He's so tall and fit and true, the veins in his arms and his neck popping with his fury. You can't hold back your sigh, even if you know you're not out of the woods yet.
Donaka doesn't even look up at first, smirking down at you. "Officer Traven. Late to the party, as usual."
"Back away with your hands on your head!"
Considering Jack has a large caliber weapon pointed at him and a look of pure murder on his handsome face, Donaka decides it might be prudent, though he still does it as though he is merely indulging the police officer's childish demands.
"How ever did you find us?"
"911 call comes in from her shop and she was missing? You were my first suspect, asshole."
"Is that why you're here alone, without backup?"
Jack just frowns, caught out that he's cowboying on this one, alone.
"Sounds like you didn't have any evidence for a warrantâŠ"
"Does it look like I need a warrant?"
"Does he even know about�" Donaka gives you a pointed look with a lifted brow, like not even he wants to utter the Baba Yaga's name.
"Shut up. Back away from her, slowly. No funny business. I'm itching for an excuse to shoot you."
"You won't shoot me," taunts Donaka. "You're one of the good guys, Traven."
"Not feelin' so good right now, believe me. Turn around." Jack crosses the room, gun in one hand, cuffs in the other. You gingerly push yourself off the table, standing on legs that still tremble. Donaka watches you with a smirk, and you contemplate hitting him in the face with the last remaining china plate on the table.
"You ok, baby?" There's nothing you want more than to hide in his arms right now, but you know he has his hands full.
Jack dares to glance your way while cuffing your kidnapper.
It was a mistake.
Donaka explodes into action, knocking away Jack's gun and pouncing on him. The two tumble and exchange blows like rabid dogs engaged in battle, snarling and punching. UnfortunatelyâŠthe millionaire actually knows how to fight. This is why his hands aren't soft, you think to yourself in a panic, looking around for a weapon. The gun has skittered off somewhere and the two powerful men are exchanging blows that sound like they could fell an ox. Donaka actually manages to get on top of Jack, rearing back to hit him when you pick up a very large, very old, very expensive blue and white Ming vase from a side table and crash it on Donaka's head as hard as you can.
He doesn't go down quite like you hoped he would, but the shock of it gives Jack just enough of a window to flip him. He manages to get one hand cuffed with a knee on Donaka's spine when shouts from the door fill the room.
"Freeze!"
"Get on the ground!"
Suddenly the room is filled with four security guys kitted out in full tactical gear with weapons drawn. They're Donaka's well-paid attack dogs, and you absolutely believe that they will shoot both of you with so much as a nod from Donaka.
With a hangdog look of apology that cleaves your heart Jack raises his hands, slowly dismounting from the millionaire he was trying to arrest.
Maybe Jack should have just shot him.
Furious and bloody, Donaka lands a sucker punch that makes you scream. Jack falls back as you run towards them, forgetting the guns in a very stupid moment of animal instinct to protect your mate. Perhaps it's lucky for you, that Donaka grabs you up before the guards turn you into Swiss cheese.
"Restrain him," Donaka snarls, kicking Jack in the ribs.
"Stop!" you plead, struggling in his vise-like grip, crying and carrying on like a mad woman again.
"Be still," hisses Donaka, twining your hair in his fist, pulling your head back at a merciless angle as he pins you against him.
You are so consumed with the fear of what he intends to do with Jack that you tremble like a leaf, so hopped up with adrenaline you don't even feel the pain. You realize you weren't afraid before. Not really. Not like this. Now you're ready to beg on your kneesâready to trade anything for Jack's lifeâbut you are all interrupted by a smattering of gunfire at the other side of the house. The crisp pow pow pow is unmistakeable, and you don't know if you are terrified or relieved.
"What the fuck was that?" snarls Donaka, pulling your hair as though you are personally responsible.
"We're under attack, sir. We need to evacuate you to a more secure location."
There's more gunfire, nearing closer, and with a strange sense of acceptance you just listen, knowing very well what's coming their way.
Death wears a kevlar suit, and they're about to find out he wears it well.
JULIAAAAAA. I need compensation for emotional damages đ· Sir. My brother in Christ. The woman literally said she is being hunted by a legendary murder machine and your response was basically: Have a dumpling đ
Kevin's eyes darkened, that familiar hungry glint returning as he looked down at you. He didn't care about the interruption; he only cared about the friction between your bodies. "Don't 'wait' me, baby," he groaned, his voice dropping into that drawl that always made your knees go weak. "It's my birthday, and you know damn well there's no better gift than you making a mess of these expensive sheets."
He didn't give you a chance to argue further. He scooped you up, your small frame feeling weightless in his powerful arms, and carried you toward the master suite. But halfway there, he paused, a devious, cocky grin spreading across his face. "Wait, hold on. I forgot the most important part of the celebration." He set you down on the edge of the bed, but instead of diving in, he hurried toward the mahogany dresser, returning a moment later with a sleek, heavy, and obscenely expensive Leica camera. He set it up on a tripod with the precision of a man closing a multi million dollar merger.
"Kevin, what on earth are you doing?" you laughed, the tension breaking into a fit of giggles as you watched him obsess over the lens settings. "We're supposed to be celebrating, not filming a documentary!"
"Shush," he commanded playfully, clicking a button and giving you a wink that was pure arrogance. "This thing cost more than most people's cars, and it's gonna capture every single beautiful, filthy inch of you. I want to see the look on your face when I'm deep inside you, in high definition. It's called documentation, sweetheart. Professionalism if you may."
A/N: I'm sorry if there are any mistakes, I wrote it in just an hour.
Pairing: John Constantine x F!Reader.
Tags: Angst/Fluff, nsfw, 18+
Warnings: Smoking, Reader is smoking, slightly SMUT
Word count: 1,0k
Summary: You ended up in a cheap motel with a guy whose name you didn't even know.
In the dimly lit room of a cheap motel, filled with the sounds of your passionate moans and his groans, he reclined against the worn headboard, his big hands firmly clutching your lower curves, urging you to heighten the rhythmic roll of your. The bed creaked even more under your moves. Your nails carved into his sturdy, expansive chest. His gaze fixated on the point where your bodies intimately connected, his mouth slightly agape.
The orgasm peaked through your body, and your inner muscles clenched multiple times, causing his thighs to twitch. After taking a deep breath for a few seconds, you gently patted his chest and dismounted, letting his shaft fall to his lower abdomen, covering his navel. You settled down next to him, resting against the headboard.
You observed as he rose, the lingering of sex still evident in his tousled hair and the faint sheen of perspiration on his well-defined physique. Skillfully removed a condom filled with his cum, he bundled it up and tossed it into the trash tucked away in the corner.
He strolled to the nearby chair, retrieving his black coat and delving into its pockets.
"Damn it!" He growled, crumpling a pack of cigarettes and tossing it carelessly on the table.
"What's wrong?" you inquired, pulling the sheet over your legs as slight shiver coursing through you feeling a cold air.
"Out of smokes," he muttered.
You pointed towards your handbag, resting on another chair. Swiftly, he grabbed it, tossing it with a casual yet precise motion. As you catch your handbag, the pack of cigarettes emerged, and with practiced finesse, you unfurled it, plucking out a cigarette.
"The last one," you uttered with a tinge of disappointment, showcasing the solitary cigarette. He settled back onto the bed, and you skillfully tossed the cigarette between your lips. With a sudden flick, he opened his gold lighter, igniting the flame and bringing it to the end of the cigarette. You inhaled, pleasant smoke filled your lungs.
"It was the first time I did that...With a stranger, you know?" you said, taking another drag. You handed the cigarette to him, adding, "I mean, I don't even know your name."
