#( like I said I've been taking more time away from this hell site. )

[deceitfulmorals]

//The will to write. The will to interact with people who won't be jerks. Please, come bother my muses. Preferably my Gravity Falls related muses.

[torakowalski]

Swimmer Steve has reached summer 1988 and is inching closer to become Olympic Swimmer Steve!

I've got a confession. When I checked where the Olympic swimming trials were in 1988, the site I found told me Indianapolis. So I wrote this part! But then I double checked and it turns out the 1992 trials were Indianapolis but the 1988 ones were Austin. HOWEVER, it's too late, so pls accept this tiny deviation from reality.

(part one | part five)

"This is so fucking cool," Gareth yells in Eddie's ear, over all the different noises crashing around the natatorium.

"Yeah?" Eddie says, way more pleased than he wants to let on. He doesn't know why Gareth's here, but they all are: Gareth and Jeff and Chris, plus Robin and all Steve's kids.

Wayne's sitting further back with Mrs Henderson, away from some of the noise, but he's here too.

"Hell, yeah." Gareth grins at him. "How many times can you say you've seen someone you know audition for the Olympics?"

"It's not called auditioning," Chris says, elbowing him.

"It is, if you want to annoy Steve," Eddie tells him. He thinks it goes without saying that he always wants to annoy Steve.

It's blind luck that the Olympic swimming trials are happening in Indianapolis. Sure, Steve acted like it was no big deal, and said he didn't expect anyone to come, but Eddie knows how goddamn delighted he is that everyone's made it here for the second day.

Eddie's pleased too, of course he is, but he did kind of enjoy yesterday when it was just him here for the heats. Sue him, but he gets Steve to himself so often that he's maybe forgotten how to share.

There's some shuffling from further down the row of seats, and then Gareth gets shoved out the way and Dustin takes his place.

"Who are our main competitors?" he asks, looking at Eddie expectantly. He's got a notebook out and everything, like he's gonna come up with a plan to take them down.

Eddie starts to answer and realises that the rest of Steve's gang are listening in too. It dawns on him that he's the expert here. He's the one who's been up and down the country, going to meets with Steve, and he knows about this shit now.

He never thought he'd willingly learn anything about a sport, and even less that he'd admit to knowing anything, but it turns out you'll do a lot of unexpected shit when you're head over heels for a jock.

Even a straight jock. Even one who's been nothing but sweet about his stupid crush.

Speaking of which, here he comes now, golden skin and black speedos, standing out from the rest of the hopefuls, at least to Eddie.

"What happened to his chest hair?" Lucas asks, from one of the seats in front of Eddie. Their little Hawkins gang is really taking up a lot of this stadium.

"Right?" Max mutters, sounding disappointed.

Eddie tips forward to lean in between them. "He has to wax. Legs too."

"Ow," says Lucas, shuddering. "What's wrong with staying hairy?"

"You didn't say that when you asked why I hadn't shaved," Max says.

Lucas throws up his hands. "I didn't mean it that way! I've said I'm sorry and that I didn't mean it that way!"

It sounds like an old argument. The only bad thing about spending all his time with Steve these days, is that they miss a lot of the kids' day to day dramas. The ones that are too small to get relayed to them over the phone, anyway.

He knows Steve feels that too. He's planning to have a real break back home, after the Olympics. If he makes it to the Olympics. Fuck, Eddie hopes he makes it to the Olympics.

There's a buzz down below by the pool, everyone lining up for the first semi-final. Backstroke first. One of Steve's favourites.

"Okay," Eddie says, and takes a deep breath. "Here we go."

Steve makes it through all his semis easily, which Eddie had known he would, but had still panicked about.

There's a break before the finals, but Eddie unexpectedly can't make himself move. He's too keyed up, so tense and nervous for Steve that it's gone all the way around in a circle and frozen his legs.

"He's doing great!" Dustin says, easy and relaxed, because he's not worried. Whether Steve believes it or not, Dustin thinks he can do anything.

"Yeah." Eddie nods. "Yeah. Yeah, really great."

Dustin frowns at him. "... isn't he?"

Fuck, now Eddie is infecting other people with his anxiety. That's not cool. "He is doing so great," he says. "Like, fucking fantastic." He grins at Dustin, wide enough that he feels it stretch the scar on his cheek that doesn't move as easily as the rest of his face.

"So what's wrong with you?" Dustin asks.

If it was anyone else, except Wayne and maybe Gareth, Eddie would deny anything being wrong at all. But he and Dustin are bonded by like, bats and death and shit. So instead, he finds himself admitting, "He just wants this so bad. It's gonna shatter him, if he doesn't qualify."

"But he will," Dustin says. He grins crookedly at Eddie. "It's cute how much you care about him getting what he wants."

"Shut the fuck up," Eddie tells him, but affectionately.

They grab lunch while the 1500 metres guys do their semis, and they're back before the 50 metre finals.

Steve doesn't do 50 metres, says it's too short to be interesting, but Eddie thinks there's something cool about watching people whizz along down one length then be done. The fact that he enjoys races that Steve isn't even in is no good for his cred and not something he's gonna tell anyone.

Two minutes before Steve's first final, Robin drops into the seat next to Eddie. She doesn't say anything, just reaches out and clutches his hand.

Since he knows exactly how she feels, he just clutches back.

Steve qualified third fastest out of all the semi-finalists for this one, so he's in a decent, middle lane. He's easy to spot in his yellow swim cap, amongst all the reds and blacks.

"I'm gonna throw up," Robin says conversationally.

"Yup," Eddie agrees.

It's backstroke again first, so the swimmers all get into the water before the start. It feels like it's happening in slow motion, which might be because Eddie isn't breathing.

The whistle blows and they're off. It's a 200 metre race, so four lengths. Steve keeps up easily for the first length, is slightly ahead at the start of the second, but he falls behind just, just slightly right before the turn for the third.

Robin's fingernails digging into the back of Eddie's hand are all he can feel.

"Go Steve!" Max yells, followed a second later by the rest of the kids.

But Eddie already knows it's too late, Steve pushed himself too fast too early and he's not gonna catch up.

He finishes fifth. And, like, that makes him the fifth fastest guy in America in the backstroke, but fifth isn't gonna get him a spot at the Olympics.

"It's okay," Eddie hears himself saying, because the kids look kind of stunned. "It's okay, backstroke's done, we move on. He's still got three more finals; he just needs to place first or second in one of those. It's totally okay."

"What if it's not?" Robin hisses.

"Then I'm gonna cry."

She nods. "I'll join you."

Eddie watches as Steve drags himself out of the pool. He stands for a minute, then follows the others back to the changing rooms, without looking up at the stands.

He finishes third in the butterfly.

He comes second in the breaststroke, but it's a joint second, tied with some guy from Nebraska, and Eddie just doesn't know if that will be enough. What he really needs is a win.

"He's better than this," Robin says, voice hoarse from yelling Steve's name. "He is, right? He's been winning all his other meets."

"He's nervous. He's tensing up." Eddie wants to go down there and do something, anything to make Steve believe he can still do this.

It's late by the time the swimmers troop back out for the breaststroke final. Eddie's tired just from watching, he can't imagine how they all feel.

Steve's last out because he won this semi-final. He's the favourite for this one, but even across the distance between them, it's easy to see he's still frustrated with himself from the other races.

"Everyone cheer," Eddie orders before jumping up and fucking, whooping. Making a fool of himself at a sports event? He never thought he'd see the day.

Steve sees him then sees the kids join him and laughs, his whole body relaxing. He waves, waves again.

"Knock 'em dead, Harrington!" Eddie yells and ignores the looks he gets from the other families dotted around.

"Drown them!" Dustin yells, which makes Steve cover his face with his hands, but probably to hide his laughter rather than his dispair.

"He's gonna do it," Robin says. "He's got to."

Eddie sinks back into his seat, and can't say anything.

They line up, Steve dead centre this time. The whistle blows.

Steve's dive is beautiful, sends him nearly half way down the pool before he has to come up for air. He makes the first tumble turn ahead of everyone else, and then he's unstoppable. It's like he's been waiting for this moment, like everything has kicked into place.

He's in the lead for the second length, the third. A guy from California starts to creep up on him half way down the last length and Eddie has a second to think this is all gonna get snatched away, but it turns out Steve's not gonna let it.

He puts on a burst of speed that looks superhuman, fucking shoots himself through the water, leaves everyone in his wake and slaps his hand down on the end two maybe three strokes ahead of everyone else.

Their section erupts.

Dustin and Gareth and Robin all hug Eddie, like he's somehow had anything to do with this. Over their shoulders, he can see Wayne and Mrs Henderson cheering as loud as the rest of them.

He kisses Robin's cheek, says, "You're crying."

"Damn right, I am," she sniffs. She pats her hand against his cheek. "So are you."

"Huh," says Eddie, who hadn't noticed. "Your boy done good."

"Our boy," Robin says, "is going to the Olympics. You should say congrats to him with a kiss."

Eddie snorts. "Maybe I will," he says, knowing he won't. Steve doesn't want that. "Maybe I will."

(continued)

[enderblogs-25]

"Everyone's autistic now," "Why's there so much autism," "So many kids faking autism these days."

You know. I had been suspecting I was autistic since I started to understand what that meant, around middle school. I was working with two different autistic kids in a Girl Scout troop I led with my mom, and they did/said things that felt familiar. But I didn't dare bring up those thoughts, because my little cousin was autistic, that was his thing, and I didn't want to seem like I was looking for attention.

I started looking into autism for real when I hit my 20's, because those suspicions never went away... just buried. I had been focusing on other areas of my life anyway - my transition. But that was over, and I could see that things were still "off" about me. I love diving deep into different disabilities, disorders, and mental illnesses, but avoided autism because I was scared of what I'd find. I took maybe one test, masked up and guarded as hell, and because of that it said I wasn't autistic. I didn't answer truthfully, so I went looking elsewhere. ADHD, maybe. I ended up trying to get an ADHD diagnosis, and got misdiagnosed with a personality disorder that can be misdiagnosed in autistic adults. I felt I didn't have an option but to accept the diagnosis, because I was on my way to Chicago; out of time and out of money.

