#(( my mental health kind of crashed and burned ))

[radicheart]

.

[sushiyuzu]

Hiii, I was wondering if you could make smth with a fem-reader who gets super angry, like destructive when mad bcus she lacks self-control rlly bad (for me I'm mentally ill lol) so when she gets mad her s/o usually walks in to her room destroyed with a crying reader in the corner, especially when she hasn't been taking her meds it ends up like that, and can you do this with Megumi, Yuta, and Sukuna

a safe comfort 🤍

a/n: thank you so much for trusting me with this request! it was my second time receiving and writing a fanfic request, and i truly appreciate the support! please remember to take care of yourself, especially if you're struggling with mental health—your well-being is so important! <3

warning: this story includes themes of mental illness, destructive behavior, and emotional distress. please proceed with caution.

megumi fushiguro

it starts as a small thing, the kind of annoyance you’d usually brush off. but today, something feels different. it’s as if the tension has been building for days, winding tighter and tighter until finally—something snaps. and when it does, you can’t stop yourself.

your hands are trembling as you shove the lamp off your nightstand, the crash of broken glass loud in your ears. the sound echoes in your head, but it doesn’t register—not really. you’re already grabbing at the books on your desk, hurling them across the room as frustration wells up inside you, fierce and unrelenting.

the anger takes over everything. it’s all-consuming, suffocating, like a weight on your chest you can’t escape. and when it’s over, when the room lies in ruins around you, you’re left standing in the middle of it all, gasping for air, your hands still shaking as the reality of what you’ve done hits you.

you drop to the floor, curling into yourself, the tears coming fast and hard. shame burns deep in your chest, the guilt crushing you as you try to breathe through it. you don’t want to be like this—you don’t want to be the person who destroys everything.

you don’t even notice when megumi walks in. he’s always quiet like that, slipping into your space without making a sound. but you know he’s there when you hear his voice—soft, steady, calm.

“hey,” he murmurs, and the sound is so gentle it makes your chest ache. “it’s okay.”

you can’t bring yourself to look up at him, too ashamed of what he must be seeing. you’re a mess. the room’s a mess. but megumi doesn’t seem to care. he steps carefully around the broken glass, the scattered papers, and kneels down beside you without a word.

for a long moment, he doesn’t say anything, just sits there with you, his presence grounding you in a way that nothing else can. his hand hovers near your shoulder, not quite touching, as if he’s waiting for permission to get closer.

“i’m not going anywhere,” he says softly, his voice filled with quiet reassurance.

you finally lift your head, and the moment your eyes meet his, the tears come faster, harder. you choke on a sob, unable to hold it back any longer, but megumi’s arms are around you before you can even process it. he pulls you into his chest, holding you close, and for a second, you forget about the wreckage around you.

his grip is firm but gentle, his hand running through your hair in soothing strokes. he’s not one to overwhelm you with words—megumi knows that sometimes silence speaks louder. instead, he just holds you, letting you cry against him, offering a quiet strength you can lean on without fear.

“we’ll figure it out,” he says after a while, his voice steady, like a promise. “whatever it is, we’ll deal with it together.”

you know he means it. with megumi, there are no empty promises. just the quiet certainty that no matter how bad things get, he’s going to stay by your side. and somehow, that makes it a little easier to breathe.

the minutes stretch into what feels like hours as you sink into his embrace. with every ragged breath, you can feel the tension start to dissolve. megumi’s warmth envelops you, a safe haven amidst the storm of emotions raging inside.

as the tears slow, you begin to notice the little things—how his heartbeat thrums steadily against your ear, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air, the gentle way he holds you as if you’re something precious. it’s a comfort that seeps into your bones, reminding you that you’re not alone in this chaos.

“i know it feels overwhelming right now,” he says, his voice low and soothing, “but it doesn’t define you. you’re stronger than this moment.”

you nod against him, trying to internalize his words, but the guilt still lingers like a shadow. “i don’t want to be like this,” you whisper, your voice muffled against his shirt.

“i know,” he replies, pulling back slightly to look you in the eye. there’s a determination in his gaze, a fierce protectiveness that makes your heart swell. “and you’re not. we’ll find a way to help you. just take it one step at a time.”

he wipes away the tears on your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs, his touch featherlight yet grounding. in his gaze, you see understanding—an unspoken agreement that you don’t have to carry this burden alone. with megumi beside you, it’s easier to believe that healing is possible, that you can face whatever darkness lies ahead.

as you sit there, the room still in disarray, you realize it’s okay to be broken. it’s okay to ask for help. because with megumi by your side, you know you have a safe space to fall apart and rebuild. you’re not just a collection of shattered pieces; you’re a person, and that person deserves love and understanding—even in the midst of chaos.

“thank you,” you murmur, feeling a glimmer of hope rise within you.

“always,” he replies, a soft smile breaking through the worry etched on his face. “now, let’s clean this up together, okay?”

you nod, and for the first time in a long while, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you can find your way back to yourself.

yuta okkotsu

the anger hits you like a tidal wave, sudden and overwhelming, and before you know it, everything around you is falling apart. you’ve tried to hold it back—tried so hard—but the frustration is too much. your hands move on their own, knocking over anything within reach, the sounds of things crashing to the floor blending together in a chaotic blur.

you don’t realize how far you’ve gone until the room is a disaster—books torn from the shelves, clothes scattered across the floor, furniture tipped over in your frenzy. it’s only when the last bit of anger burns out that you see the mess you’ve made, and with it comes the crushing guilt. the shame.

you collapse to the floor, pressing your palms to your face, hiding from the destruction you’ve caused. your heart races in your chest, your breathing uneven as the tears come, slow at first, then uncontrollable.

you don’t hear the door open, don’t realize yuta’s standing there until you feel a presence near you. when he speaks, his voice is so soft, so filled with concern, it breaks your heart.

“hey,” he calls your name gently, kneeling in front of you. “what happened?”

you can’t answer him, can’t even look at him. the shame is too much. you’ve done this again—let yourself lose control, let everything spiral. yuta doesn’t push you for answers, though. he just watches you for a moment, waiting for the right time to step in.