"John," he said, leaving the cigarette in his mouth, and holding out his hand to you.
"Y/N," you replied, shaking it.
"There's a first time for everything," a cigarette twitched between his lips as he muttered, "the first sex, the first disappointment," he inhaled and blew out smoke.
You observed him resting against the headboard. One leg was casually extended, while the other bent at the knee, serving as a support for his arm that cradled a cigarette between his fingers. John looked as if he belonged to a Michelangelo fresco, reminiscent of "The Creation of Adam." Well, with a little difference. Actually, with a huge difference. Casually flicking the cigarette into the ashtray on the bedside table, he handed it to you, "âŠand the first cigarette."
You nodded, and the tip of the cigarette lit up. "Is there a mini-bar? I want something to eat," you asked.
The cigarette found its way back to John's lips. After taking a drag, he exhaled a plume of smoke into the room before leaning down to snuff out the cigarette in the crowded ashtray.
"There's a vending machine outside," he remarked, rising from the bed and retrieving his pants from the floor. As he slipped into his black pants on his naked body, he added, "I wanted to buy cigarettes anyway." Casually donning his slightly rumpled white shirt, he buttoned up a couple of buttons leaving it half-fastened. "What are your preferences?"
"Peanuts, I guess," you said in confusion.
"Alright," he replied, putting on his shoes and moving towards the door with a casual stride.
You sat in silence for a minute, reaching for the remote to turn on the TV. Advertisements, sitcoms, more advertisements. Flipping through channels, your thoughts spun in your head, reflecting on how you had arrived at this moment in a cheap motel with a guy whose name you had just learned five minutes ago. There was something elusive about him. Maybe his melancholic eyes that said how tired of his life as fuck he was. John's gaze spoke volumes about the fatigue and frustration he carried and that stirred something within you. You found yourself deeply connected to his vibe. You turned off the TV.
At that moment , John entered the room, throwing a pack of peanuts your way.
"Thanks," you acknowledged, swiftly tearing it open.
John unwrapped a pack of cigarettes and silently offered them to you. You shook your head, popping a couple of nuts into your mouth.
"How do they taste?" he inquired, glancing at you as you crunched on the nuts.
"Like crap," you replied after consuming a couple more. He grinned.
John leaned casually against the chest of drawers, positioned opposite the bed, crossing his long legs at the ankle. With a cigarette dangling from his lips, he smoothly lit it, the light casting a warm glow on his features. Your gaze fixated on him, enchanted by the effortless grace in his movements. As he smoked, you observed how his slender fingers holding the cigarette, the subtle rise and fall of his broad chest with each drag. His eyes were tensed, gazed into the wisps of smoke as he savored each inhale. After finishing, he extinguished the cigarette in the ashtray on the chest of drawers, leaving a trail of wispy smoke that lingered in the air.
"So this was your first time with stranger?" he inquired, simultaneously removing his shoes and unbuttoning his shirt.
You nodded.
"Now that weâre acquainted, I have a feeling that sex will be even better," John said in a raspy voice with a mischievous glint in his eyes as he brushed off the sheet, exposing your legs. You barely had time to utter a sound as he seized your ankle with his large hand, yanking you towards him until you slid down and found yourself lying on the bed. You tried to place the pack of nuts on the bedside table, but it wasn't there on your side. John had already nestled between your legs, his breath teasing your lips. With no other option, you tossed the pack to the floor, drawing him into your embrace.
â â .˳˳.â à„±ËTHE PRIEST
Part 1 â€ïž Part 2 â€ïž Part 3
Pairing: priest!John Wick Ă writer!atheist!f!reader
Tags: NSFW, 18+
Warnings: priest kink, blasphemy, religious themes, contains potentially offensive religious remarks if you squint
Word count: 3.0k
A/N: plot holes
On a quiet night, you wandered through the peaceful streets and found yourself in a small park with a carefully tended garden. Apple trees arched over neat rows of flowers, and the air smelled of fresh earth and grass.Your gaze slowly traced the garden before landing on a secluded bench tucked away near the back, half hidden behind thick bushes.
Perfect.
You sat down, letting out a quiet, contented sigh. Closing your eyes, you listened to the soft rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of night birds. For the first time all day, your mind felt almost calm.
Maybe tonight you could finally write something. Even a few lines.
âGood evening.â A masculine voice suddenly broke the silence.
âShit!â You jolted upright, your heart jumping into your throat as you spun around.
The shock faded almost instantly when you recognized him.
Father Jardani.
You leaned back again, exhaling slowly, half embarrassed.
He looked⊠different from what you remembered.
Tonight he wore well-fitted jeans, a dark shirt, and a knitted jacket that hinted at the muscular build beneath it. A white clerical collar framed his neck against the black fabric, and his dark hair fell softly around his face.
âIâm so sorry, FatherâŠâ you began, suddenly realizing what you had shouted. Heat crept up your cheeks.
âItâs quite alright,â he said with a small smile.
He gestured toward the empty space beside you, his eyes meeting yours.
âMay I join you?â
âOh⊠yes. Of course.â
You shifted slightly, making room for him. When he sat, the bench dipped under his weight, and a faint trace of incense mingled with subtle cologne, wrapping around you like a soft veil.
You tried very hard not to notice how close he was sitting.
âItâs a good place,â he said, glancing around the garden. âQuiet. I come here most nights when the town settles down.â
Here, in the stillness of the garden, his voice sounded different. Every word had a richness you hadnât noticed before. Lwer, with just a touch of rasp, yet so velvety and smooth that it sank deep into you, stirring the most hidden corners of yourself you had thought long forgotten⊠and perhaps never truly had been.
Your eyebrow lifted.
âReally? I thought priests spent evenings praying or something.â
A small amused breath escaped him.
âSometimes we do that too.â
Yep.
Audiobooks with his voice would probably be very popular.
You let out a small laugh.
âGood to know.â
For a moment neither of you spoke. The quiet settled around you again, filled with the soft rustle of leaves overhead.
Your eyes drifted to his hands resting on his thighs. Faint scars traced his skin, the knuckles rough like someone who had been punched more than a few times.
His fingers were long and-
Your gaze stalled on the space where a finger should have been.
No ring finger?
Not the hands you imagined when thinking about a priest. More like the hands of someone who had spent years⊠fighting.
You quickly looked away before he could notice you staring.
Of course, he noticed. But he didnât show it.
âMay I ask,â he said after a moment, turning slightly toward you, âhow the writing is going?â
You blinked.
âHow did you-?â
He gave a small shrug.
âWell⊠itâs a very small town. I tend to notice new voices. And people talk. Especially when someone spends long evenings staring at a notebook in the cafe.â
You groaned quietly.
âSo my suffering has an audience.â
âA small one,â he said calmly.
You sighed dramatically.
âIn short? Itâs awful.â
You shook your head, unable to tear your gaze away from the most striking feature of his face- his deep, expressive eyes.
âI do keep in mind what you told me about not pushing myself,â you admitted. âIâm trying. Really. But my head is still full of nothing but thoughts about writing.â
âThat sounds familiar,â he said quietly.
You looked at him curiously. âPriests get writerâs block too?â
âNot exactly,â he replied. âBut sometimes finding the right words is difficult in any calling.â
You studied him for a moment.
If it wasnât for that white collar catching your eye, you thought, you wouldnât hesitate to throw him into bed and prove that heaven exists on Earth.
He cleared his throat softly.
âOur church is being renovated right now,â he sai. âThe community gathers there a few mornings a week. Painting, repairing things⊠whatever needs doing.â
You tilted your head.