Nearly six months after the misdiagnosis, while I had been looking into the personality disorder and knew for certain I didn't meet the criteria for a diagnosis, (but masked through the appointments, which is how I got it) I had worked extensively on unmasking. I learned many neurodivergencies masked, and thought I'd give unmasking a shot, soon realizing I'd been doing it forever. Once I got better at unmasking, I eventually looked into autism again. What would it hurt to be told no twice? I took a couple quizzes again. Slowed down, answered honestly, and gave every answer my full attention. And I scored high on every one. It was terrifying. But it was also... a relief? While a few of those quizzes weren't too be taken seriously, I did take tests on official sites made by and for autistic people. When I came home from Chicago in summer 2022, I told my mom and showed her all my past scores on official tests like the RAADS, one of which I take annually. Part of me still has doubts that I'm not faking it, I guess.

All of this, at least past 2021, has occurred while people have been posting their own stores about discovering and getting diagnosed as adults. While I initially started looking into things on my own, hearing these people's stories on occasion really, really helped. Random strangers on the internet in a reel telling me they'd been overlooked because they were afab, did well in school, and didn't have many other adults around to see a difference... really helped. I could sneak into the autistic tags on Tumblr and look around at posts, relate to them silently, write down my findings in my little notebook, and go about my day. This "autism boom" as it were really helped, just because everyone suddenly showing off who they are, telling the world "I'm different and that's okay," really, really... helped. I know why I've always felt different and wrong, I know why I struggle with certain things, and I know why certain things will likely never be possible on my own. That's so much better than going thrift my life wondering and beating myself up because I can't function like everyone else.

Everyone isn't suddenly being diagnosed as autistic, now. People are just... starting to listen. Starting to get more comfortable. Obtaining more resources. And it's really nice. ❤️

[thelastofhyde]

you cut your hair, and take some space. (1)

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

synopsis. an anthology of events that precede and procede the termination of you and your father's best friend's sexual relationship. this is part 1 of 3 ! (part 2)

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

word count. 15k

hyde’s input. this was written over the course of four months and could easily be used in court to prove i am, in fact, unequivocally in love with one mr. javier peña. if you take the time to read it, just know i appreciate it so much. i really poured my heart and soul into this and, as someone who's been writing for years, it's been so long since i've written something so self-indulgent that's brought me nothing but joy to write. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it, i've decided to post it in three parts. the fic will be posted in full on ao3 once all three parts are available on tumblr!

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

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

The mirror is not clean enough to see yourself.

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

It’s something new to fidget with.

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

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

If you do, you’ll blame him.

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

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

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

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

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

You were careful all night to never speak of him.

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

And then it happened.

You didn’t say his name, no.

Not aloud.

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

But it was enough to make you want to leave.

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

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

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

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

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

There were usually three of them.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t have an answer.

You didn’t get to give an answer.

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

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

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

Javier Peña was none of that.

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

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

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

It was like, nothing.

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

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

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

That was never part of the plan.

Neither was skipping dinner, though.

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

His hair, freshly cut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you stumble to the elevator.

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

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

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

“Déjame. (Let me.)”

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

He catches you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m glad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thud against the nightstand.

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

The undressing is gentle and so unlike his usual impatience.

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

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

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

He looks like he wants to.

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

Against your forehead, lips that linger.

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

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

Vermont, ‘98.

That’s where it all began.

Your dad, turning fifty.

Javi just hit forty.

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

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

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

Wrong.

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

Textbooks on the table, glasses on your face.

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

Peaceful and quaint, until it wasn’t.

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

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

You put your head down, breathed more subtly.

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

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

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

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

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

Inching towards the exit, footsteps light as a feather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not in the mood.”

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

“I have an early flight.”

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

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

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

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

“I ain’t done talkin’ to you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t remember which direction you turned.

“Quit running, you bitch!”

He was still following, how was he still following?

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

He was getting faster. Maybe you were getting slower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thumb swiped over your palm.

Your mouth winced, your arm pulled back.

He held you in place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was instinctual, no thought placed behind his action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took you back to his own cabin instead.

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

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

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

Late june brings nothing but gloom.

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

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

Tonight, you’re appeasing them.

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

Truth be told, you don’t want to go.

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

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

In the mirror, it’s still lopsided.

The clock sits at eight forty-seven.

They’re 2 minutes late.

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

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

Dive back in, search again.

An empty tube of lipbalm.

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

A broken earring.

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

Bile burns the back of your throat.

He opens on the fifth knock.

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

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

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

The air’s uncomfortably quiet.

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

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

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

The silence returns.

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

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

You notice his bedroom door is shut.

It’s never been shut before.

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

He blinks, slowly.

It’s hard to tell if it’s from guilt.

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

He doesn’t answer.

You keep talking.

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

“This needs to stop.”

You don’t have to question it.

You do, anyway.

“What?”

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

“I don’t underst-”

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

He’s stern.

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

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

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

Everything, you want to tell him.

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

“I just thought-”

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

I know, you mouth.

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

When he calls to make sure you got home safe.

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

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

Javier Peña is not your boyfriend.

So why does he act like it?

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

Kid.

That makes you angry.

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

“Don’t call me kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, the back-and-forth stops.

Silence.

You take the lead.

“So, what? That’s it just... over?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too late, you want to say.

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

“Corazón, I’m so sor-”

The car honks, again.

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

Another honk.

You never make it to the line dance.

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

Love’s a verb And not a bandage

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

A promise of casual, turned into something fragile.

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

All you remember is a pounding at your front door.

1 am. Too late to be causing ruckus.

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

Pause.

This could be anyone, anything.

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

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

You let him invade your senses.

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

You pull back. He follows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, you do trip over them.

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

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

The gold of his skin shines brighter.

The red on his skin appears darker.

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

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

Later with Javi never seems to come.

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

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

‘I’ll get these back to you later.’

He’d never made you that dinner.

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

You’d never gotten those panties back.

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

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

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

Distractions are not welcomed, your patient needs tending to.

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

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

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

It does the trick, unlocks his tongue.

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

He hisses.

You’re pressing too hard on his fragile lip.

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

A splotch of red stains your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

Javi sighs, gives in.

He always gives in, to you, eventually.

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

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

He doesn’t need to.

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

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

He’s rambling.

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

You listen closely, swallow up every morsel he offers.

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

He chokes.

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

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

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

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

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

He nods.

“Did you help her?”

Another nod.

“Did you get her someplace safe?”

This time, a reply.

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

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

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

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

“What more could you have done?”

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

You whine out his name.

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

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

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

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

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

The words catch in your throat.

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

But mostly because he kisses you.

Desperate, hungry. Groaning into your willing mouth.

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

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

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

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

When Javi fucks you, he fucks with purpose.

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

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

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

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

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

When did Javier Peña stop wanting you?

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

By July, things change.

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

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

Boredom leads to hobbies.

At first, you try pottery.

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

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

You hate it, running.

You sweat, you ache, you exhaust.

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

The heartache.

The headache.

The agent.

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

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

The pink shirt still lives on one of your hangers.

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

Not right now.

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

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

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

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

Today, however, it’s more challenging.

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

You have to come, kiddo.

The phone-call still echos through your thoughts.

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

You’d wanted a better explanation than that.

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

You had no plans.

Bring your friends then! The more the merrier!

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

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

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

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

He said it, like that would persuade you.

Keep asking about ya, the whole lot of them.

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

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

You’d hung up.

Immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

Until you come to a screeching halt.

Double over.

Place your hands on your knees.

Dry heave.

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

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

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

You’ll have to see him.

Spend time near him.

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

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

For not quitting the force.

For being your dad’s friend.

For not wanting you the same you wanted him.

Want him.

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

You’re usually more careful.

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

You pick your pace back up.

Manage only a handful-or-two steps.

Your feet fly out in front of you.

Land ass-first on the gravel below.

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

You groan and prepare to get back on your feet.

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

Big mistake.

The hand tugs you.

You glance up.

And meet the eyes of Javier Peña.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You come up empty handed.

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

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

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

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

Wedding attire, a post-party glow.

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

Had he smiled, then?

Had he even been there?

Or was he merely a product of martinis and negronnis-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I- What?” Confussion.

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

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

Adjusts your piercing, swipes his thumb over your cheek.

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

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

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

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

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

Or both.

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

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

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

Your father’s voice.

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

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

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

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

Maybe it’s sadness you see.

There’s definitely remorse.

Guilt, too.

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

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

But none of that matter, anymore.

You’re already walking away.

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

He calls out your name, loudly.

Attracts the nosy eyes of people around.

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

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

He reaches out for your hand.

And quickly gives up on the thought of holding it.

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

He knows the answer.

You still give him it, “yes.”

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

You feel his eyes on you.

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

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

You’re laughing but it’s mostly fake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not her fault. You know.

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

Your dad is.

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

Even from here, you can hear him bragging.

So then Peña’s on his ass.

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

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

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

He’s exaggerating.

The guy was barely going 5 miles an hour!

He stepped out the vehicle at his own will.

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

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

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

If you step inside the frame, it cracks.

Shatters.

And maybe he knows that.

Knew it all along.

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

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

The feeling lasts all but four seconds.

“Kiddo!”

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

It takes a moment, but you wave.

“Come over ‘ere!”

Not the response you were hoping for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not a sight you want to see.

It fills you with dread.

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

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

“London.”

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

All eyes snap to him.

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

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

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

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

That peaks your interest.

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

“Really?”

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

With Javi, friends could mean anything.

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

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

So it’s best you don’t inquire on it.

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

“Mr... Bond?”

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

You can practically hear it, in his voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His lips press against your hairline before speaking again.

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

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

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

It’s too late though.

You’re already snoring against his skin.