“it’s okay,” he whispers after a while, reaching out carefully, his hand brushing against your arm in a tentative gesture. “i’m not mad. i’m just... worried.”

his words hit you in a way you didn’t expect, and before you know it, you’re falling into him. yuta catches you easily, pulling you close to his chest, his arms wrapping around you protectively. he’s warm, gentle, his hands soothing as he rubs slow circles against your back.

“we’ll get through this,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice steady. “whatever’s going on... we’ll handle it together.”

his embrace is firm, but never overwhelming. he holds you just tightly enough to make you feel safe, his chin resting on the top of your head as he lets you cry into his shoulder. yuta’s always been like this—soft, gentle, never pushing too hard but always there when you need him most.

“you don’t have to be afraid of this,” he adds, his voice low. “we’ll take it one step at a time, okay?”

you nod against him, even though you still feel the weight of your emotions pressing down on you. but with yuta’s arms around you, the world feels just a little bit less overwhelming.

as you pull away slightly, just enough to see his face, you can’t help but notice the concern etched in his features. his eyes search yours, looking for any sign of reassurance. “you didn’t have to hide this from me,” he says softly, brushing a thumb across your cheek, wiping away a tear that has slipped free. “i’m here for you, no matter what.”

the sincerity in his voice ignites something inside you—a flicker of hope amidst the storm of despair. “i just... don’t want to be like this,” you admit, your voice trembling. “i don’t want to keep losing control.”

“it’s okay to feel angry sometimes,” he reassures, his expression unwavering. “but you’re not alone in this. you don’t have to handle everything on your own.”

you take a deep breath, allowing his words to wash over you. it’s a reminder that while this moment feels insurmountable, it doesn’t define you. yuta doesn’t judge you for the chaos you’ve created; instead, he’s offering a lifeline, a way to navigate through the darkness together.

“let’s clean this up,” he suggests, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. “but first, can we take a minute? just to breathe?”

you nod again, grateful for his understanding. yuta guides you back to the corner of the room where it feels a bit safer, sitting beside you on the floor amidst the wreckage. he takes a moment to simply breathe with you, matching his inhale and exhale to yours. in those shared breaths, you can feel the tension begin to ease, even if just a little.

“you’re strong, you know,” he says softly, looking at you with such intensity that it warms your heart. “even when it feels like everything’s falling apart, you’re still standing here. that means something.”

his words wrap around you like a warm blanket, grounding you further. you manage a small smile, a flicker of gratitude in your chest. “thank you for being here.”

“always,” he replies, the sincerity in his voice bringing a sense of comfort. “let’s start with one thing at a time. how about we pick up the books first?”

you both begin to clear the room together, moving through the remnants of your outburst. with each item you return to its place, you feel a little more in control, a little less lost. yuta’s presence is steady by your side, and as he laughs softly at the absurdity of some of the mess, you can’t help but join him.

“what a tornado you’ve created,” he teases gently, picking up a shirt and throwing it playfully at you. “it looks like a fashion disaster.”

“hey! don’t make fun of my style,” you retort, a laugh bubbling up despite the heaviness of earlier. the sound feels good, like a small victory over the lingering despair.

“i’d never!” he exclaims, mock-indignant. “your style is unique, and it needs to be respected.”

as you work together, the atmosphere shifts. the heaviness that had settled in your chest begins to lift, and with yuta’s playful banter, you start to find a lightness you thought was lost. you realize that even in moments of chaos, you can create something beautiful—like the bond you share with him.

once the room is tidied up, yuta turns to you, his expression serious again. “remember, it’s okay to ask for help. i’m just a call away, and you don’t have to face anything alone.”

you look at him, your heart swelling with gratitude. “i really appreciate you, yuta. for everything.”

“anytime,” he replies, reaching for your hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “let’s take care of each other, okay?”

as you sit together in the aftermath of the storm, you know that with yuta by your side, you’ll find a way through whatever challenges lie ahead. the world feels just a little bit less daunting, and that’s more than enough for now.

ryomen sukuna

it happens fast—too fast for you to stop it. one moment, you’re pacing around the room, frustration boiling inside you like a pressure cooker, and the next, your hands are smashing into everything within reach. you’ve never been able to control it, this anger that builds and builds until it spills over, consuming everything in its path.

furniture crashes to the floor, papers scatter across the room, and the sound of breaking glass rings in your ears. you’ve wrecked the place, torn it apart with your bare hands, and now, standing in the aftermath, all you can feel is the hollow emptiness left behind.

your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, tears blurring your vision as the weight of what you’ve done settles in. you sink down to the floor, curling in on yourself, the world around you too much to handle. the anger is gone now, but the shame remains, thick and suffocating.

then you hear him—sukuna. his voice cuts through the silence like a knife, sharp and unmistakable.

“well, well,” he drawls, his tone laced with amusement. “look at the mess you’ve made.”

you flinch, expecting the worst, but when sukuna steps into the room, there’s no mockery in his eyes. he surveys the damage with a raised brow, but instead of berating you, he simply smirks, as if he finds the whole thing more fascinating than anything else.

“you always did have a flair for destruction,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “but this... this is something else.”

you don’t respond. you can’t. the shame is too heavy, too overwhelming, and the last thing you want is for him to see you like this. but sukuna doesn’t leave. instead, he walks over to you, his boots crunching against the broken glass, and crouches down in front of you.

he tilts his head, his red eyes gleaming with something almost like curiosity. “are you done?”

you nod, though it’s barely a movement. your throat is tight, your eyes stinging with unshed tears, and sukuna just watches you for a moment longer before sighing. without another word, he reaches out and pulls you into his arms, not caring about the mess around him.

you’re too tired to resist, too worn out to push him away, and sukuna just holds you there, his grip firm but not painful. there’s a warmth to him, a strange sort of comfort in the way he wraps his arms around you, despite his usual roughness.

“you’re a disaster,” he mutters, his tone teasing but not unkind. “but i suppose you’re my disaster.”

you don’t know why, but his words make the tears come harder, and before you know it, you’re sobbing against his chest, your body trembling with the force of it. sukuna doesn’t shush you or tell you to stop. he just lets you cry, his hand resting on the back of your head, his fingers gently tangling in your hair.