âAnd youâre recruiting writers now?â
âNot exactly.â A small smile returned. âBut sometimes doing something different helps clear the mind.â
âSo what would I have to do?â
âPaint a wall. Carry a few boards. Drink lemonade with the volunteers.â
âThat last part sounds manageable.â
His eyes warmed slightly.
âYouâre welcome to come by on Tuesday.â
You leaned back on the bench, pretending to think it over.
âAlright,â you said finally.
***
On Tuesday morning, you stood in front of the small mirror in your room, dressed in a pair of worn jeans and an old T-shirt, a bandanna tied over your hair. You never imagined youâd be volunteering for something like this, but the hotel hostess had kindly lent you the clothes, apparently from her younger days.
The T-shirt hugged every curve of your body in a way that felt both comfortable and embarrassingly sexy. Despite a few small holes an odd inscription ran across the front: The Dream Inside Me.
You stared at it for a moment, trying to decide whether it was inspirational⊠or just strangely suggestive.
The jeans, however, seemed determined to misbehave. They were clearly made for someone with slightly different proportions and kept threatening to slide down your hips. After a brief struggle, you pulled a belt tight around your waist, securing them in place.
***
There werenât many people around. In one corner, someone sawed through wooden boards in a steady rhythm. Nearby, a woman painted the window frames, her brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes that left bright lines of fresh color behind. Up on the scaffolding, two men balanced several meters above the ground, working on the upper wall.
You smiled awkwardly at the scene, your eyes darting from one task to another, trying to figure out where you can fit in this place.
A few people nodded politely when you greeted them. Others barely looked up before returning to their work.
You greeted the laity with a hesitant wave, but she barely acknowledged it. Her brow furrowed, lips tightening into a thin line, and she muttered a reluctant âhelloâ before turning away.
Well. Maybe she didnât like newcomers.
âYou came after all.â
You turned at the voice.
Priest Jardani walked toward you from the far side of the courtyard.
He looked nothing like the composed figure from the church.
He wore worn jeans speckled with paint and a plain long-sleeved T-shirt pushed up to his forearms. The fabric clung lightly to his chest and shoulders.
You had suspected he was solid before, but now, without the priestly robes or kneaded jackets hiding him, you were absolutely certain.
A couple of small drops of white paint marked his cheekbone.
âWe usually have more people here,â he said, glancing around the courtyard. âBut yesterday there was a case of alcohol poisoning.â
âAlcohol poisoning?â
âHomemade liquor,â he explained calmly. âHalf the village is at the hospital recovering.â
âYouâre joking.â
âI wish.â He tilted his head slightly. âIt happens once every six months. Almost like a calendar event.â
âThatâs⊠insane.â You frowned. âTheyâll be okay?â
âMost of them.â His tone stayed even.Â
You stared at him for a moment. âYouâre surprisingly casual about this.â
âItâs a small village,â he said simply. âYou learn to expect certain traditions.â
Despite yourself, you smiled.
He reached for a paint roller and handed it to you.
âHere,â he said. âYour assignment.â
He walked you over to a long stretch of unfinished wall.
Above you, the two men on the scaffolding shifted again, sawing through warped planks. The structure creaked loudly under their boots.
âTry not to redecorate yourself,â Father Jardani added lightly. âPaint is harder to wash out than you think.â
You dipped the roller into the tray.
âIâll try my best.â
The paint marked the wood when you pressed the roller down, and the fresh scent hit your nostrils. The rough boards soaked up the white paint, slowly transforming the surface into something more pleasing to the eye.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.
The simple motion began to settle your mind. For once, you werenât thinking about your novel. Or deadlines. Or blank pages.
By noon, the others began drifting toward a long table covered with snacks and bottles of water. Someone uncorked lemonade.
You stayed behind for a moment, finishing the strip in front of you before stepping back to inspect your work.
The heat clung to your skin.
You dropped onto a bench in the shade, pulling the bandanna from your head and wiping sweat from your forehead. Your arms ached in that satisfying way that came from actual work.
âHere.â
You looked up.
Father Jardani stood over you, holding out a glass of water with a slice of lemon floating at the top.
You could see the paint on his face had dried.
âThanks,â you said softly.
âHydration is holy,â he replied, completely straight faced.
You let out a small laugh and took the glass, your fingers brushing his for a second longer than necessary. The water was cold. You hadnât realized how thirsty you were until that first swallow.
Suddenly a sharp metallic screech split the air.
You didnât have time to understand anything before you were on the ground. Dust filled the air, stinging your eyes. You coughed, gasping for breath. Something heavy pinned you down.
It was him.
The priestâs weight pressed over you, one arm braced beside your head, the other cradling the back of your skull. Your face was buried against his chest. Sweat, musk, faint incense, and the sharp tang of fresh paint mingled in the air around you. His heart pounded under your cheek.
He gently supported your head, fingers tangled in your hair. Somewhere behind him, boards slammed to the ground. You tried to inhale and ended up coughing harder.
âEasy,â he murmured. His hand tightened slightly, not painfully, but enough to steady you. âBreathe.â
You blinked until your vision cleared. When you finally looked up, his face was inches from yours. Close enough to see every fine line, the faint creases at the corners of his eyes, and the way a loose strand of dark hair, touched with silver, had fallen over his eyes.
His eyes⊠they werenât as dark as you thought. They were honey-colored,warm, focused entirely on you.
âAre you all right?â he asked, still studying your features as if memorizing them.
âI think so,â you managed, trying to move. It was difficult with him still shielding you. âYouâre⊠heavy.â
One corner of his mouth twitched.
âGood,â he said softly and only then did he lift his hand from your head.
He shifted carefully, propping himself on one elbow first, scanning the debris. Then he rolled to the side, giving you space to slide out.
You crawled free, coughing again. Dust clung to your clothes and skin. He stayed on his knees, tossing a fallen plank aside and dragging a twisted metal bar out of the way.
He stood and offered you his hand. In one smooth motion, he helped you to your feet.
âWhat happened?â you asked hoarsely.
âThe scaffolding gave out,â he said, eyes scanning the wreckage. âOne of the joints must have snapped.â
You turned toward the collapsed pile of metal and boards. It lay exactly where youâd been sitting minutes ago.
Your stomach dropped.
If he hadnât moved⊠if he had hesitatedâŠ
âOh my God,â you whispered.
He bent to pick up your bandanna from the ground. When he straightened, you noticed the back of his shirt was torn and red.
âYouâre bleeding,â you said immediately, stepping closer.
âItâs nothing,â he replied, glancing over his shoulder. âProbably just a scratch.â
âItâs not just a scratch.â
You reached out instinctively, fingers brushing the torn fabric near his shoulder blade. He inhaled sharply. Not in pain, but in surprise.
âYouâve got cuts,â you said, frowning slightly. âFrom the metal.â
âItâll heal,â he said, calm as ever.
âYou literally just used your body as a shield.â
He gave you a small look. âThat seemed like the reasonable option.â
You stared at him.
âReasonable,â you repeated, voice flat.
He shrugged lightly, then winced, a subtle pull of pain in his back.
âThere,â you said, pointing. âThat wince means weâre not arguing about this.â
He exhaled slowly. âI have a first aid kit at home.â
âGood.â
âBut you donât have-â
âLet me help you,â you cut in. âYou just kept me from being crushed. The least I can do is clean a few cuts.â
He hesitated, studying your face like he was weighing something beyond mere bandages.
âPlease,â you added, softer now. âIâd feel better.â
A beat of silence passed between you.
Finally, he nodded once.Â
A few minutes later, you followed him toward his house, which stood just behind the church.
When he pushed the door open, a pit bull rushed toward you, wagging its tail so hard its whole body moved with it.
You yelped in surprise and took a quick step back.
Father Jardani grinned.