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

For a minute, it feels like she knows.

She knows why Javi knows.

You should be panicking.

Both of you should.

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

But you aren’t. Neither of you are.

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

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

Your dad gives an unceremonious oh.

Your mom rolls her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pulls her close, kisses her shoulder.

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

Open, celebrated, acknowledged.

Not secretive, dirty, scandalous.

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

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

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

Your heart drops.

Javi’s seems to do the same.

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

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

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

But I’m actually bloody Motherfucking batshit crazy

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

You’ve lived plenty of such moments.

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

And all because you heard his voice.

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

He’s facing a woman.

She’s pretty.

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

And a well-rounded belly.

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

You’ve never seen her before.

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

She’s a total stranger, to you.

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

A very pregnant, non-stranger.

“We gotta get this kid some better taste.”

His hand rests on her bump.

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

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

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

You won’t let it fester.

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

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

Was she the reason things between you and him ended?

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

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

Surely, he couldn’t have.

But, then, why couldn’t he have?

You were never exclusive.

You were never anything.

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

Your heart’s palpitating.

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

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

Because, how could he do this to you?

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

Love you so deeply and leave you so easily?

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

“He’s a real kicker, ain’t he?”

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

But, no, it’s too distant. Too far.

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

He’s handsome, in the typical sense.

Blonde haired, a nice smile.

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

“He?” It’s Javi who echoes.

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

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

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

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

The bile in your throat burns more than ever before.

The misplaced anger bleeds into sadness, shame, embarrassment.

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

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

Friends his own age.

Worlds apart, yet nothing but a shelf between you.

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

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

The little girl perks right up at that.

Eyes widened, head off her father’s shoulder.

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

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

“Quit lying to my kid, Peña.”

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

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

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

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

Your breathing stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flicker up to the shelf and-

He’s no longer standing on the other side.

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

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

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

You wake up early.

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

Making the most out of your time upon foreign land.

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

The truth lies in that you can not sleep.

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

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

A quarter past six.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your ringtone is the culprit.

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

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

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

“Corazón.”

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

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

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

Sadness that it sounds so broken down the line.

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

“I’m here,” it’s only a whisper.

It’s enough to shut him up.

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

“You’re in London,” he states.

“I am,” you affirm.

He hums, sips something.

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

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

“Yeah,” you spare him the details.

The truth.

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

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

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

You sure felt alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For answers, for clarity, for closure

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

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

Even then, it kills you to do so.

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

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

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

“What answer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The image doesn’t quite form.

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

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

Refuge he’s willing to share with you.

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

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

“Promise me you’ll go, corazón.”

Your reply is instant, “I promise.”

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

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

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

“How you feeling, kiddo?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of them have, really.

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

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

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

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

“You’re literally in my room!”

“Which is literally in my house!”

Downstairs, your mother yells something unintelligible.

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

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

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

Tupperware, clasped in his hand.

The contents are hard to decipher.

Luckily, your father spots you eyeing it.

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

Your stomach growls, hungry and unfed.

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

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

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

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

Immediately, you spot chicken.

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

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

Your father continues, practically talking to himself.

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

“Cazuela de ave.”

A change into warmer, drier clothes.

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

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

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

And that fact is partly what warms your insides.

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

Objectively, you think, he’s gorgeous.

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

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

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

The scent alone is enough to have you salivating. 

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

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

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

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

A real date.

Only, this isn’t even a fake date.

You guys don’t do that.

“It’s- It was my mom’s recipe.”

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

He’s never mentioned his mother.

Or much about his family, really.

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

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

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

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

Open.

His eyes, his mind, his heart.

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

“Was she a good cook?”

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

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

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

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

It’s disturbingly beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s something intimate about him recalling details so many would see as flaws, whilst he sports the most earnest, heart-wrenching smile.

Like nothing about her was wrong, all of her perfect and angelic.

“She was brave, too. I’d like to think I’m just like her in that respect. She didn’t let anything stop her from doing things she set her heart on, and she never let her inabilities hinder her,” he’s getting a little emotional now, you can hear it in his voice, see it in the lump he swallows back. You stretch a hand across the table and watch as he leans on you for support, fingers interlocking with your own. “There was this one time when I was a kid, I was swimming in a river and got stuck in a current. She dived right in to save me... She didn’t even know how to swim!”

You don’t know what to say.

You opt for saying nothing, silence speaking more than a thousand words.

Give his hand a reassuring squeeze, feel him squeeze back harder.

Your stomach rumbles, but it doesn’t ruin the moment in the way you feared it would.

“Listen to me being a sap and starving my poor lady to death,” still, he tugs your hand closer and plants a kiss on your knuckles. You’re still trying to process the possessive adjective he’d used to address you. My. His. “Eat up.”

Both of you settle back in your seats.

You pick up your spoon, scoop up a piece of chicken out the steaming bowl and-

“Asi no, corazón (not like that, sweetheart),” he spews out, panicking to pry the cutlery out your hand. He ignores the questioning looks you give him. “You drink the soup first, eat the filling after. Like this.”

Leaning over the table, he scoops your bowl up in his careful hands and guides it up to your lips.

When your lips part and rest against the bowl’s edge, he tilts it and you feel it’s warmth invade your mouth.

And then your chest, branching out over your heart, your lungs, your stomach.

Horned-up bias you so often show towards Javier aside, it’s one of the best things you’ve ever tasted.

Like a hug on a gloomy, wet day, all wrapped up inside a ceramic bowl.

You hum, hands taking over his own to allow him back into his own seat, focusing his attention on drinking his own soup.

“Javi, this is...” You trail off, eyeing the small ring of liquid pooling at the bottom of the bowl. One more mouthful and you’ll get your taste of the stew’s fillings. “Amazing. Your mum would be proud.”

Instead of modesty, instead of 'thank yous', instead of bashfulness, Javier smiles, takes another sip from his bowl.

“She would have liked you.”

You stare across at him and find no jest in his eyes.

They’re as open as before.

“Really?”

“Mhmm. She always liked pretty girls smart enough to put me in my place.”

“Kiddo?”

You’re ripped out your own head by your father’s voice and his hand, waved repeatedly in front of your face.

“Hmm?” 

“You okay there? I was talkin’ to you but you seemed lost in thought.” There’s a little excitement in you father’s voice as he presses his cold hand to your sweated forehead, the prospect of you still being ill, still needing taking care of, filling him with the relief of keeping you in your parents' home a little longer.

“I’m- Yeah, just tired, s’all.”

“Ok, let me know when you’ve finished your food,” he presses a kiss atop the crown of your head, and you hold back the pointless comment of not risking getting himself or your mother sick. “Need to get the tupperware clean ‘fore I give it back to Javi.”

Your stomach twists and longs for the meal before you, while your heart shatters into pieces you doubt will ever be repaired.

[sunflw3r]

cereal

non!idol jacob x male reader reader prns: he/him word count: 1198 fluff

jacob loves cereal , almost as much as he loves his boyfriend

content warnings: reader gets angry, mentions of cereal addiction

link to original: <3 wp reuploads (misc): <3 masterlist

a/n: my first wattpad reupload😔😔 i love this jacob oneshot<33 I LOVE HIM SM YALL

happy jacob day<3

y/n smiled, wrapping his arms around jacob’s neck. "baby i'm going to choke." he whined, swallowing another bite of his cereal. kissing the man’s cheek, y/n grabbed onto the hand that held his spoon and dipped it into the bowl, taking a bite. "what the hell-" jacob whined, y/n pressing a kiss to jacob's lips to restart the conversation.

"angel, who do you love more? me or cereal?" smiling, jacob pecked his boyfriend's lips, getting the milk off his lips. "cereal."

"jacob!" "what, i was just being honest!"

y/n sat up, pouting as he felt the absence of his light. "angel?" no response. of course. pulling off his blanket and standing up, y/n brought his blanket that he wrapped around his body into the living room, looking for jacob. "angel, what are you doing up?"

turning around, jacob dropped his spoon, caught red handed. "nothing." he replied, trying to act nonchalant. grabbing jacob's phone from off the counter, y/n gasped at the early time. "it's 7:30 on your day off. what are doing up this early?" he asked, fully aware of the reason jacob was up and not in bed resting. "nothing love, i told you!" jacob said, laughing nervously as y/n leaned forward. walking over to his partner, y/n gasped at the site he saw behind jacob’s partner.

"JACOB BAE PUT THE CEREAL AWAY!" he screamed, jacob wincing at the loud noise. "why?" jacob frowned, y/n cupping jacob’s chin. "when did you wake up?" y/n asked. jacob avoided the question, eyes dropping down from y/n’s gaze.. "jacob answer me." letting a sigh out, jacob looked up at y/n with disappointment in his eyes. "6:30." "and what have you been doing?" "eating cereal." y/n frowned, jacob not knowing how to regain y/n’s gaze. "angel."

y/n sat next to jacob, petting his hair. "it's not healthy to do that. you need sleep.” "but it's tastes good! cereal is nice!” jacob cheered, y/n shaking his head. moving the bowl away from jacob, y/n hugged him closer. "just relax. you need to go back to sleep.” jacob pouted, his shoulders dropping as he pulled away, moving back to connect their lips together. the familiar aroma of kraze cereal filled into y/n's mouth, the feelings of comfort and sugar fluttering his stomach.

y/n sighed, stretching his back in his stiff desk chair. he had finished editing the newest chapter of his book, the math textbooks he needed for homework no use to him. "angel! i've finished! want to watch a drama?" he was left with no response, something that was becoming weirdly familar. checking the time on his laptop, he groaned. 11:55. it was decently late. jacob might be asleep in the living room.

y/n grabbed a hoodie and blanket from the small loveseat in the office, he left the room and walked towards the living room, trying to find a way to comfort the most-likely asleep boy. the lights were off, the sounds of breathing the only thing in the living room as y/n stumbled against the walls.

then the clink of a metal spoon sounded through the apartment. he saw a silhouette move to the sink, the sound of water joining the metal as they washed the bowl. "angel." jacob turned around to the lights being turned on, nervously smiling at y/n. "hi babe!" he responded, y/n’s face falling. "were you eating cereal?" y/n asked, tapping his foot. "no." "don't lie." "yes."