“let it out,” he says, his voice soft now, quieter than you’ve ever heard it before. “you’ll feel better after.”

and somehow, with him holding you, the world feels just a little bit less chaotic. sukuna may not be gentle, but in this moment, he’s exactly what you need. the weight of his arms around you, solid and unyielding, keeps you anchored, keeps you from spiraling any further.

he’s not one for soft reassurances or whispered comforts, but his presence alone is enough to ground you. he lets you break down in his arms, lets you be vulnerable without judgment or impatience. there’s something oddly calming about it—being in the presence of someone so powerful, so utterly in control, when you feel like your world is falling apart.

after a long while, when your sobs finally subside, sukuna pulls back slightly. he tilts your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze. his red eyes bore into yours, sharp and unwavering.

“feel better?” he asks, his voice low, his expression unreadable.

you nod, not trusting your voice to speak. he studies you for a moment longer before he lets go of your chin, standing up and brushing some debris off his clothes as if none of this bothered him in the slightest.

“next time,” he says, his tone casual, as if offering advice on something trivial, “try not to destroy everything. or at least wait until i’m around to enjoy the show.”

there’s a teasing lilt to his words, and despite yourself, despite everything, a small, tired smile tugs at the corners of your lips.

“come on,” sukuna says, offering you his hand to help you up. “let’s get out of here. you need to clear your head.”

you hesitate for only a moment before taking his hand, and he pulls you up effortlessly. as he leads you out of the wreckage of your room, there’s a strange comfort in knowing that, for all his arrogance and rough edges, sukuna’s still here—still willing to stay by your side, no matter how many times you break.

and somehow, with him, that’s enough.

[thelastofhyde]

you cut your hair, and take some space (2)

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 2 of 3! (part 1)

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, policeofficer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, violence, nondescript depictions of sa ( not javi ), pedro-ception aka there's a small cameo of another pedro boy, vomiting, mentions of pregnancy, reader is described to have hair and celebrates christmas ( but no mention of the reader's religious beliefs )! 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. 14.3k

hyde’s input. hey... hey... how y'all doin'?🧍remember when i said part 2 would be posted a few weeks after part 1? yeah, that was a fucking lie. and, remember when i said it would be 2 parts in total? that was also a lie! the universe is praying on my downfall ( i had a fun mental health episode and fell into a black hole for a few months <3 ) unfortunately, i am very much still alive and kicking, so this is me trying to get the ball rolling again when it comes to posting fics. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it + tumblr will not allow me to post it as a whole due to it's paragaph-count limit, 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!

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of. “huh?” “this. us. it could be casual, y’know?”

Golden boy, you dropped the ball I am Annie fucking Hall

The year moves too fast.

It’s like you blink, and suddenly it’s Thanksgiving.

Leaves turn brown. Pumpkins are carved only to rot upon front porches. A gathering of friends, young adults getting their first taste at hosting a thanksgiving meal.

You’re put on dessert duty, which culminates in stressful tears and your mother’s hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, reassuring you that it’s okay, everyone burns their first pie.

No one at the party needs to know the pumpkin pie you brought was a product of your mother’s gentle care.

Then there is actual Thanksgiving, which you celebrate, as always, at your aunt's.

The highlight is, and forever has been, the road-trip out of state, your father making it his mission to deafen you and your mother with his horrific singing.

As they drop you back at your apartment, your father has no qualms leaning out the car window and calling after you.

“I expect to see you cheering me on at the Thanksgiving Touchdown event!”

Which brings you here, to said event, sweater sleeves tugged over cold fingers and a wandering pair of eyes who refuse to comply with your wants.

You want to focus on the ongoing football match- Fire Department vs Police.

Your eyes prefer to follow him, striding up the field, his hair soaked in sweat and his t-shirt long removed.

You’ve no valid reason to roll your eyes at the other women who seem to prefer spectating the sport of Javier Peña. You’re no better than them.

Yet, as one of them let’s out a joyous shriek as he takes a pass at the ball, your eyes roll.

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

At least you have company. An older gentleman, who you caught struggling to pick his wallet up from the floor. He’d smiled as you returned it, and conversation had flowed easily from there.

As the whistle blew, commencing the final match of the local community services’ football league- or, Thanksgiving Touchdown, as your father so aptly named it-, he’d patted the empty seat next to him.

“Hmm?”

He points, and you follow the direction, realising he’s speaking about Javi.

“Him,” he says it with a teasing tone to his voice. It’s like he’s mocking the agent. “Think’s he’s God’s gift, takin’ his top off like that.”

The more you sit with the older gentleman, the more you enjoy his company.

On the field, your dad bellows something at Javi. He replies with a curt salute, and shoots off down the length of it.

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

A force to be reckoned with, keeping pace with rookies half his age.

The vision of him, gun strapped to his leg and a tact vest on his chest, speeding down streets in the columbian heat conjures in your mind.

You wonder how it felt to know him then, if worry kept his companions awake.

It had certainly kept you awake in recent months, and that was with him safe, in Laredo, cooped up in some bachelor pad.

“Surprised he’s not thrown his top to the crowd of screaming ladies!” The gentleman continues his mocking, and it rouses laughter out of both of you.

A whistle is blown, your eyes return to the field and, though he’s quick to look away, you catch the tail end of Javier’s eyes on you.

Fifteen minutes pass, in which you do your best to not stare at him.

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

Eventually, the man next to you coaxes you into getting him a lemonade from the food truck.

You oblige, of course, and deny his attempts to hand you cash, insist it’s on you.

He’s kept you smiling on a rather gloomy day.

You tell him you’ll be right back, smile, and realise you don’t know his name.

“Chucho,” he tells you, and waves you off.

You join the queue, keep your head down, ignore the gossiping women three spots ahead of you, claiming to have each shared an encounter with Javi.

You don’t need to know what he’s been up to.

You don’t want to know who he’s been up to it with.

It happens when you’re finally being served.

There’s no longer a queue, just you, smiling as sweetly as possible. The service industry is rough enough, nevermind on holidays.

You order successfully, both Chucho’s lemonade and a hot chocolate for yourself.