âDonât be afraid. She wonât bite.â
âIâm not afraid,â you replied quickly, trying to regain your dignity.
The dog pressed her head against your leg, clearly expecting attention. You crouched down and scratched behind her ears, earning an enthusiastic tail wag.
The priest moved to a small bedside table near the kitchen area, pulled open a drawer, and took out a metal box. It landed on the dining table with a dull thud.
âPlease bring towels from the bedroom,â he said, nodding toward a door at the back of the house.
You stood, dusting your hands on your jeans.
âSure.â
The hallway was dim. When you pushed the door open, the hinges gave a soft creak. The room was simple. A large vintage bed stood against the wall, perfectly made. Two bedside tables. A single wooden chair near the window.
Everything was neat. Almost too neat.
You crossed the room and opened the wardrobe. The first door revealed rows of black shirts and dark trousers, neatly arranged. A couple of sweaters hung beside them, along with a heavy leather jacket.
You closed it and opened the next door.
Towels.
You grabbed two and headed back to the kitchen.
Father Jardani was already sitting at the table. The first aid kit lay open in front of him, antiseptic, cotton, and gauze spread across the surface.
You placed the towels down and quickly washed your hands in the sink before walking over.
âSo,â you said, stepping behind him.
You gently pushed the fabric of his T-shirt aside to inspect the damage. Small cuts lined his shoulder blade, and you spotted two thin splinters of metal lodged in the skin.
âHold still.â
You reached for a pair of tweezers and carefully pulled one splinter free.
Then the second.
âWell,â you said, placing the metal pieces aside, âyouâll need to take off your T-shirt.â
The priest nodded without hesitation.
Your eyes widened slightly as he reached up and pulled the shirt over his head.
The muscles across his back shifted under the movement, tightening and rolling as the fabric lifted away. He pulled the shirt over his head and dropped it carelessly onto the floor beside the chair.
You froze.
There was a man sitting in front of you now - broad shoulders, a powerful back marked with tattoos and scars.
Your eyes moved slowly over the ink.
Across his upper back ran an inscription in Latin. You caught only fragments of the meaning, something about luck or fate.
At the center was a religious image:Â two hands pressed together in prayer with a large cross against the background. Another smaller cross was on his left shoulder. That would have seemed perfectly logical for a priest, crosses and all, but it didnât make sense with the two images he bore on either side of the large tattoo.
On one side, a howling wolf stretched along the curve of his shoulder blade, its muzzle lifted toward the sky. On the other, a face twisted inside rising flames.
You stared.
It felt⊠complicated.
And scars.
Many of them.
Long ones cutting diagonally across his ribs. Small round marks scattered across the muscle of his back. Old wounds, healed but still visible.
What shocked you the most was the scar right in the center on top of the tattoo - an inverted cross, clearly burned in, as if someone had marked him.
It felt⊠so fucking complicated.
For a moment you forgot to breathe. The man glanced back at you over his shoulder. You realized you had been staring far too long.
You cleared your throat quickly and reached for the antiseptic.
âItâs not that bad,â you said, trying to sound casual. âBut this is going to sting.â
You soaked a piece of cotton and pressed it gently against one of the cuts. The antiseptic touched the wound.Â
This man didnât flinch, not even a little.
You frowned slightly.
âThat didnât hurt?â
âIâve had worse,â he said simply.
You leaned a little closer, studying another cut before carefully cleaning it.Â
âSomething tells me thatâs an understatement.â you murmured.
He didnât answer.
The room stayed quiet except for the soft clink of metal instruments on the tray and the gentle tapping of the dogâs nails across the floor. She wandered over and rested her head against the manâs knee with a content sigh.
Scarlettite, I am actually vibrating𫚠You told me this was worse, but then you gave us THIS. And the way he just⊠used his body as a shield? I'm not okay. My writer's block is cured but my heart is permanently damaged. PLEASE POST THE REST. I loved the quiet intimacy of the garden bench vs. the raw, physical intensity of the church renovation
THE FINAL CHAPTER! you meet Tex Johnson on a plane...some hijinks ensue. WARNINGS??? Tex being Tex. Mild violence. Nothing worse than the show, its pretty camp. Refer to beginning of Ch 2 so you don't get lost! đ. and as always MDNI! ... chapter map spotify playlist i swear the lyrics are actually relevant if u translate them đ
5. đșđŽđșđŽđșđŽđșđŽđș
âAre you sure itâs a good idea to go out tonight?â asks one of your friends, clearly concerned about your dinner plans for the evening.Â
âItâll be fine,â you assure them. âIâll be with Tex. What's the worst that can happen?â
They exchange looks with their beaus that tell you they've been having their own discussions about their suspicions about Tex.
âWellâŠâ
Like the gremlin you are, you can't help but savor their second thoughts about this whole mess, and you let them squirm about it. âOh come on, you said it was your turn to pick,â you tease with no real malice. âIt was my vote to drown him in the pool.â
âYeah right,â answers your friend with a playful glare. âYou were salivating for that man right along with us!â
âYouâre the one who said he was fuckable!â you cackle, pointing. And boy howdy, was your friend right about that.
This admission makes Johnny frown a little. Jack is inscrutable as stone, and you do wonder if there's something to what Tex said about these men actually being in law enforcement.
âJustâŠbe careful, ok?â
âOf course. Not my first rodeo, babes.â
âWe knowâŠâ
âWe just love you.â
âI love you too. Iâll be back later. Bye boys!â
Is Tex rubbing off on you, that you feel you have to taunt the [alleged] cops? You definitely donât grasp the true gravity of your situation, fluttering along in vacation mode, convinced nothing truly bad can happen to you. You've committed to the bit, and you're determined to play it out now, even if you suspect itâs going to hurt your heart later.Â
You slip out the door with a finger wave, skipping off to meet Tex downstairs.Â
You just kind of assumed you were going to take a taxi to whatever destination Tex had in mind. But he is leaning against a black vintage muscle car with his arms crossed, the outlaw of your dreams dressed all in black. He lets out a wolf whistle as you approach, appraising the cut of your flowy tropical dress over the top of his dark shades.Â
âOh my god,â you say under your breath, and he smirks like he heard you. âTex, where did you get this?âÂ
âI borrowed it.âÂ
You steady yourself with palms on his solid chest as you lean in for a kiss, and his hands sneak around your waist with an approving rumble. âYou didnât steal this car, did you?â you whisper, voice low so no one can hear.Â
The idea of it makes him chuckle darkly, hands following the curve of your spine, perilously close to your ass as he pulls you full against him. Uff, this man is built solid as a tree. Youâre almost too distracted to register his simple denial of, âNo.âÂ
Not sure you really believe him, you search his face. You can hear the doormen behind you talking and whistling low amongst themselves, youâre pretty sure about the car. He lets you stew in your uncertainty, clearly amused as he looks down at you. Finally you say, âI believe you, only because if you did steal it youâre so vain youâd brag about it.âÂ
This wins you a bark of laughter and a smack on the derriere. âGet in your ass in this car, pretty mama. Iâm taking you for a ride.â
You have no idea how prophetic this seemingly innocuous declaration will prove.Â
Maybe itâs stupid, how quickly you unwind, all your knee-jerk fears of earlier forgotten, while roaring down the seaside highway in this beast of a car with the windows down, holding Texâs hand between shifting the gears.Â
In a change of pace the two of you donât talk [fight] much, blissfully content to watch the palm trees race by with the warm breeze on your faces, the glittering waters beyond gilded in rose gold by the setting sun.Â
This place truly is a paradise.  Â
âHaving fun?â he asks while kissing your hand with a smoldering look, his rough twang underscored with the barest note of earnestness that squeezes your heart. You havenât known this man long at all, but youâre beginning to learn the subtle cues he keeps hidden beneath the boisterous good olâ boy facade he wears for the world.Â
Heâs got a soft spot under all that armor; maybe itâs how he so adroitly recognized the same tender underbelly on you. The thought makes you squeeze his fingers in yours; every minute that goes by in this manâs company makes you dread more and more the moment when youâll have to let go.