"jacob bae it's midnight! we've had dinner." y/n laughed, throwing the blanket in his arms at jacob, walking forward to hug him tightly. "it's just dessert!" jacob responded, y/n pecking his cheek gently. "come on, we're going to bed."

y/n dragged the man by the wrist, going into their bathroom. he speedily forced jacob to brush his teeth (much to jacob’s dismay. “it tastes gross” he complains), then walking to the bedroom. connecting his lips with y/n’s, jacob smiled as he got sat on the bed and tucked himself in, closing his eyes as y/n pulled away.

laughing, y/n jokingly hit his shoulder, getting in bed next to him as jacob whined softly. the two soon fell asleep next to each other, the cereal’s taste knocked out by mint.

y/n woke up, the sun seeping through the thin curtains that covered their windows. he turned over, attempting wrapping his arms around jacob's waist, only to feel jacob’s arms bent like they were holding onto something. "angel?" he groaned, his morning voice crackling as jacob panicked to put whatever the thing he was holding down.

bad idea.

something, whatever it was, spilled on the bedsheets, seeping through the cotton fabric. "what the hell was that angel?" y/n sat up, trying to look at the stain that jacob desperately attempted to cover. "jacob bae is that cereal?" y/n almost couldn’t control the fiery emotions running through his peripheral nervous system. "maybe." "you're eating cereal in bed?" y/n asked, his grogginess gone as jacob turned away from him. "maybe."

y/n rubbed his forehead as he left the bedroom, grabbing the cleaning sprays from under the sink before returning. "i'm about to set up an addiction management class for you jacob bae." y/n deadpanned, jacob standing up straight and nodding his head as y/n sat over the bed. he groaned loudly as he cleaned the spill, throwing the blanket onto the floor.

jacob pouted at his boyfriend’s bad mood, y/n rolling his eyes while a smile appeared on his face. "angel." looking up, jacob’s eyes glimmering at the pet name. "i love you so much." y/n said, putting the spray down and holding his arms open for jacob to hug him. running to y/n, jacob pressed a kiss to y/n’s lips, jacob smiling softly. "i love you too."

"more than cereal?" "more than cereal."

*extra*

jacob entered in the apartment, smiling as his work week was officially over. "baby i'm home!" no response. weird. "baby?"

continuing into the apartment, he worried about the lack of response. had something happened to y/n? then he found him. "y/n." looking up slowly, y/n nervously smiled, milk on his upper lip. "are you eating cereal?" jacob asked, y/n’s head falling. he sighed loudly, nodding in embarrassment as jacob played with a strand of y/n’s hair.

"should you be eating cereal right now?" jacob asked, tilting his head towards the clock that said 5:30, only a little more than an hour before their dinner date. "no." the two laughed, the situation in reverse from how it normally was. jacob put a gentle kiss to y/n’s lips, y/n’s smile returning slowly. "i guess the roles are reversed now.” he whispered, y/n nodding. “i guess so.”

"i love you." jacob whispered, connecting their lips again before y/n could reply. "even if you're eating my cereal." he said, whipping the bowl away from y/n quickly, his loud gasp sounding through the kitchen.

"get back here!" "no!"

happy jacob day<3

[ciminarin]

wfh job means wfa (working from anywhere), the best for a girlblogger thought daughter like me.

as someone who works remotely, i love how i can be literally everywhere as long as i have my devices and can deliver my work on time. i have went on holidays multiple times while still working and it's the best thing ever lol. the work-life balance is definitely balancing. this post will be about my experience, pros and cons!

now playing... ▶︎ ၊၊||၊|။||||| 2:58 | NEMONEMO by YENA

ᯓ★ let's talk about the pros!!

i can take breaks at any time i want, have my breakfast or lunch at any time without anyone micromanaging me. the next best thing is i can just be myself without worrying how other people perceive me at work. no worrying if i looked bad or if the way i sit, stand or walk is not 'ladylike' i can do wtv tf i want.

i can take naps. like LONG naps. it's heavenly.

i don't have to get ready to work. i literally wake up and go on my laptop. i can do anything before i start too, like playing with my cats, exercise, and never be late for work. how can i be late? i only need to log in on gathertown (a site/app where you can be in the office with your co-workers, in pixel game style) when my work hour start. lol

i'm literally at a cafe rn as i'm typing this. like i said, you can be anywhere as long as you have the money haha

can watch kdramas, movies or horror podcast during work. awesome.

more time to take care of yourself. i have been trying to get back to my self care era after my mental health deteriorated so bad because of my last job. when i say bad, i mean like REAL bad. my self esteem is just gone. i keep trying to find my old self again but i keep getting more and more anxious. by getting into wfh job, i can focus on this side of me more and hopefully be able to feel like myself again.

ᯓ★ now the cons.

it can get boring sometimes because you're stuck at home. i get too lazy to even get ready and go out even though i know i can be anywhere. the library suddenly feels so far away, resulting me to just stay home. this can go on for days.

yeah more time for self care.. but also more time to be lazy. because it's a desk job i don't be moving around anymore unless i want to. and unless i have the motivation.. i will just lay down on my bed.

backaches from sitting too long. leg too.. and my whole body basically.

unless i do intermittent fasting, i WILL eat uncontrollably. having access to unlimited free time and food can make me gain weight AAAHHHH

more money out since i keep buying fancy drinks and food now as i have too much free time... this is a self control problem i know. this is on me.

okay i definitely have more pros & cons but i can't just think of more as of rn. maybe next time i will write part 2 if there is anything i want to add!

ᯓ★ what about my previous job?

it was a shift food & beverage job and it was... an experience i guess (i never want to go back again) i would rather just be a customer damn. i never thought i would ever feel this much anxious feeling until i got into f&b. the first few months was kind of fun and okay-ish, but after that it was hell. at some point i couldn't breathe at work and literally had to go to the clinic to get checked during my work hour.

the way people interact during work was something.. in front of them they play along and laugh together, but behind they talk bad about each other. it got me thinking that they definitely had talked badly about me too, and this made me anxious. ngl, i've been a people pleaser for so long (now i recognize that it can be really bad doing this) so i want everyone to like me.

this also made me think that maybe, other people i know outside work also do this to me? i became anxious of every single interaction i do, offline or online. i keep thinking that maybe even my friends don't like me...

i have now realized that i do not have to be liked my everyone. maybe this people pleasing behaviour is based on my trauma, so i have a really hard time to unlearn this. like what do you mean someone don't like me when i have been nothing but nice to you? you don't even know me that well... i'm so sad

but it has to be stopped. i can't just be out there trying to seek validation from people who are not worth my time. it's hard, but everyday i have to remind myself that there are literally so many people who like and love me for who i am.

i got a fiancé and he's the best ever. i have great friends who like how weird i can get, how loud, how annoying i am. they love me because they want to. and i love them because i want to. and i need to remember that there will be people that dislike me just because they want to, and i don't have to do anything about it.

slowly learning the art of letting them be.

────୨ৎ────

end of log. this was cut short as i need to go now, but thank you for reading, see you next time!

[lunatic-pudge]

Hello! I just wanna throw my two cents in about the Postal/TCC stuff going on. I'm also gonna use this post to be honest and transparent about my experience with TCC as well.

Back when I was about 16, I was into true crime. I basically grew up learning about it cause my family would watch true crime shows and me, and my siblings had unrestricted internet access also.

Now, back when I started getting into it, this site was brimming with TCCers, people constantly worshipping serial killers and school shooters. And I'll admit it, I fell down the rabbit hole as well. It was a very short lived, but strong attachment I grew to Columbine, especially Eric Harris. I believe it came from a place of loneliness. Being an outcast and not really having friends, it made me feel like I had a connection to him. But I never wanted to hurt people.

Thankfully, I grew out of it pretty quick when I found myself in a weird situationship with a guy who I should've never talked to, but thanks to him, I snapped out of it. I feel so horrible for being so into TCC. It's my biggest regret, and I cringe when remembering it.

Seeing the state of the Postal fandom now with TCCers trying to worm their way in brings back the cringe memories. RWS has always said that violence should stay in video games. They'd be disappointed if they saw this mess. I know RWS aren't the best of people, but they understand that this shit isn't okay. We need to do better as a fandom and not allow these people in. Dude isn't a school shooter. Practically, the whole point of Postal 1 is Dude not getting the mental help he needs and kills the whole town. There's nothing glamorous about it. There's nothing to idolize about the murder of innocent people. It's a scenario that has happened too many times before in real life.

I don't want TCC mixed in with Postal. I will not stand for it. I understand wanting to learn about true crime and having an interest in it. But too many of them are so deeply obsessed with these real-life murderers and it's not okay. I feel like I understand why they are like this, and it's not too late to change and talk to someone about it. You gotta learn to break yourself from it and get away from the web.

Now, I take full responsibility for what 16 year old me was doing. I knew better, and yet I still continued with it. I'm nowhere near like that now at 22. Hell, if people want to unfollow or block me for it, then they're welcome to. I want to be fully honest with everyone since this has been getting so much attention. I've looked through my blog and have deleted any TCC posts that I had reblogged. If you see any posts that I might've missed, PLEASE let me know so I can get rid of it immediately.

My blog is to be a safe place for people to go to, and I don't want to be a haven for people like TCCers. They're not welcomed here. I want to right my wrongs and be a better person.

If you read this, thank you for reading. I felt guilty having this weight on me. Again, if you choose to unfollow and/or block me, you're more than welcome to. I'm taking full responsibility for 16 year old me's actions. This is unacceptable.

[howlingday]

The Remnant Retention Regiment (RRR):

A secret organization established to maintain public order. Their primary objectives include hunting down spy networks and conduct surveillance of the public.