The guy working the truck- young enough, a bit too traditionally good-looking, with coiffed hair and a shaven face- he’s talkative.

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

Even more so after a something that means nothing yet everything ends out of the blue and you’re left reeling over whether or not some part of you is to blame.

So you let him shoot you his dashing smile, and throw in unnecessary pet-names that just feel forced into every sentence he speaks to you, and write his number on the paper cup of your hot chocolate.

“Here you go, pumpkin,” he winks. The pet-name feels a little too on the nose for the season. Couldn’t he have called you sweetheart instead? “A sweet treat for that sweet smile.”

You wonder if he’s allowed to gift the free donut he slides your way.

Your stomach growls and begs for sugary release before you can fully bring yourself to care.

An awkward thanks. Hands reach up to grab the to-go cups, three fingers curling up the bagged donut. 

He helps you get a grip on the beverages, placing them in your hands.

His touch lingers, more than necessary, fingertips brushing over your knuckles as if trapped in slow-motion.

“So, a pretty girl like you got a boyfriend, or are you gonna let me take you out to-”

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

Your father screams one name, loud and clear, down the pitch.

“Peña, get your head out your fucking ass and pick up the ball!”

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

Javier, frozen in place, face an unreadable maze of emotions, eyes staring right at you.

They follow you all the way back to your seat, even as the game picks up again.

Even as you congratulate your dad on another victory for the police department, now the four-time consecutive champions of the Thanksgiving Touchdown.

Even as you head off to your father’s car.

Even when you’re home, curled under a blanket and watching a televised copy of Annie Hall, you feel his eyes on you.

The look of betrayal on Javier Peña haunts you even once you fall asleep.

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

Everything has it’s place, from the books that line your bedside table to the memories inside your mind.

You compartmentalise.

Tucked deep into the right side of your brain, there’s a box.

It’s contents, memories you’ve yet to process.

Moments you know that, if you wish to move on, you’ll have to relive.

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

And, scribbled in bold red marker, April ‘99.

A late night.

You, wide awake, laying on your back and mapping out stars in his ceiling.

Javier fell asleep hours ago and now snores softly against your neck, muscled arm curled around your waist as his legs entangle your own.

The agent is a fiend for cuddling, and so often wraps himself around you like a vine.

You find yourself nestling your hand in his hair, and take note of the sharp breath he intakes.

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

Relax when you feel him snore and press himself even deeper against your naked skin.

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

He hadn’t told you that, but he didn’t need to.

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

In the way he let you take the lead, resting back against the couch to watch how your hips wound down on him.

In the way he got even clingier than usual, dragging you into the shower with him just to have you near, holding you from behind as you washed up the plates he’d used to serve you dinner (a trade-off he’d reluctantly agreed to months ago: he cooks, you clean), laying his head on your lap as you curled up to watch some cheesy horror movie- one you’re bound to fall asleep during and he’s counting on it, glancing up till he spots you slumped over and eyes closed, granting him the perfect excuse to carry you to his bed and nestle himself in beside you.

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

It’s like you’ve forgotten something, misplaced something, and can’t even figure out what it is.

You just know its absence is wrong.

Javi mumbles something, dreaming away, and you feel the subtle press of his lips against your skin.

Fingers curl tightly into the fabric of your (his) shirt.

He can’t get you close enough, it seems.

Playing against his wants, you pull back, slowly, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.

There’s a pinch between his brows, furrowed in worry.

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

It’s a selfish act, born purely from your own desire, but you find yourself pressing a kiss against his forehead.

His grip loosens, though slightly.

It gives you enough time to feel a stir between your thighs, a calling coming from your bladder.

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

It’s a struggle that leaves you topless and feeling a pinch of cruelty, standing over the bed as you watch his hand grabbing at the vacant spot you once occupied, your scent and shirt the only traces you leave behind.

You don’t bother turning on a light, make your way to his bathroom with practiced ease.

Pad your way across the cold linoleum floor, sink down onto the porcelain seat- he’d stopped leaving it up when your overnight visits became more frequent. You hadn’t asked- didn’t need to ask-, he’d simply done it.

Closing the door over, yet not enough for the hinges to squeak and the handle to lock, you pray the wood muffles noise of the flushing toilet.

When it stops, you wait a few seconds, until you’re sure there’s no rustling coming from his bedroom.

Then, you open the tap.

The water is barely a trickle, yet you tell yourself its enough.

Lather your hands in soap, sit them under the constant drip of cold water till you feel the suds wash down the drain.

It’s hard to stop yourself from sneaking a glance at the mirror, just as it’s hard to recognise the version of yourself you see.

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

Yhen come the thoughts of Javier, and how he sees you.

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

He’s not said anything. Or done anything, to make you notice a change.

But, then, Maybe it’s been subtle, slow, dragged out long enough it’s not drastic enough for either of you to take note of.

You eye the spare toothbrush he keeps in his bathroom, and try to remember when it became yours.

You don’t remember.

One moment, his toothbrush sat alone. And, the next, you were standing side by side, laughing as you raced to see who could make a foamier mess of the toothpaste.

Corazón, you look like a rabid animal, he’d called you once, laughing through tears as he wiped away the white suds dripping off your chin. You’re lucky that you’re just so cute.

You can recall, even now, how quickly his mouth had found yours that night, with no ulterior motive other than to bask in the minty taste of one another.

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

Only, sweat lines your forehead and your face seems drained of colour.

You make it only two steps back before you’re hurtling across the bathroom floor.

Your knees crash down first, harsh and unforgiving against the tiles.

The first wretch burns, has you coughing over your own gag.

In the dark, it’s hard to see what exactly comes out of you, but you know where it came from.

Your stomach.

Another wave of nausea hits, this one harder, and you’re gripping at the sides of the bowl, spewing into the water below.

A splash meets your cheek, but you’re too out of it to care, wave after wave of nausea leaving you a coughing, gagging, crying mess.

You feel lightheaded, only managing a moment to catch your breath before another wave hits.

It feels like you’re suffocating.

It’s in your throat, in your mouth, in your nose, in your hair.