You do know it wonât last. Even if you stay, it never lasts, and the ache of this only intensifies the thrill, like scratching an itch with a razor-sharp blade.Â
 âYes.âÂ
This wins you a roguish smile that quickens your heart like the ridiculous creature you are.Â
âHard to keep my eyes on the road,â he admits, shifting to rest his hand in the soft crevice of your inner thigh.Â
âTex!â you giggle, and he chuckles in kind, pinching you lightly to make you squirm in your seat.Â
âYou are the worst,â you sigh wistfully, squeezing his hand between your legs.Â
You think youâll remember the sound of his happy laughter for the rest of your life, and you know that no matter what happensâŠyou will be forever changed by this man, and the wild bliss heâs called up from the razed earth of your heart these past few daysÂ
His shapely mouth curls in a half-smile for this, and he at least pretends to pay attention to the road while his thumb draws maddening circles upon your thigh.
Your trip ends outside the touristy parts of town, where the buildings are smaller and older and a little rundown. You like it immediately, and when he parks in front of a brightly painted little place on the beach constructed out of cinder blocks and old wood, the patio seemingly held together by twining bougainvillea, baling wire, and palm fronds, you believe that you are indeed in for a genuine taste of this beautiful country.
The patio wraps around the back with a breathtaking view of the beach, and the waitress gives you a little table with a front row view by the railing. âYou like?â asks Tex with a half smile, clearly enjoying your wide-eyed wonder.Â
âVery much,â you tell him, taking his hand. He tangles you up in his long legs under the table, and the two of you stay that way for the duration of the meal. Over margaritas, tequila shots, cochinita pibil and moharra frita you feel something shift in Tex as youâre talking. Some small barrier has fallen between you, and you feel like heâs not completely bullshitting you with every word he says. Maybe youâre not as guarded as you usually are either, when he asks you about your family and your life and the places youâve been. Itâs...nice, and it makes the sting of certain impermanence hurt all the more.Â
A varied crowd of people fills the seaside restaurant. There are some tourists, but mostly itâs locals filling the chairs and the stools along the long bar that wraps around the back of the building. âHow did you hear about this place?â you ask Tex, chasing the last bit of fruity goodness in the bottom of your margarita glass with a straw.Â
âGot a rec from one of myâŠbusiness associates,â he tells you. This makes some sense to you, as the night goes on and you donât think youâre imagining that some of the clientele seem to have a certain edge to them. And a few at the bar seem to be paying a particular attention to you, or Tex, or at least the general direction of your table. Despite the uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, you tell yourself youâre just being paranoid, and when the waitress swings by you donât object to Tex ordering another round of margaritas.Â
âGotta hit the head,â he tells you, leaning over to kiss your cheek before ambling around the building towards [you assume] the location of the facilities. You pass the alone time by looking out over the ocean. The sun has set by now, but the moon has risen, and you can see the glitter of the ever-moving water along with the distant sound of the surf. The patio is lit up by strings of festive fairy lights, youâve got a great buzz from the tequila and a belly full of good food, and for a fleeting moment you are perfectly content.Â
Then a shadow falls over your table, and you look up to see two of those tough looking men from the bar have come to loom over you.     Â
âWhereâs your novio?â one with a scar over his eye demands, his voice like tires driving over broken glass.Â
âHeâŠwent to the bathroom,â you stammer, your Spanish evaporating in the face of this tense situation.Â
The two heavies look at each other knowingly, one hissing with disbelief through his teeth, the other reaching out to grasp you by the back of the neck. âHey!â you protest, but quickly shut your mouth as the other flashes a chrome-plated handgun stuck in his waistband under his shirt.Â
âYou wanna see him again? Shut up, puta.â
Deep down, you know you should resist. You should make a big fucking scene, scream and shout and tip over tables. Make yourself memorable, at least, in case someone with a connection to your embassy might be watching. You should not go quietly, sandwiched between these scary men with eyes as sharp as the volcanic stone their ancestors once used to carve out the hearts of their enemies.Â
But something freezes inside of you. Something gets stuck between fight or flight, and you just watch, hoping deep down that Tex will come to your rescue at the last minute.Â
You walk out the restaurant, and across the car park, and you donât see or hear a peep out of him as Big Tough #1 shoves you into the back seat of a Mercedes G-Wagon, and sits beside you with the gun pressed into your ribs.Â
Tex, you son of a bitch. Â
 đŽđŽđŽ
Deafening gunfire echoes through the cavernous warehouse, and you struggle in your chair, desperate to get free. One of the henchmen takes a bullet to the chest, collapsing at your feet. Something wet and hot splashes the side of your face, and you canât bring yourself to admit what you know: itâs totally blood.
Puke or cry, puke or cry? The dilemmas facing a modern woman these daysâŠÂ
Drawing a gold-plated Desert Eagle from his waistband while reciting a string of rapid-fire expletives, the leader of the trio takes cover behind you, pressing the barrel of the gun to your temple.Â
âYour stupid boyfriend has become a real pain in my ass,â hisses the Jefe in your ear, poking you viciously with the gun for good measure.Â
âWelcome to the fucking club,â you snarl back, as pissed at him as you are at Tex. Fucking men.Â
âDon Juan!â bellows a voice from behind a crate.Â
Why does your stupid heart still sing at the sound of that shifty motherfuckerâs voice? You should hate Texâs guts, but there is still a small part of you that hopes against hope he didnât abandon you at the restaurant, and there is still some sliver of hope that he actually cares about youâŠenough to get you out of this mess, at least.
âYou lousy cheating hijo de puta! Did you really think you could sell me fakes and get away with it?â your captor answers, poking you with the barrel of the gun with each word. Goddamn, dude, ease up.Â
âWellâŠâÂ
âWrong answer, cabrĂłn!â
âOw!!â you scream as Juan wrenches your head back with a grip in your hair.Â
âHey now, easy on the goods, partner!âÂ
âYou want her back alive? You better get me my money back with interest, for a start.âÂ
âUhhhâŠâ
âTEX!â you snarl, so fucking fed-up with his shit. You canât help but think back on that amazing night you spent together, interrupted by his midnight sojourn, and him returning in that sharp suit. You donât know what kind of grift he pulled on this guy, but you are so fucking pissed that youâre in the middle of it now. âGIVE HIM his FUCKING MONEY BACK!âÂ
Juan laughs softly behind you. âYour lady is smarter than you, señor. Iâd take her advice.âÂ
âYeah. About thatâŠIââÂ
The roar of an engine and the explosion of a car crashing through the side of the warehouse interrupts Tex mid-sentence. Chaos rains down and gunfire fills the air as more of Juanâs goons fire at the vintage muscle car drifting through the stacks of crates and shipping containers. Somehowâwhile steering and shiftingâthe driver picks them all off one by one. The shock of the spectacle might be what saves you allâDon Juan does not run from his cover of using your paltry form as a human shield. He watches in disbelief as the Mustang circles your chair in a burnout that positions the driver at the perfect angle to put a bullet between your captorâs eyes.Â
Suddenly the warehouse is quiet as a cemetery at midnightâbecause everyone is dead.Â
More blood has spattered onto your faceâyou do not care, unable to tear your eyes from the dark and terrible form that emerges from the driverâs side of the car. He is tall, clad in a beautifully tailored black suit, his crisp white shirt specked with blood, a matte 9mm clasped in his large hand at his side. You lose time as he turns to look at you with eyes like dark pits that hold all the sorrow of the world, falling into those fathomless orbs.Â
You cannot look away.Â
He looks like TexâŠbut not.