Primary tactics include the use of brutal violence, wiretapping, cruel and unusual torture, intimidation, and much, much worse...

They're feared by the public, though they remain ghost stories to their own kingdoms, referred to only as "The Secret Police".

Cordovin: Hm? Is there a reason you're here? Mm? Orders from the general? Fine. Best of luck, Specialist Arc.

Saphron: Thank you, ma'am~! I'll do my very best~!

SAPHRON COTTA ARC, AGE TWENTY-NINE.

THIS WOMAN IS A VETERAN SPY-HUNTER.

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

Clover: Man, what was General Ironwood thinking, hiring such a cherub-faced girl? Especially for this line of work?

Cordovin: If I recall, his exact words were...

Ironwood: "Who, Sapphy? She's a cutie, ain't she? Kinda like a doll~!".

Clover: Seriously?

Cordovin: That's what he told me. Besides, that might be just what this kingdom needs. Regardless, she gets results, whatever it takes.

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

Saphron: So, nice to meet you, Mister... Mann, was it?

Shay: I ain't got nothin' to say to you-

Saphron: Oh, listen to this! My baby brother just got married~! I'm just so excited to go out and celebrate with them~!

Shay: Uh, that's-

Saphron: And he's such a good man! So kind and generous and smart and he gives the best hugs ever! He means the world to me...

Shay: Yeah, so-

Saphron: Oh! Maybe you've met him? He works here in Vale, too! How lucky am I to make it here with the Argus team to aid in conduct a spy hunt!

Saphron: Shoot! That reminds me! I still need to call him and let him know I'm in the city! But just between you and me, I haven't told him I'm visiting, so hush-hush on that, okay?

Saphron: But for everything else, just lay it all out.

Shay: I dunno what you're goin' on about! I ain't a spy!

Saphron: (Drops photos) These are you, aren't they, Mr. Mann?

Qrow: Hey! What the hell?! Why didn't we get those photos?!

Saphron: I've been so excited to be here, I guess I just forgot to deliver them. Clumsy me~!

Saphron: Now, as for you, Shay D. Mann... WHY DON'T YOU START COOPERATING?

Some time later...

Shay: And that's it. That's everything I know. All I did was make copies, deliver them to the drop site, and they paid me for them. That's it. Dunno anything about the woman who picked them up. Said she was from out of Vale, but didn't say where.

Saphron: Was there anything you could point out about her? Any unusual ticks or features?

Shay: Far as I could tell, she was a totally normal chick.

Saphron: Mhm... I see... Tell me, Mr. Mann... DOES THE NAME "NIGHTSHADE" MEAN ANYTHING TO YOU?

Shay: ...No? Who's that?

Saphron: She's a spy from outside of Vale. They say she's a master of disguise. She's planning to destroy everything we hold near and dear. She's the exact kind of spy why the RRR was made. Help us catch her, and all of this goes away. Okay?

Shay: W-Well, let me think of something-

Saphron: Something truthful and honest, yes, because you already know that lying doesn't work on us, and lying only gets you into more trouble.

Shay: Ghk! Alright, listen! I just needed the cash, okay?! To meet girls! I wasn't hurting anyone!

Saphron: ...Meeting girls? What about your wife?

Shay: J-Just for fun! Marriage is it's own other thing, y'know? You're married, too, ain't'cha?! All I did was give 'em some scraps of paper! It ain't like I'm plannin' a revolution! Cut me some slack!

Saphron: ...

Saphron: (Stands up) Let me be perfectly clear, Mr. Shay D. Mann. While it's true that I am married, neither my spouse nor my own brother knows that I work for the RRR, and I don't plan to, either. Part of the reason is so I can keep my loved happy because I'd hate for them to worry about my dangerous job. (Slips on black gloves) But the other reason... IS I DON'T WANT THEM TO KNOW JUST HOW DIRTY I GET MY HANDS SOMETIMES.

Saphron: (Grabs him by his hair, Slams down) Mr. Mann, I don't think you quite understand. You don't see the reason. Your crime is called treason. Those papers may only be "scraps" to you, but to everyone outside Vale, they're tasks on their to-do!

Saphron: (Grips hair tight, Grinds face down) Unlike you, I love my family. I love my spouse. I love my brother. And I will do anything to keep him safe, regardless of what kingdom they live.

Saphron: (Twists hair, Lifts head and bashes) WHATEVER. IT. TAKES.

[aviculor]

The people who run the yarr harr sites need to wake up and upload V/H/S/Beyond already. I'm going to have to watch something else in the meantime.

Creep. I know what happens in Creep. A guy takes a gig taping a video diary for someone who's allegedly terminally ill. And the client is a creep. A weirdo, if you will. You might be tempted to ask what the hell he is doing here. It may be evident that he does not belong here. So on and so forth. At the end, the two men part ways with the client being seemingly benign in spite of all his unsettling behavior. But when they meet again, our protagonist gets an axe in the head because the client actually was a serial killer toying with his prey this whole time. That's the long and short of it. But as I've said before, a film cannot be assessed by a plot summary alone. It is an experience. And the experience is in fact the meat of this movie.

At an hour and 17 minutes, it is indeed a little more svelte than some of the other films I've experienced. Not a bad thing, as it is a rather straightforward narrative. The film is from 2014, and you can see how it evolved out of the "cruel for cruelty's sake" and "invincible villain" flavor of the aughties that gave us Saw and The Poughkeepsie Tapes.

Oh yeah, Josef is getting naked as soon as Aaron agrees to the job. That is setting the tone just as well as Aaron spying the axe in the stump outside.

Knowing how it ends, it does rob a lot of the "what the fuck is going on here? Is this guy being sincere about Tubby Time and Peachfuzz the Wolf?" ambiguity from the events that are unfolding. But because I am watching all this knowing it's just Josef (and that's not even his real name) completely fucking with Aaron, it's like watching a car crash. Or a Greek tragedy. You know what I mean? And then it makes sense why Josef would "break script" to take the camera and record Aaron and ask him invasive questions. Because that footage was never being filmed to show a child whose father will die before he is born. Josef literally did just pick that idea up from the movie he mentioned. It also explains why his marital rape story gives a completely different origin for the "Peachfuzz" mask than what he said in act one.

So who exactly WAS Angela, anyway? What did she know? What was she doing? Why was she calling Josef? Why did she not have more urgency in telling Aaron to leave? Why did she not contact the police? IS Josef his real name since she called him that, or was Josef the name of his last victim the same way he calls himself Aaron in Creep 2? Was that why he ran away and dropped the pretense of having cancer and a pregnant wife after that point, because Angela was his last victim's sister and he thought that Aaron learned more than he actually did?

My recollection of events was accurate aside from the day ending with Aaron getting into a physical altercation with Josef and escaping, and Josef stalking Aaron. Which only begs the question of why Aaron agreed to meet Josef again. He should have contacted the police again when he got that final CD. He gave up on that way too easily and then he willingly went to a second location of Josef's choosing. Josef even pointed it out, Aaron should have been on guard enough to look behind himself even just once.

[redheadspark]

👋🏿 for your 2nd January Prompts.

Scenario: 4. Your OTP both not feeling well and calling in take out to eat in their sweatshirts and pj pants.

Dialogue: 3. "how come you always end up under my blanket?" With......Oliver!

Happy Writing!

A/N - HOORAY STELLA! This is gonna have cute all over it for Oliver! Thanks for requesting it my dear!

Lazy

Summary - You felt bad for getting your husband sick. Oliver, however, don't seem to mind it too much

Warnings - Just some fluffiness sprinkled in this one :)

It was the rays of the sunlight that woke you first, having you grimace in your warmth that was both from being under the comforter of your bed and being in the arms of your husband. Yet when you moved, he grunted and tried to keep you against him, making you swat his arm.

"Come off it, luv. I need to get us some tea and some herbs," You hummed to him as you looked at your watch on the nightstand, "Bloody hell, it's already 11:30"

"Let's get lunch then," Oliver grumbled against your neck as you sighed and rubbed your eyes, "I've been cravin' some Pizza,"

"Not with your stomach you're not getting it," You reasoned as you finally pulled off his arm around you like a suctioned octopus leg. Oliver groaned as he dove his head over the cover to hide from the sunlight pouring into your little bedroom, "Come on, Oli. I'll open the window and you shower. I'll call for some soup and bread, and I'll brew us some tea. I might as well since I'm the one who got you sick."

"I told ya before, it's not yer fault. Those kids carry the germs!" Oliver said under the covers. You giggled, reaching over to throw off the comforter and see him squint from the light hitting his face.

"Still, I feel bad my students got me sick, just to get you sick. So go take a shower and change the sheets, I'll order us food and make some tea, deal?" You asked with a raised tone, Oliver grinning as he rose up on his knees and knelt in front of you while he was still on the couch. He did look rather adorable in his old Gryffindor Quidditch sweatpants, his hair tousled and pushed out of his eyes, and the clear evidence of him riding out the cold and sniffles he's had for the past few days. You felt him reach up to frame your face with his calloused fingers and cool palm while he were in your own Quidditch sweatpants and training shirt.

"I'm a yer command, my dear," He hummed, his voice still scratchy with a hint of grogginess to it as you pecked his lips a few times. He was about to pull you in with one arm around your curves when you chuckled and pushed him back on the bed. He bounced, laughter on his lips as you grabbed a sweatshirt to throw on and tip toe out of the room. You could hear him tearing down the bedsheets and humming to himself as you made it to the tiny kitchen and took out your phone, already knowing what to order while you got out your tea bags and a fresh kettle of water on the stove.

You were an after school teacher to 5 and 6 years old at the local Muggle town you and Oliver were living in, a small little town that was not too far away from the city and not too far away from the Magical communities in the countryside. Ever since the war, more Magical families were steering out to be amongst the Muggles since it was no longer shamed up or dangerous. With Voldermort gone and his followers once again fleeing to the shadows, things felt a lot safer and easier for the rest of the Wizarding community. The first thing you and Oliver did was move out into a small little town, traveling distance to your families and yet out of site from the linger gossip that was still there about Voldemort.