It feels like it’s never stopping and you’re doomed to spend the rest of your days submitting to the horrors of throwing-

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” warmth, against your naked back.

It’s a nice warmth, not like the one that has you covered in a cold sweat.

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

You try to follow it, match your breathing to the tactile comfort.

“That’s it, baby,” cool air meets your neck, the hairs that stuck to your skin now pulled up and pushed back. “I’m right here, I got you.”

Eventually, all that’s left is the burning of bile at the back of your throat and the dull ache of eyes gone raw with tears.

You’re pulled into a solid mass, naked chest pressed to naked chest as you go slack upon the bathroom floor.

You’re exhausted, and covered in your own sweat, tears and vomit.

Javier doesn’t care, pulling you tighter against him and whispering sweet words you don’t quite pay attention to.

“Woke up and you weren’t there, corazón. Don’t do that again,” even in his attempts to chastise, he’s gentle, brushing the remaining strands of sweat-slicked hair off your face. You must be an awful sight, yet his expressions don’t give way. “You wake up, you wake me up too. ‘Specially if you’re gonna hurl, okay?”

You glance at him, swallow back a lump and deal with the realisation that dawned upon you ten minutes earlier, as you sat hunched over the toilet’s bowl.

“Javi,” he smiles at the way you call his name.

You feel sick all over again at the thought of that changing, everything changing, as you build the courage to speak.

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

You imagine he’ll stand up, pace the floor.

Run his hands through his hair, rant over every thought he has.

Ways to get rid of it, the dangers of your dad finding out.

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

He’ll ask why you weren’t safer, why you forgot to take that morning-after pill, why you played so fast-and-loose with your body.

None of it arrives.

He stands, yes, but only to pull you up with him, tired limbs leaning into his strong build as he drags you both under the heat of a warm shower.

You watch the remnants of your own vomit wash down the drain, and question how he can stand there, not disgusted with you.

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

He’s rougher with himself, scarcely drying properly before he’s carrying you back to his bed, a replay of hours earlier as he lays you down, crawls in behind you and tucks you both under the soft comfort of his worn-out sheets.

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

He so easily nestles himself behind you, dragging you back against him and committing himself to the role of big-spoon.

His hands have always felt large, their touch always electrifying, but nothing compares to the feeling of him splaying one across your lower stomach, a subtle press into where part of him could be growing within you.

“Javi,” you whine, fighting off the sleep your overwhelmed body so badly needs. “I’m sorry.”

You say it because you feel obligated, like it’s your place to be apologetic.

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

“No seas boba (Don’t be silly),” there’s a fresh set of tears already sliding down your cheeks by the time he replies. “Don’t need to be sorry, baby.”

“But I-”

“But, nothing,” his tone feels final, one that tells you you’ll get nowhere arguing against him. “You’ve done nothing wrong, corazón.”

You fall asleep, eventually, soothed by his gentle breathing and the repeated motion of his thumb stroking over your belly.

Yhe next time you awake, there’s a crack of sunlight creeping through his blinds.

Javi’s still in bed, only he’s propped up on his elbow and staring down at you.

His smile stretches a little wider when he spots your open eyes.

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

“I gotta go, corazón,” is met with a protest from you, rolling over to curl into his solid chest.

Expecting it, he wraps you up tighter in his arms, presses an array of chaste kisses to your head.

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

You don’t want him out, in the real world, where the hours you’ve spent cooped up together become more scandalous than the peaceful nature of them.

“I know, I know. Don’t wanna go either, baby,” you wonder if you spoke your thoughts aloud, or if Javi simply knows you so well.

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

Help him tie it, the comforter pooled around your naked waist as you sit criss-cross-apple-sauce and Javi’s at the side of the bed, legs bent at the knee.

He thanks you with a kiss, then asks you to pass him his cologne.

It’s on the other side of the bed- his side of the bed- and you lean over to grab it.

You don’t bother handing him it, spraying it directly onto your own wrist and dabbing it into the skin of his tanned neck.

He lets you, a gentle smile on his face and eyes that pull you in for a hug, burrowing himself between your naked breasts.

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

“You’re gonna smell like me all day, cariño (darling),” he tells you.

“Good,” you reply.

Another hum, this time of approval, and a squeeze to your hip.

When he pulls back, he looks even more reluctant to leave.

Reality rears it’s ugly head, but he pushes it out your mind with the pressing of his hand against your stomach, the same spot he’d held onto all night.

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

Your hands instinctually curl in his hair, and you like to think you leave it a little messy, enough to ward off any of the women he works along side, hopeful eyes hoping to get a taste of the handsome, unmarried cop.

“Stay,” he mumbles against your skin, as if you’re the one who’s about to leave. “Don’t go, ok? I’ll call around lunch.”

He keeps his word.

Calls you, a few minutes past two, interrupting whatever daytime TV you were pretending to watch.

Answering leaves you feeling lightheaded, like you're trapped in a daydream.

Listening to him croon down the line while your finger anxiously tangles in the phone’s wire as you stand in his apartment, it feels domestic, like you’re waiting for him to come back home, a place you share together.

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

“How bout you, corazón?” He knows how to make you melt, picturing him smiling at his desk. “Have you ate yet?”

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

“You need to eat, baby,” you don’t like the fact he uses that pet-name, not right now. “There’s plenty in the fridge. Could make yourself a sandwich, or some toast. Might even have some of that pasta left over. You know, that one you said you liked? Oh, wait, maybe don’t eat that, don’t think uncooked salmon is good for pregn-”

You don’t want him to say the P word, so you cut him off.

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

He says ok, then you hear him take a bite of whatever his lunch is.

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

He tells you a quick story, something about one of the younger guys accidentally stapling his tie to an arrest warrant.

That rouses a laugh out of you, makes you forget all about the massive P word he almost said.

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

A place he’d begged you to stay this morning, safe and tucked away.

“Was thinking we could drive out to the clinic, find out for sure if we’re pr-” he cuts himself off this time, like he knows you’re not ready to hear that word. “Then we’ll take things from there, okay? Whatever you decide you wanna do, corazón, you call the shots.”

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

He walks through the door and welcomes the way you coil yourself around him, humming in delight as he peppers a few kisses over your face.