âYou alright?â he grumbles, almost begrudgingly, as though speaking is something heâd rather not do and words are in limited supply for him.Â
âI think so?â you squeak, though deep down your limbs have begun to shake and you donât think you can stop.Â
You gasp as he produces a knife from seemingly thin air, but relax as you realize heâs using it to cut your bonds. He crouches beside you, looking you over as though he didnât believe you when you said you were fine. Youâre not sure he likes what he sees, from the tired way he sighs. âYou poor thing. Didnât have a clue, did you?âÂ
You try not to cry as he pulls a white linen handkerchief from inside his smart jacket and wipes the blood off of your face.Â
âThanks.âÂ
âWhew!â Tex finally emerges from behind his cover of haphazard crates, his boot heels clicking on the concrete. âThat was some driving, buddââ In the blink of an eye this newcomer has Tex up against the side of the Mustang in a choke hold, cutting off his air supply with his forearm on his neck.Â
âYou,â snarls your savior, none too happy to see his doppelganger.
âHeghâJohnâCâmonââ Tex taps at the iron bar of an arm against his windpipe, but John only presses harder for a few seconds more.Â
âYou. Stole Viggoâs blue diamonds. And sold them to Juan fucking AragĂłnâwhile pretending to be me? You. Fucking. Asshole!â
âThey were fake diamonds!â Tex protests.
âI donât fucking care!â
âAww, câmon. What are brothers for?â
âYou're not my brother.â
âIâm your twin!â
âYou canât talk your way out of this one. I have to bring you back.â
âI canât go back.â
âYou donât get a choice.â
âJohnâŠcâmon.â
âDead or alive. Your choice.â
You involuntarily make a pitiful little sound behind them. As though he forgot you were even there, this terrible killer turns his attention to you again. âWho's she?â
âJust some girl. Don't hurt her.â
Gee, thanks.
âIâm not going to hurt her.â He fixes narrowed eyes on Tex. âBut you're not getting out of this.â
Tex looks past his brother to you with forlorn puppy eyes, and fuck if you donât melt a little, like the fucking idiot you are. âCan I at least say goodbye?â
âFine,â John growls. âBut make it quick.â He releases his brother, and Tex makes a show of brushing himself off, looking at John with a raised eyebrow.
All it earns him is a snarl before the assassin turns his back on both of you.
Tex sidles your way with that come-hither smirk curling his oh-so-kissable lips. This manchild thinks all this was funny.Â
He doesnât even see it coming when you wind up and slap him across the face. âOuch! Easy darlinâ!â
You canât stop yourself from shoving your finger in his face, even if you have to stand on tiptoe to do it. âYou asshole! You left meââ
With the speed of a pouncing leopard this man snatches you up in his armsâand slants his mouth over yours. You struggle for about 2.5 seconds before you hate to admitâyou give in to it, all your good sense going up in smoke with those clever lips and that devilish tongue lighting up your world one more time. He kisses you like he means to devour you from the mouth down, like he would like to permanently imprint the taste of you on his tongue. He is definitely holding you up by the time heâs done with you, and you forget how to speak when he draws back to look down into your eyes.Â
âI didnât leave you, honey. I justâŠhad to time it right, or I knew I wasnât going to get you back.â
You can't help but think it was his brother who saved all your bacon. Yet when this menace of a man sweeps your hair behind your ear, you canât stop yourself from leaning into him.
âSorry I got you mixed up in all this.âÂ
You whimper out of frustration, knowing you shouldnât believe him, but wanting to. Your attempt to pound on his chest with your fist is thwarted by his arms locked tight around you.Â
âTexâŠis he going to hurt you?â you canât help but ask, looking at his lethal twin who is clearly losing his patience, leaning against his baddass car.Â
âNah. Weâll work it out. Always do.â Tex winks at you with that tricksterâs sparkle in his eye, and you strangely sympathize with the mafia assassin having to deal with this wild man who somehow worms his way into your heart, despite all the trouble he causes.Â
Tex chucks you under the chin when he sees it quivering with the urge to cry. âHereâsââÂ
âIf you say âHereâs looking at you, kid,â I will knee you in the junk, Humpy Bogart.âÂ
He laughs at that, a full-on head-back guffaw. âBabyâŠIâm going to miss you.âÂ
âYeah?âÂ
âYeah. Sorry weâre wrapping early. I had some elaborate plans for your juicy little puââ
âTex!â you giggle, squirming as he nuzzles your neck with a wicked chuckle, his big hand grabbing your ass low, his long fingers brushing your center. He captures your lips again in a long wet kiss that curls your toes in your shoes and your fingers in his shirt.Â
âTimeâs up, Romeo,â growls the other brother in black, and Tex sighs. There are sirens in the distance, but getting closer. Lots of them.Â
âGotta go, darlinâ.âÂ
âWaitâŠhow am I getting back?âÂ
âEh. Theyâll give you a ride.âÂ
âWho are they? Hey, wait!âÂ
But Tex veritably lopes on those long legs, hopping in the passenger side of the Mustang in three strides. The assassin named John doesnât even look at you before getting behind the wheel and starting the car with a roar. As the warehouse is filled with the wails of the police sirens the outlaws are burning rubber in the opposite direction, making a new hole in the other side of the building.Â
One of the official cars tries to follow them, but you doubt it will get far. That man can drive.Â
You are practically blinded by the flashing lights all around you, huddling in your little dress with your arms crossed, praying they donât mistake you for a bandida and shoot you. Thereâs a lot of yelling of âÂĄManos arriba!â and pointed guns.Â
Shit, itâs all old hat to you now.Â
You do as youâre told, lifting your hands above your head.Â
A team of Federales fan out into the warehouse, looking for targets. All they find are bodies.Â
One of them cuffs you, and you stand there feeling sorry for yourself while they tear the warehouse apart looking for clues or evidence or the Easter Bunny. They bring out some drug-sniffing dogs who are very interested in the crates Tex was hiding behind.Â
Great.
The thing that shocks you out of your heartbroken stupor is Jack and Johnny striding up in commando gear, looking ridiculously fine in their bullet proof vests, big guns holstered on their hips. âWhere did Tex go?â they ask.Â
âFuck if I know. Are you DEA?â you ask back, more relieved than you would like to admit that theyâre here and maybe sorta on your side. But then againâŠmaybe not.Â
âIâm Special Agent Utah, FBI,â Johnny answers, flashing a badge.Â
âDetective Traven, LAPD,â Jack echoes, unclipping the badge on his belt for you to see. âWeâre gonna have to ask you some questions.âÂ
âYeah. I figured.âÂ
âDid you know heâs a hitman?â Jack asks in a deep, no-nonsense LEO voice, very different from the easy going guy who was canoodling with your friend just this afternoon.
âWhat?â John was obvious, but Tex? Ok, maybe you sensed something dangerous about him, butâŠ?