Teaching little ones was a blessing for you, taking over at the local primary school in the afternoon to watch the children until their parents came to get them from work. Of course, you never used magic in front of Muggles, but you never minded bringing some wonder and joy to them in Arts and Crafts and outdoor exploring in the countryside. Before you knew it, you were becoming popular with the children and their parents, which made you happy since you were hesitant if you wanted to have your own children down the road with Oliver. Oliver was still on the Reserved team for Puddlemore, though he was branching out to do more Quidditch reporting for the Daily Prophet. He even had to Apparate to the Ministry of Magic a few times a month to turn in his reports and pieces he would write, giving him a good chunk of change for the pair of you.

But of course, working with children came with a price: catching their germs.

You hung up the phone and grinned, knowing your soup would arrive to your doorstep within the next 20 minutes since the local restaurants down the road had the best Chicken Noodle Soup. They knew of you and Oliver, finding you two an adorable couple, and they were going to deliver the soup fresh. Hearing the kettle sing, you turned off the burner and poured out the water into the two awaiting cups. Back in your bedroom room, you could hear Oliver playing a Vinyl on your record player, instantly lifting your mood since Oliver was entranced with the device. You grabbed the two hot mugs and walked back to the bedroom, peering in to see Oliver smoothing out a fresh set of sheets for your bed and then tossing the comforter back on. You had to roll your eyes.

"Really?" You asked, waltzing in as you handed him his cup of tea.

"It's not like we're gonna not sleep it in again," Oliver reasoned with a shrug then taking the quilt that was at the end of the bed to drape over the pair of you.

"How come you always end up under my blanket?" You asked him with amusement as you gestured to the quilt that he placed over your own legs as you joined him on the bed, "This is actually mine, you know, my mum made it for me!"

"It's cozy and it's warm," Oliver explained while you took a sip from your mug, tasting the warm herbs and the soothing flavors on your tongue, "I've always liked this blanket, plus it's always brought us luck,"

"How?" You question him.

"Well for one, you got this on your graduation day from Hogwarts, and that was the day I proposed to you," He explained to you, having you grin, "And It the first thing we brought with us to this little place we have here. And, it had your odl Quidditch shirt sewn in it,"

Your mother wanted to give to you on the day you graduated from Hogwarts, presenting it to you as you met with her and your father on the Hogwarts lawn in the early June afternoon. Your old Quidditch training shirts were sewn in the squares, a few dating back to when you first joined the team your second year as a swing Chaser. But you worked your way up to being Second Captain, behind Oliver of course who was beaming with pride on that day too when you showed him. The stitching in the fabric, the thickness of it too, you knew your mother worked hard to make it perfect.

And it was.

"Let's finish our tea before our soup comes in the next few minutes, and we can relax in bed for the day," Oliver explained as you both were sipping your tea, "We haven't had a day together in a few weeks any who,"

"Just don't spill on the bed then," You teased, Oliver wrapping an arm around your shoulders to have you lean against him and the midday sun pouring into your little window. Life still crept day, even after the war at Hogwarts and loosing some loved one along the way. all you could do was take each day, Oliver next to you with his hand holding yours, and make sure you never looked back.

And as your soup was delivered and you both fed each other in your bed, giggling every once in awhile at how Oliver nearly spilled the hot soup on your sheet, you knew the that were were lighter days ahead.

Oliver had your days lighter, and he always will.

The End.

January Prompt Part 2.

[mj2606k]

I Have Crossed the Stars to Find You

Book One, Chapter One - Syay

Syay - fate

Anything written in italic blue will be Na'vi words.

Anything just written in italic will be the translations of those Na'vi words.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

DISCLAIMER

This story (all books, any number of chapters) will contain things like death, pregnancy, smut, gore, anxiety, birth, violence, anxiety, etc. I will do my best to add in individual trigger warnings where they are necessary for chapters.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Rose

I watched as Hometree was destroyed through my screen in my room at Hell's Gate, my body shaking as I forced myself to cry silently, not wanting to further upset the guards stationed outside my door. Quaritch had ordered a number of soldiers to keep watch outside of mine and the other avatar-program trainees' rooms so we didn't try to leave to help the Na'vi people.

I watched as the natives scattered, feeling as if my whole world went into slow motion as I heard the large burning tree make a large crackkk noise before it began to fall. I was unable to stop the scream of terror as I watched hundreds of Na'vi people, children and mothers, get crushed to death as the tree fell.

I awoke suddenly, opening my eyes and blinking away the tears to try and clear my blurry vision. It had been nearly five years since Hometree was destroyed and the Na'vi people battled the military from Hell's Gate. Five years since I lost my mother, who nobody knew I was related to anyways, aside from a few of the well-trusted scientists that Grace had befriended in her time here.

Sitting up in bed, I sighed as I gave up on blinking the tears away and just wiped them away, just staring at the wall opposite my bunk for a few moments before finally standing up. I was stationed out in the Hallelujah Mountains, at a remote link site with a few of my fellow used-to-be-trainees. I had yet to link with my avatar, but the few remaining scientists of the avatar program that were allowed to stay shipped me out here with my peers.

I began to walk through the base, grabbing a towel to go take a shower before stopping momentarily to stare out one of the windows that overlooked the mountains. I brushed my bangs out of my eyes as I took in the sight, the sunrise always had a certain look to it that I could just never get enough of. It was beautiful, and despite the fact that humans couldn't even live properly on Pandora, I've always felt more at home here than I ever did on Earth.

Suddenly there's a warm breath just over the top of my head and I tilt my head up to see my fellow used-to-be-trainee, Marcus, looking out the window as I had just been doing. He continues looking for a few seconds then looks down at me, his hair still messy like it always is when he's just woken up, and judging by his eye bags and squinty eyes he hasn't had his morning coffee. He backs up after gently ruffling my hair and walks off to the small kitchen to start the coffee machine. I just walk to the bathroom, signing "Good morning" as I pass Marcus, he waves in acknowledgment and I head into the small bathroom, shutting the door behind me and hanging up my towel.

I let my hair down out of the bun I had it in and strip off my tshirt and the boxer-like shorts that I usually wear to bed, taking out my earrings and carefully setting them on the sink counter before starting the shower and stepping in after a few seconds.

✭・.・✫

Later that day I received word that my avatar body was ready and I would soon be able to link with it for the first time. Then not even three days later I was laying down in the link pod, closing my eyes as Max shut the lid and clearing my mind as best as I could before everything went silent for no longer than a few seconds.

I opened my eyes as I heard my name being called, "Rose? Rose! Hey, Rosie, how're you feeling?" one of my friends, Mina, said to me as I woke up, helping me sit up slowly while Marcus walked over and shined a light in my eyes before snapping a few times next to both my ears, then writing something down on a paper. I saw Max through the glass and smiled at him, bringing a hand up to wave at him then bringing that same hand close to my face to look at it when my mind registered that it was blue. The link worked!

Over the next few hours Marcus and Max helped me with some exercises and tests to help me get used to my Avatar body, then at around noon Mina helped me figure out getting changed in this body before we went outside to meet the boys in the crop field. As I walked over Tonio, another of my fellow used-to-be-trainees, caught sight of me and ran over, pouncing and tackling me, the both of us laughing as we began wrestling until I managed to pin him. Mina began scolding Tonio for already roughhousing with me when I was still getting used to the body, but he just ignored her and tried to throw me off of him before eventually tapping out, and only then did I finally get off of him and stand up, helping him up as well.

Mina started signing to Marcus about good motor control and healthy strength ability, but my attention was torn away from them as I heard a loud shriek come from above, far inside the tree line. We all went silent as we all turned to watch, Mina looking terrified as we all watched a huge orange, black, and yellow ikran fly over the base. I watched in amazement while Marcus and Tonio just went back to picking the crops like they'd been doing before we came outside, and if I squinted a bit I swore I could see a blue figure riding on the back of the ikran. I vaguely remembered something I'd heard Max say a few days after the battle, when he was talking about it with some of the other scientists and repeated it under my breath as I watched the ikran circle the base a few times before flying off again.

"Toruk. (The last shadow)"

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

For visual aid, this is a general idea of what I picture Rose to look like. I made this using this picrew I found online.

[stormblessed95]

See I'm not a tkk troll but a jkkr but now I'm starting to think taekook are real and tkkrs were right all this time. And just because many were against them they became toxic. Regarding jimin, either they were just hating him because they got jealous or he is indeed doing FS.

Everytime we see now tkk are spending a lot of time together. In random pics it's tkk who's together and not Jikook, but in content coming from company somehow these thing is opposite. There tkk are asked to say they are not close, not spending much time behind scenes along with lot of playful moments intiated by Jimin. Tae's best friend's brother just posted a pic of tkk playing together, that said best friend who has met BTS is only following JK and Tae on insta (I wonder why and funny because we may take this as a Jkk moment if it happened or link Tae to someone else if something like this happened ), tae posting a lot of JK pics, talking a lot about him, them going to hangout in busan. Just take busan vlive for eg, how he put arms around JK unprovoked but never does that if it is some other member. I want to say a lot but then you will label me as 'tkk troll' and ignore..

I literally have had tkkrs on here that I've interacted with and not called them trolls. You don't want to be called a troll. Don't act like a troll. It's honest to God that simple. You don't need to lie. Just say what you think and go. Pretending to be a jkkr while saying Tae only ever puts his arm around JK in vlives is just silly and not true (i mean just a few months ago he was putting an arm around Jin and kissing him on the head during their vlive with the others or pulling Hobi back into his lap for cuddles during the vlive or putting his arm around Jimin, etc etc etc).

I just heard about the bowling picture, if that's true it's great and I hope they have fun and maybe then they were talking about their bowling trip invite when Tae mentioned talking to him earlier. Which is amazing. I take all that with a grain of salt though too. I've already covered all of your other points in plenty of other posts. So not worth rehashing for me personally. Ship who you want anon. I'll wish you well. No skin off my back.