“Still smell like me,” he says it with approval, takes a purposeful whiff at you as he pulls you tighter against him.

You still smell his cologne on him too, buried beneath a few layers of sweat and cigarette smoke.

Near clinging to one another, it’s a miracle you two make it out his apartment and down the elevator.

An arm around your waist, he guides you over to his car.

Pulls the door open for you, stops you from bumping your head on the way in.

He practically runs round the car’s hood, jumping into the driver’s seat and thrumming the engine to life with the turn of a key.

“You remember to eat?” He asks as he pulls out onto the street.

You nod, then audibly reply.

Tell him you did in fact eat toast, leave out the part where you spewed your guts again twenty minutes later.

The drive is quiet.

Not uncomfortable, just relaxed, with the radio playing gently and his window rolled down enough to let in some air.

At some point, his hand slides over the console and rests against your thigh.

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

As you watch out the window how he drives past the turning for the local hospital, he must catch your questioning gaze.

“They, uh,” he clears his throat, rings his hand over the steering wheel. A small stain of sweat marks it. “Know your dad pretty well in there. And me. Figure you’d rather he not find out about us like that.”

He’s right.

So you relax back into your seat, accept the fact you’re both driving out of town together.

At some point, the beginning notes of your favourite song play through the stereo.

You instantly perk up, sitting up straighter in your seat and tap your foot a little to the beat.

Javi says nothing, simply peels his hand off you to turn the volume dial up.

Seconds later, he turns his head and throws you a look just asking if he’s done good.

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

A soft squeeze before he pulls them up to his lips, eyes back on the road.

The clinic is bright.

And squeaky, each step you take making you a little more nervous than the last.

Javier, by all accounts, is solid as a rock, signing you both in, picking up a few pamphlets, buying you a can of soda, all while you curl up in some plastic chair and just focus on not spewing your guts out.

You only relax once he’s sat beside you, helping you get a sip of the sugary drink and wrapping a protective arm around you.

You don’t mean to but you fall victim to sleep, the past 24 hours getting the best of you.

You come-to likely not much later, but to the sound of a childish giggle.

Cracking one eye open, just slightly, you notice you’re slumped into Javier, head on his shoulder.

There’s a giggling little girl in front of you both, in purple overalls and with two pigtails to hold her curly hair.

One of her hands is on Javi’s knees, using him to keep herself standing.

“First time?” You snap your eyes shut as a stranger’s voice fills the quiet bustle of the clinic.

A confused sound leaves Javier.

“Yeah, could tell from the look on your lady’s face,” the man continues. “Same one my own wife had during our first visit.”

You want to pay attention to Javi’s response, but you’re a bit busy dealing with the fact he’s not correcting the man, telling him you’re not his lady nor his wife.

His thumb soothes over your hip, and you wonder at what rate you’ll melt away into a pile of nothing thanks to his soft touches.

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

You tell yourself to try harder, to actually pay attention.

You succeed, catch as Javi replies, “a girl.”

“Yeah?” the stranger seems genuinely invested, it almost makes you want to open your eyes, see him for yourself.

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

“Wanted a boy, myself,” that same little girl giggles again and you can’t fight the temptation to peek once more, catch as she crawls into her faceless-father’s lap. “Doc told us it was gonna be a boy, too. Then this one came along and, wouldn’t ya know, not a boy.”

“Surprise!” the little girl squeals, and you feel Javi’s shoulder shake under your head.

God, you want to look at him, see if he’s looking at her with the same adoration that’s festering in your heart.

“Yeah, baby, you’re my little Sarah-Surprise,” the man coos and, despite his rough accent, it suits him. Like he was only ever meant to speak with gentle words and a soft heart, all for his precious daughter. “It’ll get easier, on your lady, just so ya know. Less scary, more exciting. ‘Bout to welcome our second one, and I’ve never seen my wife so happy.”

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

A chair squeaks as pressure is taken off it, the stranger standing.

You peak your eye open in time to see him picking his daughter up, her little legs dangling off his hip.

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

“What,” he clears his throat, and you wonder if it’s of emotion. “What are you hoping for this time?”

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

You’d pretended to wake up to Javier’s coaxing.

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

A smiley nurse handed you a cup, talked you through what you needed to do for your tests.

Took your blood pressure, complimented your earrings, and stepped out the room to give you privacy.

A short while and a reunion with Javi later, you sat in a doctor’s office, both a nervous wreck as you clasped each other’s hand.

“Mrs. peña,” again, Javier does not correct the doctor. And you realise it’s because he filled out the forms, he signed you in. He wrote you down as Peña. “You and your husband are not pregnant.”

What should have followed was a sigh of relief, from both of you.

But all you felt was led drop in your stomach and Javier’s grip tighten on your hand.

“You are, however, displaying symptoms of acute food poisoning, likely salmonella.”

The doctor continues on, detailing a prescription you’re being given.

But it falls on deaf ears, the world around you gone blank as you wrestle with conflicting emotions.

You’re not pregnant.

You should be elated. Jumping, and cheering, and dancing all over the place. Instead, you’re silent, letting yourself be guided back into the car by Javi.

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

He doesn’t explain that he’s taking you back to his place.

Getting you back in his bed, switching off the lights, he curls himself in behind you and splays his hand over your stomach.

Over your empty womb.

For some reason, you find yourself sobbing into your pillow, unaware of the tears from him that stain your neck as he tries to hush you.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” the irony of him repeating those very same words last night is not lost on you.

It’s hard to move on, when every month there’s a stabbing pain in your abdomen and a trickle of blood staining your underwear to remind you of April.

And so you keep it locked in it’s box, slapping another caution tape over it’s lid as you groan and roll out your own bed, trudging your way into your bathroom to check if the wetness between your thighs is your monthly visitor.

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

It’s not because he’s done anything to warrant your rejection, but, rather, it’s the forthcoming actions he’ll be guilty of.

See, you know why he’s calling.

Your mom let it slip, over brunch and a few too many glasses of wine.

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

Or, at least, that’s what you were until the last poker night he’d hosted, way back in March.

He slips away, phoned by your tipsy mother and obligated to drive three towns over to go pick her up because she misses him.