âHeâs a contract killer. Weâve been tracking him for years.âÂ
Bewildered, you shake your head, the last bit of wind blown out of your sails this night.Â
âNo. He justâŠsold some bogus diamonds to this cartel guy, apparently.âÂ
âAny idea where he stashed the money?âÂ
You snort. âNope.âÂ
âYouâre not lying to us, I hope.âÂ
You just sigh, suddenly so very tired. âNo.âÂ
âYouâre in a tricky situation here, maâam,â says Johnny, like he wasnât joking with you by your first name with your friends in the pool just this morning. âJuan AragĂłn was the head of the serpent, but some of his underlings might still want revenge. Youâll be wanting to fly home tonightâbut we can only make that happen if you're telling us everything you know.â
âI am!â Oh god. âWhat about my friends?âÂ
âWeâve already got them at the airport with a detail,â Traven answers, and you sigh with relief.Â
So much for a carefree vacationâŠ
Boy, do you know how to pick them.Â
Or maybe, you think, this timeâŠhe picked you.Â
And deep downâŠin the deepest dungeon of your heartâŠin a place youâll never reveal to anyone elseâŠitâs possibleâŠyouâre glad he did. Â
đșđșđș
A year goes by in a fog for you. You swing between hating yourself for being such a fucking idiot to missing that dark-eyed bandit with every cell of your stupid little being.Â
The FBI and LAPD question you a few more times, but eventually theyâre satisfied that you really were just a random vacation hookup, and had no true connections to Tex Johnsonâs criminal activities.
This truce might have been helped along by the fact that your friends are still dating Agent Utah and Officer Traven. Who honey-potted who?
Youâre so happy for them. Jack will surely be popping the question any time now, and Johnny is just as smitten. Not all vacation flings have to end in total disasterâŠ
But sometimes, late at night when youâre alone in bed and consumed by the fever of a nebulous wet dreamâyou wish you'd jumped in that Mustang while waving your middle finger goodbye to your stable, boring life.
You try dating.Â
Itâs a joke.
No one gives you that bone-deep thrill like one wink from that outlaw cowboy could. No one else can match your wit or your temper; they just run for the hills like the cowards they are.
No one else calls up that red-hot desire that threatens to burn you alive from the inside out.Â
Maybe you are a hot fucking mess, but as time goes on you start to fear more and more that Tex really was your perfect pairing, like gasoline and a careless match.
It doesnât matter.
You know youâll never see him again.Â
The knowledge of this sinks into your bones, heavy as lead. You accept it, even if you don't know how to get past the dark cloud that constantly hovers over you.Â
After a very long day you sit down on your couch with a glass of wine to go through your mail. Itâs mostly bills, offers for credit cards you donât want, and some magazines. You almost miss a bright little postcard of the Golden Buddha of Wat Khao Rang, a temple in Phuket, Thailand, tucked into an ad circular by the postman.Â
Your heart leaps into your throat while racing a mile a minute. Your hand starts shaking as you get up the courage to flip that piece of cardstock in your fingers.Â
SomehowâŠyou just know, and you're not sure if it's a good thing or not.Â
Finally you turn it over, finding a short message in a barely legible left-handed scrawl:
Do you still think about me?
â»ïžYes â»ïžNo
A ridiculous smile spreads over your cheeks, and you collapse back into your pillows, holding the card over your heart thatâs suddenly turned into a butterfly house.Â
Later that evening, you find yourself browsing flights to Bangkok on your laptop.
If insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly while hoping for different resultsâŠ
Fuck it.Â
ââ
The ENDâŠ
âŠor is it?đđ€
Thank you everyone for reading to the end! I hope you enjoyed! Your comments make my day! đđđđ
*All pics stolen from pinterest. yarrrrr.đŽââ ïž
TEXXXX tsk tsk tskđŒAGENT UTAH.....Wick Wick and.....oh god oh Julia, what a ride! You absolute gremlin. I can't stop saying gremlin now thanks to you. I'm obsessed with the way you wrapped this up. The transition was seamless, and the Tex vs. John reveal is pure cinematic gold
We think you are so nice and cool and full of wonderful ideas and skills! Yay! Do something nice for yourself more often, please! :3
You're too kind! Thank you for such a lovely reminder. I'm sending all that wonderful energy right back to you! I'll make sure to do something extra nice for myself this evening and you should too!!!
Iâm 100% the type of person who will always compliment you if I have something nice to say bc I understand how powerful a few kind words can be for somebody whoâs having a hard time and bc thereâs literally no reason not to. I have horrible anxiety but I push through it and go up to strangers all the time bc I know Iâd want to hear something kind someone had to say to me
A Donaka Mark x housekeeper!Reader fic, based on @discoscoob 's concept & bot! An unlikely flirtation turns into a dark obsession... Warnings: MDNI!!! Donaka Mark is a bad man with a soft spot for you. dark romance, possessive behavior, nonconsensual voyeurism, red flag red flag girl!đș, psychological games, power imbalance, eventual dubcon/nsfw/involuntary captivity. -> all chapters
Twenty-five.
Donaka does not push you any more about attending a late-night fight with him, though you do spend more time in his media room watching tournaments together. He asks you what you think about this martial artist or that one, and explains what intrigues him or who he thinks would fall quickly against a certain style.
When you ask him how long heâs been into this he admits that it was his sport of choice as a young man, and going to the Kung Fu school across town was how he kept up with his Cantonese while living in the West.Â
He warns you with a gimlet stare that if you make a Karate Kid crack he will put you over his kneeâthen delights in watching you stew and squirm with the urge to tease him. You manage to swallow it like a good girl, even if you can feel it bubbling inside.Â
He tells you that eventually he branched out into other fighting styles, and, you gather, gained real world experience on the streets. The latter part saddens you, even if you absolutely know now that it's an intrinsic part of how he became who he is. Â
You canât help but notice that watching this sanctioned violence on the television screens more often than not ends in fucking on the angular black leather couch for the two of you. It gets him going, and you reason it must have something to do with caveman urges and elevated levels of testosterone. Vicarious battlefield relief.Â
Men.Â
It amuses you, for some reason, but you know better than to tease him about it. Youâre coming to like this little evening ritual, and you donât want to spoil it with your insouciance.Â
Besides.Â
Who are you to throw stones from your big fucking glass house? You know very well that watching him fighting awakens something ridiculously primal in you. Something with a direct line straight to your loins.Â
Youâre not a violent person, or so you tell yourself. So why does that turn you on? It must be some deep-seated natural bullshit that betrays you in the back rooms of your brain. Would be good protector of cubs? Shut up, Hind Brain. You donât have any of those and nor do you want any.Â
Youâve always managed to resist that natural gravitation towards Manly Menâą before now, perhaps reasoning that if they were good at hurting anyone who threatened you, they could just as easily hurt you too. But as youâve fumbled through life youâve found that all kinds of men can be toxic in such varied and delightful ways... Â
All you know is that youâre in it now, and you couldnât turn back even if you wanted to. May as well revel in it while you can.Â
On a morning you know heâll be training with his sparring partner you sneak out of bed to watch him through a crack in the door.Â
He is magnificent.Â
Powerful but graceful, and brutal when he goes in for the finishing move.Â
You donât think his partner is paid to lose, from the way he fights backâŠbut Donaka wins more often than not.Â
You almost get away with spying on your paramour, until you make the mistake of gasping when his partner lands a solid blow on his cheek. They are wearing gloves, but it still rocks Donakaâs neck to such an angle that for a split second youâre afraid it might break. Donakaâs head swivels like a hawkâs, his attention zeroed in on you.
Youâre not sure why you run.Â
Itâs not like heâs forbidden you from watching, but the glint of something bestial in his eyes triggers your instinct for flight. Â
Did you really think you could outrun those magnificently long legs, you stupid girl?Â
You feel him closing in behind you, and in that moment your fear is as real as your elation.
You juke him twice, around the couch, and then up the stairs.
Havenât you ever seen a horror film?
Donât you know that you never run upstairs?