I will say though that don't pretend to be a jkkr and then say the company tells taekook to say they aren't close and that jikook don't hang out in their personal time when that's been proven incorrect many times. Just say, "I think I'm beginning to think taekook are real." And go on your merry way! Idk why you need to tell ME though. You don't need my approval love. Ship away! Just leave Jimin out of it, yeah? I think your wrong but why does that matter? And you aren't that special, I ignore lots of asks. Lol if you just really want attention, ask or DM me. I delete lots of asks I get. It's just how it goes. I deleted an ask from someone who I generally very much so enjoy talking to on this hell site about minimoni because it was a topic of conversation I just didn't want to invite into my space at this time. And when I told them, they were very understanding about it. No troll name calling involved either.

Enjoy your time as a taekooker anon. I hope it brings you the happiness you want it to 😅 there are tons of tkkr blogs here as well that would be more than happy to hear your "conversion" story too. But honestly, even if you really are/were a jkkr, I'm not the head of the organization. You don't need to turn in your 2 weeks notice to me. You can actually just leave the "shipdom" at any time. 💜 you don't need my validation or approval to make your own choices.

[hospitalterrorizer]

diary274

6/17-18/24

monday - tuesday

our friend has gone now...

sad to see him go, like i said i would be, we spent a long time together today, we drove around for like 3 hours going around the city, just looking at stuff, letting him experience the vegas hellscape, when we were also w/ my gf we went to a nice cafe in chinatown, she also went to get a kpop cd at a kpop store cuz she's really into this group called ateez, and loves seonghwa, so she got his special cd. she is super happy about it. never before has she been into a kpop group, it's really cute/sweet to see her be so dorky about something new. it makes me happy. it also makes me feel kind of sad, or something, like sad i can't be like that for her, but that's me being crazy and jealous in a way, like i can't be a symbol, but it's better to be a thing. i am just insane.

here's some pics i took at the cafe of drinks + food:

i'm such a classic #blogger now. wow. pointless photos taken with a trashy camera.. whoa...

anyway, going around the city, i had my friend go into the orleans casino and look around, just because it's such a weird place, and he hadn't gone into a vegas casino yet, so it's just something i had him do to experience like, how sad this place can feel i guess, plus he writes too so maybe that'll give him somewhere to think about, that kinda thing. i took some pix in there on my psp cam:

the sky was so beautiful as we were leaving the orleans, the place is like hell but there's some really lovely sunsets. i need to get my reg camera battery'd up so i can take nice pics again.

becuz i took kind of unflattering / uggy pics with the psp camera i took front facing pics with the computer webcam... look at this, i think this is what i really look like, actually, or like, kinda, it mostly looks like the mirror selfies except i am more messy looking rn... but a diary is for all these wastes of air/thought so look. if you are looking. whoever is looking. i think i am not as rat-y as the psp pics:

anyway... what else. well, we got lost during the drive a bit, which made me panic. he said some interesting stuff, among those things was how the city reminded him of toronto in places, the desolation + the isolation, specific streets, it made him kind of sad, because he didn't want to go back home, and already he felt it returning to him. sad world!!!

when we got lost it was because there's some streets that are named after other streets, just kind of confusing and nonsense city planning. he talked about how driving an automatic car made it feel like cruising through an apocalypse, how a manual car would make the panic more palpable, the city was super anesthetized to him. it is that kind of place. even the confusion of getting lost was like, chill, and it was kind of a situation where we just had to reorient and go straight a while. he got to see places i grew up/spent years around, which idk if that's ever interesting for anyone, but it's always interesting to me to see others seeing that.

here are some pics of fake flowers:

the sore throat is still here too but barely, at least, it is going away slowly.

also i found these on that site, which i ought to have linked also, this is the site:

it's super useful for graphic design references i think, if you are into this kind of thing.

here's the thing i found that's super cool, to me, another bunch of things that seem super ripe for just ripping, and things i feel like i've seen ripped already by some bands i like from a book called the magic box:

reminds me of so much white belt graphic design...like #wow #whoa.

speaking of white belt, i listened to this album again today:

(links to the playlist if you go to the vid on yt)

it is a classic, such a good drum sound, such great melodies on the synths/keyboards, and super crazy guitar sounds. it's got an almost no-wave-y thing going on with the playing at times, it veer rhode island noise rock almost but remains oddly tethered to hardcore riffing in a sick way. as well, the atmosphere/occasion/space the record drums up is so unique, a cold thing nearly but it's still rather warm, not sci fi but speaks to like, digital alienation in a way, the voice so far off, the dance parts so common are also like, only just parts, you know, the songs are made fragmentary which is normal for whitebelt stuff but it's employed differently by each band, whether they know it or not, in tensions of mania or alienation, passion or a floaty-ness, this is the tension of mania and distance, of freaking out and the inability to freak out, i think, the melodies are so strong they form a buffer around the freakouts, cocoons almost, maybe.

i also keep thinking about that guy from last night, how sad he makes me. and tomorrow, i will maybe feel something sad, we're taking my gf's brother to this one piece collab cafe thing out here. i hope that is fun but he can make things really tragic kind of, accidentally even.

anyway, the sun's coming up, i really must be getting to sleep so:

byebye!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[violet-rose-95]

So, I just found out I have a KiwiFarms thread on me

It was a lil scary at first, but the more I looked at the thread, the more I realized just how pathetic and hilarious it was.

It all started the moment I posted on Twitter that I got banned from KiwiFarms. I said "good, glad I got under their skin" and apparently that was enough to spend two whole fucking years scouring the internet for every inch of information they could about me.

Two years. They've been doing this for two whole years.

And I haven't even given KiwiFarms a passing glance since I got banned.

Guys... you don't think that's a LITTLE pathetic? That you've spent all this time, all this energy, doing everything in your power to stalk somebody on the internet?

While, up to this point, I've just been living my life unaware of your existence? Not just that, I was under the impression the site got taken down! I mean, aren't you guys under investigation by the FBI???

It'd be funny if it weren't so pathetic. No, I'm not gonna laugh anyway.

Plus, the more I look at the thread, the more you sound like that Demon Cat from Adventure Time who "has approximate knowledge of many things".

You took me at face value while I was making jokes about Hell, where I was VERY OBVIOUSLY quoting DBZA, and you think it's me talking about how I was raped apparently??? (I was never raped, the "two oiled up German guys" are Goz and Mez from DBZ. I was talking about going to hell to mess with Christians who think Hell is real, lol. Didn't think I'd have to explain that joke to you, but here we are.) You got the wrong address for me (neither me nor anyone I know has lived there for over 10 years) and you seem to think my name is Kaden over and over, lol.

And for the record, getting banned from KiwiFarms is 100% a victory, one you can never, ever take away from me! ^_^

I win, and you lose forever! ^_^

Glad I could get SO under your skin you devoted your lives to stalking me ^_^

Now, I'm gonna go back to what I was doing before I learned about this thread's existence; living my life ^_^

[whumpycries]

Merci #1: Date Gone Wrong

I'm not adding a mature label here since nothing explicit happens, but know the story will definitely have NSFW elements as it progresses.

cw: kidnapping, drugging, restraints, guns, gags

"I've always wanted to visit Paris, its one of my bucket list items y'know? Like, I know it's cliche, but I can't help it."

Kye knew his eyes had taken a longing glint, after learning that his date was French, his mind had immediately skipped to everything he'd heard about the city of love. 

Kye had always been somewhat of a hopeless romantic. And this date was proving to be too good to be true. He'd found Louis on an online dating site, but had been reluctant to go out with him after his two previously failed attempts with other guys. One of whom, turned out, wasn't even into men, and the other one had been cheating on his boyfriend. Kye let out a sigh.

"Maybe you will," Louis smiled, blue eyes sparkling, gingerly taking Kye's hand in his, as if afraid he would pull away, "Maybe with me." His smile broadened when Kye squeezed his hand back. 

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Kye laughed softly. They were walking down the street towards his home after an amazing dinner at a restaurant recommended by Louis. The street was mostly deserted by now, but they passed a few people every now and then. 

"Hey, you only live once, right?" Louis shrugged, before they settled into a comfortable silence. They'd talked a lot over dinner, it was almost unusual how much, how fast they'd clicked. He was great, he was charming, handsome, sweet.

When they finally reached Kye's studio flat, he turned to Louis, "This was probably the best date I've had in years, Louis." He wrapped a hand around Louis' waist, leaning in, whispering, "May I kiss you?" His other hand had slipped into the man's sandy brown hair. 

"That'd be lovely," Louis breathed. It was a soft featherlight peck, but it made Kye happy nonetheless. Maybe this small date could lead to something more, afterall. 

"I'll call you," Kye said, smiling and turning to unlock his door.  

And then there was an arm around his body, another hand with a cloth covering his nose and mouth, Kye gave a muffled yelp of shock as a Louis' voice whispered in his ear, "Won't be necessary." 

Self defence courses kicking in, Kye elbowed Louis, earning a pained grunt from him, but the cloth over his face didn't budge; which he realised, horrified, was probably drugged.

"Damn, you weren't lying about those classes," Louis said, strained, from behind him as Kye continued to struggle, but struggling while holding your breath isn't easy, and Louis was strong. His movements were growing sluggish, and vision blurry, as he kept trying to kick and elbow. 

But he knew it was futile, and soon everything went dark. 

----

When Kye woke up next, he had a pounding headache. He wasn't sure where he was, and he felt like he had a hangover. Where had he been last night? He didn't remember drinking anything, let alone too much--

Fuck. 

His eyes snapped open, before squeezing shut again at the blinding light. Louis, that bastard. Son of a bitch. He peeled his eyes open slowly, and looked up. 

Only to be met with the wrong end of a gun. 

His mouth opened to let out an involuntary scream, but the gun was brutally smashed into his mouth, almost going completely inside and making him gag. 