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

It was less a suggestion, more of a pleading, his hands already scraping the seat back and awaiting you to plop yourself down.

He leaves you with his hand, his winnings so-far, and a kiss to the top of your head.

“Watch out for Peña,” he whispered, as if you hadn’t been keeping an eye on the agent all evening, clouded by his own cigarette smoke and sitting looser each sip of his whiskey, no ice. “His poker face is dangerous.”

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

Rounds end and rounds start, and you father’s pile of winnings grow more and more.

It’s an ego boost, taking money from these cocky men who look at you as though surely you have no clue what cards you’re holding.

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

Flinging down cards, muttering curses, shoving his cash across the table.

All whilst glaring, at you, eyes black with ire.

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

Nearly an hour’s past since your father left, someone else leaves the table.

Says he needs the toilet, you point him in the direction of it.

You all call for a break, and then you graciously offer a refill on drinks.

It’s what your dad would’ve done, kept them all drinking and lowering their inhibitions, their focus disappearing alongside it.

“I’ll help!” One of the officers exclaims.

He’s on the younger side.

Practically a rookie, it’s only the second poker night he’s attended.

He’s sweet, with his large-framed glasses and his nervous smile.

You both make your way out of the basement- refurbished to be your dad’s man-cave- and head towards the kitchen.

You open the fridge, grab however many bottles of beer you need.

He heads to the liquor cabinet, pulls out a bottle bourbon.

You beat him at grabbing the whiskey, an unvoiced need to be the one who refills Javi’s glass.

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

Conversation flows naturally between you, in spite of him being a near stranger.

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

You both agree on the fact he’s a pain in the ass.

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

You tell him where to go to get the best club sandwich.

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

nNeither of you can tell who causes it, but one of you mispronounces a word and you both wind up in a pile of giggles, falling over yourselves and banging into counters.

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

Through wheezes, he repeats the phrase that left you both in this state.

You laugh harder, louder, warn him to stop before you lose control of your bladder.

Something thuds in the hallway, your eyes shoot up to the kitchen entry and you swear you see Javi’s retreating figure.

Blink a few times, realise there’s no one there.

You both gather some decorum.

He grabs as many of the beer bottles he can manage, and looks at your empty hands in question.

You tell him to head back without you, that you just need to go to the toilet.

Parting ways, you find the both the downstairs and upstairs bathrooms occupied.

Sigh in frustration, only to remember your parents en suite.

It’s empty, because of course it is. No one would feel comfortable enough invading the privacy of your parents' bedroom.

You do your business, wash your hands, fix yourself in the mirror.

Decide your lipstick needs a little touch-up, your clothes need straightening out.

And, when you’re done and ready to head back down to the poker table, you hear a thud.

Pull open the bathroom door, expect to find your father struggling to put a tipsy, giggly, clumsy version of your mother into bed.

Instead, there is only a brooding look and disapproving grunt.

A firm grip, on your arm, dragging you right back into the bathroom.

The door slams shut, a little harsher than you’d like, the sound of it surely reaching the ears of those regrouping for the next dealing of the cards.

He doesn’t pounce, like he so usually does when he’s wearing that look of frustration.

He’s simmering in it, teetering on the edge of boiling anger as he smooths a hand over his chin, visibly clenching his jaw, swallowing back whatever it is he wants to say to you.

He takes one step forward, and you go one back.

Then two steps, which you also match.

Your hip smacks into the sink’s counter on your fifth step backwards and it’s enough to finally put his hands on you.

He tugs you right into his chest, one hand soothing over where you’d banged your hip.

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

When he speaks, you nearly melt into a puddle, the heat of him invading your space, face inching close to your own, enough to have you questioning the sanctity of your parents en suite.

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

“Could ask you the same thing, officer,” you make the fatal mistake of giggling, but you’ll blame it on the fruity cider you’d helped yourself to.

He clearly finds no humour, not even as you fiddle with the top button of his shirt and shoot him your best look of innocence.

“Think you’re real fucking funny, don’t you?” His hand, warm and imposing, grips a hold of your face.

It’s almost painful, but you like it, squirming a little at the blunt stab of his nails and the way he smooshes your cheeks, forcing a pout onto your lips.

You try shake your head, his grip won’t let you.

“Sitting in a room full of men, making yourself the centre of attention,” he huffs a breath out of his nose, and you can’t help but compare him to an angry dragon.

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

“What’s the matter, Javi? Jealous you’re not the centre of all those men’s attention?” You’re poking the dragon, teasing him, and it’s an act that may leave you burned and scarred.

Or, as you’re hoping, it’ll win you the ride of a lifetime.

He doesn’t even grace you with a verbal response.

No, he scoffs, as though he’s in physical disbelief at the words you’re saying.

Spins you around, pins you to the sink’s counter, tugs your hair till you’re forced to stare at your reflection.

He’s right behind you, seething in anger, fire in his eyes.

His head dips between you neck and shoulder, brushing his lips against your pulse point.

“Not all of us are attention whores like you,” it’s fleeting, and he’ll deny it if you dare mention it, but he smiles.

Just a second, but you feel it, see it even though he tries so hard to turn his face into your neck.

It’s what lets you know he’s playing, teasing, egging you on to push him over the edge.

“I’ve been with real whores, corazón,” he confesses a sin you already know, eaves-dropping one too many times on your dad fishing stories of Colombia out of him. “Fucked them so often they started doing their nails in colours they knew I wanted to see wrapped around my cock.”

Involuntarily, your back arches, brushing your ass against him and providing him the perfect access to wind his hand up between your heaving breasts, all the way up till his fingers curl round the base of your throat.

In the mirror, the image is one of ownership, of Javi seizing your bodily autonomy. A whore and her gentleman caller.

It’s arousing to think about, Javi and his whores.

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

“And not one of them took half the money you’ve taken from me tonight.”

Oh.

So that’s what this is, his pretty ego, bruised at the hands of you?

Poor Mr. Javier Peña, humiliated in front of all his peers round after round, hundred bill after hundred bill.

You almost taunt him for giving into the temptations of the fragile male ego, but you’re stopped in your tracks.