He finally catches you in the hallway to your bedroom, grabbing you up with an arm around your waist, and you squeal like a rabbit caught in the tigerâs jaws. You are both feral and panting, and you wriggle like a little worm but all for naught, for he soon has you pinned against the wall with his weight and his big hands and his punishing mouth on yours.Â
âSpying on me, bunny?â he practically growls into the bend of your neck, nipping your flesh hard enough to leave a bruise.Â
Youâre not proud that all this reduces your voice to a breathless suggestion of a whisper. âJustâŠwatching.â
âOh? See anything you liked?âÂ
âSome of it.âÂ
With a growl he lifts you with hands on your thighs, pinning you against the wall again. âOnly some?âÂ
Before you can answer his mouth is on yours again like he means to devour your very soul.Â
âWell?â he demands as he withdraws, as though you could have answered him through the onslaught.Â
âI donât likeâŠseeing you hurt,â you answer, gasping for air, your fingers like claws in his powerful shoulders.Â
âDo I seem like Iâm hurt?âÂ
This wins a shaky laugh from you. âI guess not,â you answer, touching the side of his face lightly. He does nothing so telling as a wince, and maybe it's just your imagination that he leans into your touch, but the flesh is red and a little swollen. There might be a bruise later.Â
He answers you with another low growl from deep in his chest, leaning in for another kiss that is more merciful, but no less claiming, his tongue deep in your mouth like heâs counting all your teeth. Your thighs clench around his narrow hips, your treacherous center purring with approval, as ever.Â
âYouâre a bad girl.âÂ
âAm not!â you protest, and maybe the fact that you would talk back to him at all speaks volumes as to how far you've come.Â
âAre so. Skulking around, spyingâŠâ
âLiterally your favourite pastime.â
âSecond favourite,â he corrects, sucking the skin below your collarbone. You will have a bruise for sure.
âWhat's the first?â
âFucking you until you forget your own name.âÂ
Growling out of excited dread, you struggle again. That's when he throws you over his sweat-dewed bare shoulder, smacking your ass before hauling you to the bedroom. You wiggle and squirm against his inexorable hold, but itâs all for naught.Â
Heâs got you now, and heâs not letting go until heâs finished with you.Â
Your bottom is still smarting by the time he tosses you down on the bed like a sack of rice, and you only bounce once on the mattress before he has pounced upon you again. Itâs hard to tell, if this is lovemaking or an outright onslaught, the way he takes you with teeth and harsh kisses and a possessive tongue, his grip and the solid weight of his body pressing you down. You hear silk rip under his strong hands, and the sound of your surprised yip only seems to spur him on more. He does not prepare you any more than what the sight of him locked in battle has already called up in your prehistoric little heart and your absolutely idiotic loins.Â
The moan torn from your throat by his broad tip at your entrance and his thick length burying inside you has very little to do with pain.Â
Like he knows all too well, your captor turned paramour smirks down at you with an absolutely devilish glint in his eyes. Yet maybe youâre not entirely imagining things, when you think there is a softness there for you too, a glimmer of fondness that should only feel like a pittance, yet the things it does to your obviously damaged pre-frontal cortex. Danger assessment? Forgot all about it.Â
Sometimes you think you are no better than a lab rat junkie running down your next fix of poisoned dopamine.Â
âAwfully wet, for a reluctant little rabbit. Admit you enjoyed watching the violence. You are a blood thirsty little thing,â he declares in a deadly purr, stretching you further with a slow thrust of his hips, his fingertips in the flesh of your thighs digging hard enough to leave bruises. âIt made you want to be run down and devoured like the soft little bunny you are.â He punctuates this point by sucking upon the pebble of your nipple, just this side of too hard. Yet he blurs the edge of your pain with his thumb upon your clit, and you think you can endure anything he deals you, so long as he doesnât stop touching you there. Â
âI donât know,â you hiss desperately, your spine arched like a bow as he wrecks you, every muscle in your body strained and focused on finding release. You screw closed your eyes, taking the fury that is his cock driving relentlessly inside you, your fingers tangling in the sheets. Â
âYes you do,â he insists through gritted teeth. âI think you know very well.âÂ
You sense the thread of exasperation in his tone, and perhaps you are not the only one who resents the demands this obsession wreaks upon you.
âIâŠâ
âWhat did I tell you about lying to me?â
âDonakaâŠpleaseâŠâ What are you begging for, exactly? The lines have all blurred with this man. Does he think you are actually capable of reason, when he has you on your back with his cock stuffing you full? Â
âYou better figure it out, bunny,â he warns you, flipping you on your belly, manipulating your body like you weigh nothing at all. âIâm not letting you cum until you do.â The stretch and glide as he fills you from behind is an exquisite torture, your body all too happy to accomodate his invasion. Youâre still not used to the size of him, and now youâre not sure you ever will be.Â
âI wantedâŠâ What did you want? You really should know by now, even if Donakaâs courtship has been nothing less than buckling down for a typhoon. Hold on. Itâs all you can do, some days. Yet the answer rings true as a bell, rising from the fug of your lust-addled thoughts. Once you might have rather died than say it aloud, but something has been changing between you, and in you. Despite your attempts at self-preservation, you know you will never be the same after this man has had his way with you.Â
Why is there a ringing in your ears, so you can barely hear yourself as you admit into the blankets, âJust you, Donaka. All my roadsâŠlead to you now.â Itâs like you were too close to the explosion of a bomb.Â
There it goes. Your last shreds of your dignity, your last card to play, up in smoke and flame.
He does not answer you with words, but his punishing pace slows, gliding deliberately inside you so that you can feel every last delectable inch of him, his tip dragging over that spot that drives you wild.Â
âThatâs my good girl.â Â
Itâs unholy, what this manâs praise calls up in youâblinding, mind-numbing pleasure isnât even the half of it, but you scream his name as you cum on his dick like the needy little slut you are. He locks against you not moments later, growling as he fills you with his seed, gripping your shoulder hard enough to bruise you. Tomorrow your outside will mirror your soul within, forever marked by this manâs love, too foolish or too weak to remember that once, youâd actually intended to escape him.Â
Heâs got you now, as neatly as locking you in a cage and throwing away the key, and the real crux of the trick?Â
As you lay gasping for breath, your skin plastered to his with the glue of your sweat and other mingled body fluids, revelling in the animalistic mess of it allâŠyouâre not sure you even care, anymore.  Â
đ đ đ Â Â Â Â Â
A week later you are in the library reading a mystery novel set in Hong Kong, as youâve taken to spending your afternoons, when Donaka appears in the doorway.Â
âYouâre home early!â Itâs damn near domestic, the way you skip to greet him, kissing him hello. The delight you feel is genuine; you still havenât quite figured out what to do with yourself during the day, now that you donât have to clean the house, but you arenât really allowed to go anywhere. The writing bug still eludes you. Sometimes you help Mei with her daily allotment, even if it annoys the hell out of Mrs. Yeung.
This warm welcome seems to please Donaka greatly; he has the look of a sated tiger when he smiles down at you, sweeping your hair out of your face. Â
âI have a surprise for you.â
Perhaps you should be wary, considering this manâs track record, but silly thing that you are, you canât conceal your intrigue. âWhat is it?âÂ
He makes a sound through his teeth, chuckling at you. âCome and find out,â he tells you, stealing another kiss before leading you out with a hand at the small of your back. You make your way across the house, and soon you realize youâre going to Donakaâs training space. He holds the door for you, ever the outward picture of a gentleman, even if you know heâs a predator underneath.
A man is standing with his back to you in the center of the mats, looking around politely with his hands clasped behind him. When he turns you have to admit you gasp a little with a thrill of excitement; itâs like meeting a celebrity, after watching him for so many hours on Donakaâs bank of screens.Â
âY/n, this is Tiger Chen. Heâs going to instruct you in Tai Chi.â Â