"Don't scream," Louis said quickly, "Only the basement is soundproofed." 

Kye's eyes almost bugged out of his sockets, but he remained quiet, afraid that Louis would shoot. Not that he would have been able to say anything with a mouthful of gun anyway. He was sitting in a chair with his hands cuffed behind his back, in what appeared to be a kitchen.

"Are you going to stay quiet?" Louis asked, nudging the gun, sending bolts of terror through Kye.

Kye gave the barest of nods, and the gun was out. Louis smiled at him, and this time the smile didn't make Kye's heart flutter. 

"Fuck dramatic, that was stressful as hell. I knew I couldn't have used the gun to take you when you said you'd taken those self defence courses as a teen after coming out," Louis murmured, shaking his head as he took a chair and sat down on it, across from Kye. He set the gun down on the table next to them. 

Seeing the immediate threat gone, Kye started struggling in the chair, "Let me go, you motherfucker!"

The vehemence in his voice seemed to startle Louis, before he gained his composure, "After all the trouble I went through to get you? Nope." 

"And to think I liked you, argh!" Kye let out a frustrated scream when the cuffs refused to budge, but he kept on kicking his legs, trying to reach Louis, his anger palpable.

Louis stared at him for a moment before he spoke again, "You know what? I think I am going to give you a night to think things through before doing anything, hm?" 

He didn't wait for a response before standing up again, and picking up the gun, making Kye flinch. 

When Louis started walking away, Kye yelled, "Let! Me! Go!" 

Louis whirled around, and Kye jerked back, suddenly terrified. "Right, almost forgot." Louis walked over to an upper shelf in the corner, opening it and pulling out some sort of ball with straps on it. It took Kye a moment to realise it was a gag, which sent him into overdrive, kicking and rocking in his chair. Who kept that shit in their kitchen?!

Louis managed to shove the gag into his mouth without getting his hand bit off, and tightened it around his head painfully. The gag was impossibly large, stretching his mouth and making it hard to make any noise except muffled grunts and groans. 

Louis leaned down and planted a kiss on his cheek, whispering, "Think of this as some reflection time. Don't do anything stupid. Enjoy the peace and quiet." He gave him a soft, almost sweet smile. And if Kye were in any different situation, he'd have found it cute.

His previously two failed dates had been infinitely better in comparison to this one.

...

part two

lemme know if you wanna be added to the taglist!

[jklovesfandoms]

So... It's been a hot minute (sorry, life and mental illness decided to exist), take this sneak peek at the fanfiction I've been working on as compensation!

Now introducing!!!

Redeemed The Loser

Please do not repost to other sites without permission!! <33

~~~~~~

"Final vote," the cursed fortune teller started, "Ocean Rosenberg."

She turned, confused, only to be met with her frozen friends, and a red eyed machine staring. "Huh?"

"It has been decided that you shall have the final vote."

She stared, "Over what?"

"Who lives or dies." It replied, as if she was an idiot.

She paused. "I thought we all had to vote on that? That's what you told us."

"I've decided the final vote will come down to the one with the highest grade point average. You are the winner." The machine explained, sarcasm dripping from its speakers.

"That doesn't strike me as very fair" she muttered under her breath, staring down at her shoes, allowing her hair to form a ginger curtain around her eyes.

"In 5 minutes, all bets are off."

"What happens in 5 minutes?" She lifted her head.

"My appointment with a rat named Virgil, and then my death." It looked forward, as if to an audience that had suddenly appeared in the abandoned warehouse. "After that, I'm not entirely sure."

"And if I choose anyone, anyone at all, what is the moral? If I choose anyone- If I choose for someone to stay, the moral of the story is that humans suck!"

It paused, as if to think about its reply, "That would be a valid interpretation, yes."

She started to pace, staring at her friends faces, that were stuck in time. "No, no, no we're going to honor the original agreement. We will all vote on who has to stay." She stomped up to the horrid machine, and paused as the curtains of the abandoned carnival stage opened, with a blinding light. "What's that?"

"The other side. You merely walk in. It's easy. Just don't look back" it refused to look at her, even as she stepped away, denying the unfair reward. She stared at the curtains as they closed, before observing the faces of her friends, who still hadn't moved an inch. "I don't mean to rush you, but Time is pressing-"

She jumped in, "Look, if you could kindly step off for three seconds!" She exploded, before going back to her observation in thought. "The one who wants to win it the most shall redeem the loser - in order to complete the whole." She repeated the machine's words from what felt like a lifetime ago, realizing what had been said. "You knew all along I could never do it." She stated.

"What" the machine spat the word as if it was acid.

"Choose myself." She paused again, looking as her friends started to move once more, but already knowing what she should choose. "It shouldn't be me." She looked away, unsure if her friends had realized what she was doing. And not wanting to be swayed in a different direction. "We all died young. By total accident. But to say that if one dies young, they die needlessly? That is to discount the years they had. The experiences they had. I would gladly take my 17 years over nothing. Who do I say should go? Them." She turned back at her friends, her vote already cast on the ballot, "I lived my life, learned the lesson of my story. They still need to learn theirs. They still need to finish their stories. That's my vote. Motion carried. Democracy rocks." She finished, staring out towards the empty warehouse, with a hand on her waist, and the other in the fist above her head. A childish move, fit for someone who has died a child.

"Ocean, what the hell? What did you just do?" Constance shot forward, as she put her hands down, quickly finding her friend's hands weighing heavy on her shoulders.

"What I had to, Connie." She had said the nickname that she had hardly used for the past 8 years, not wanting negativity to be her last moment with her best friend.

"Why did you choose yourself? You have so much you want to do. You've told me your entire life plan! Why would you-"

"I said it already." She cut off the Blackwood from her spiral. "I found the moral. The lesson. Your story isn't finished yet, Constance. None of yours are." She looked back, at the rest of her friends, who looked as shocked as Constance sounded. "Go and write it for me. Find your lessons." She gently pushed her shocked friend towards the rest, not wanting them to miss their opportunity. "Live your lives for me. I got to know you... Rockstars. That's more than enough for me" the choir had stepped into the curtain, without even realizing it. The pathway closed, leaving nothing but a ginger, an abandoned machine, and a rat.

"As you wish." The machine spoke. Ocean stared at the curtain, nervous for what unknown would follow.

"Their names are Penny Lamb, born April 7th, Aries, the lucky nature. Ricky Potts, born June 5th, Gemini, the dual nature. Mischa Bachinski, born August 18th, Leo, sign of aggression. Noel Gruber, born March 5th, Pisces, sign of passion. And Constance Blackwood, born November 14th, Scorpio, the secret nature."

She breathed a sigh of relief, turning from the curtain as it lit up with a countdown, not wanting to see what was to follow. She had an eerie feeling that it would portray her death, and her friends survival. It went on for a while, so she sat on the floors beneath her, still somehow covered in dust despite having been danced and walked on for what felt like the past hour and a half. But as she breathed, and reflected on her time, the lights in the warehouse began to flicker.

"And now you're probably wondering, what happens next." The machine paused, as the box it was held in began to thrash. "That, I couldn't possibly tell you." She stood, walking forward to see what was happening. "But I do know this for certain." It continued, the machine inside thrashing around, as she noticed a rat behind the box, shaking with electrical power. "After reading thousands of human fortunes" she walked closer, before deciding to push the machine's lever one final time. "My final insight is" it continued to trash, before freezing as the lever finally met the bottom of it's turn. "Your lucky number is 7, you will get a promotion, you will soar to great heights, be sure to ride the Cyclone!"

It popped up to give it's final fortune, facing forward, just as it had in life. Smoke rose from behind the machine, which caused Ocean to stumble away. Before she could even say anything, the curtain her friends had just passed through mere minutes ago, opened once more. The light still glowing bright.

She flicked her eyes between the fortune telling machine and the 'other side', needing to make a decision, and fast, if the increasing amount of smoke was any indicator. She sprinted towards the curtain, praying that it wouldn't ruin what she had already chosen, even as the light blinded her.

Suddenly, she was falling. And she closed her eyes, as the light only got brighter. But as quickly as it blinded, the light switched to dark. Ocean permitted herself to open her eyes again, hesitant to see what afterlife 'other side' had taken her to.

"Wait," she said out loud, despite not meaning to, "so that's what my part looked like?!" She exclaimed, staring at her dead body slumped over the front, before it finally clicked. "I'M A GHOST?" She screamed, floating above the carnage of the crash, staring down through her transparent fingertips.

~~~~~~

So yeah, it's just an au with a couple of changes

- One person stays, everyone else goes to live beyond the Cyclone accident.

- Ocean chooses herself as the sacrifice and comes back as a ghost

- And some miscellaneous small and big changes to canon dialogue

^•^

And some extra details!

Stray Dog Theater had the rest of the choir stuck in their bumper pose during Ocean's decision. I thought it was super impactful, and really brought out the character development of Ocean, so I decided to keep that here. Except, they're all stuck in the position they were in when Karnak decided on who got the final vote.

It's called "Redeemed The Loser" bc that's what Ocean does. She redeems herself as the loser. (Redeems as in "compensate for the faults or bad actions of something", "do something that compensates for past poor performance or behavior ", and "atone or make amends for") she compensates for her horrible actions and poor behavior, and makes amends with the fact that it happened, and that she needs to make up for that. She chooses herself to stay to make up for it (even if in the show she chooses Jane to go, for the same reason) Idk the prophecy has always been weirdly impactful to me, and not talked about enough, imo.

Also, final few notes, this will be poly!choir, bc as I've said before, I have basically one brain cell, and two of them are dedicated to poly!choir. And also, once again, please do not repost this on other sites without permission! My DMs and ask box are open if you'd like to ask any questions, or see if you can repost it.

(Also there will be more updates in the future, but they'll likely be an AO3 link, so if you like this, please keep an eye out)

Anyways, happy new year! And be sure to ride the cyclone!!! <333🎢