By him, hands squeezing at you a little tighter as he grinds the unmistakable outline of his hardened cock against you.

That single action changes the game, entirely.

Because this isn’t about you stealing his money and his ego.

No, this is something far filthier, that has your panties growing wetter beneath the skirt of your dress.

“I’m worth every dime though, aren’t I, officer?.”

The grip tightens.

He shoves you harder into the counter, so hard a tub of your mother’s moisturiser topples off.

The hard outline of him is still there, ever-present.

“‘S that what you like, huh, taking my money? Wanna be Javi’s personal little whore?”

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

Certainly not you, reflection mimicking the way you eagerly nod, teeth biting down on your bottom lip in a failed attempt to hold back a grin.

Javi notices- of course he notices- and takes his victory, hips rocking even deeper into you.

There’s too many layers between you, a feat on which you both agree, yet neither of you do anything about.

You just savour the friction, instead, pushing and pulling one another to the axis of pleasure.

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

“What’s it gonna cost me to get you bent over and stuffed full of my cum, corazón?” One hand leaves your body. The mirror snitches on him, exposing how he’s reaching into his back pocket. “This?”

He smacks something down, into the bowl of the sink.

It’s his wallet, and you watch the worn leather of it shine with the residue of water on the linoleum.

The hand at your throat pulses a squeeze, his knee nudges you from behind.

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

His mouth, right by your ear, lips tickling you with the subtlest of brushes against it.

His hand guides your own, down into the sink, flipping the wallet open and putting it’s belongings on display.

Bills, some placed neatly, others stuffed in forcefully, edges spilling out the pockets. There’s less in there than when he arrived, courtesy of you.

There’s a few miscellaneous cards. A library card, an ID slip you’re sure he uses for something in the sheriff's station, a loyalty card to some record store.

The picture of his mother sits centre stage, radiant smile and loving eyes grabbing the attention of any who dare open it.

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

And then you notice something else, peeking out from behind his mother’s picture.

You dive into temptation, dart your nosy fingers over to tug at the object, till you realise it’s another picture.

A picture of Javi, and you.

Taken on a polaroid you found under a box of his belongings, you remember the day clear as ever.

The two of you had messed around, captured your sins on film with the promise of destroying it after. It would be too risky a thing, to allow image evidence of the intimate ways in which you knew each other’s bodies.

Javi’s fingers on your skin, your nipple in his mouth, his cock’s outline bulging within your lower abdomen.

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

Fully dressed, eyes fixed on his television, your head lays in his laps while his fingers card through your hair.

It’s captured from above, as if Javi’s own eyes had made a permanent record of his view.

The sweetness of this living on, of Javi taking something sacred for himself to keep hidden in his wallet distracts you for a moment.

He does good to bring you back into the room.

“Take how much you think you’re worth, corazón,” whispered into your ear, as he rips a few of the notes out his wallet.

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

With each bill you count, your internal price shooting up within your head, you try picture his reaction.

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

You, your face, looking at your expressions in a way that reminds you it’s his job to read people.

You decide to be bold, dig into his wallet and, even though your insides twist in anxious turmoil, hold up your hand to present him with your answer.

Resting neatly, between your fore and middle finger, a shiny credit card.

The gleam in Javi’s eyes just about match it, blackened and blown out with lust.

The card is plucked out your hand.

The hand on your neck leaves, in search of your waist.

The fabric of your dress bunches, wrinkling and creasing as his fabric-straining grip inches it’s hem higher and higher.

You feel sexy like this, face heated and breathing heavy.

It’s an effect he has on you, has had on you, forcing you to look at yourself in new lights, in new angles, admiring every out-of-line trace of you for what you are.

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

And every other word under the sun that Javi whispers into your skin with innocence as his body commits sins within you.

At the bottom of the mirror, you watch as the white cotton of your panties comes into view.

Wet, as you both expected, the thin fabric now turned almost sheer, exposing the delectable view of your cunt hugged cutely by the cotton’s tight seams.

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

There’s a strain to his voice, one that would have you worried he’s in pain if it weren’t for the way you’re watching as his face contorts with lust.

His eyes are dark and you study them like he studies his card, contemplating something.

A few seconds pass. 

Tension is puffed out his chest with one exhale, through the nose.

You feel the air tickle your skin.

He nods curtly, to himself, and flickers his gaze back to meet your own in the mirror.

It’s unwavering, even as he brings the black plastic down and smacks it against your mound.

You squeal, he hushes, and you both know he doesn’t mean it at all.

He likes when you gift him noise, a private aria only he has tickets to.

Just as easily as the first time, he snaps the card against you again, a jolt of pleasure shooting straight through your clit.

Just as loudly as the first time, you squeal, a jolt back into his warm, steady, hard embrace.

“What’re you running from, hmm?” His face turns, burrowing itself in the tresses of your hair.

A shallow sniff, and you wonder if he notices the smell of his shampoo on you.

There’s a pressing of lips, against your scalp, and it’s far too gentle of a juxtapose to the imagery of his fingers pulling your panties to the side, exposing your pussy to the bathroom’s cold air and the two pairs of hungry eyes in the mirror.

“You say that this is what you’re worth, and then you don’t want to take it?”

The third spank of the card against your bundle of nerves is harder, louder, echos in the confined space. A moan, minuscule and muffled, slips past tightly shut lips, a look of fear flashing through wide eyes.

Javi’s quick with his reassurance, gentle with his comfort, a hand stroking over your collarbone.

“Don’t worry, no one’s gonna hear you. You just be as loud as you need, hermosa, they’re too busy encouraging that boy-cop to ask you to dinner.”

There’s a tint of jealousy to the way he says boy, and you’re reminded of the image of him in the kitchen doorway.

Smack!

The card strikes down, once more, this time eliciting an open-mouthed gasp. 

He doesn’t let up, repeating the action twice more.

It hurts, in a way that makes your core throb and your toes curl, squirming aimlessly in a grasp he knows you don’t truly want to escape.

But he mocks you, with a hushing noise in your ear and gentle it’s okay, corazón, Javi’s got yous against your neck. His thumb swipes through your folds, coating it in your wetness and dragging itself up to your clit, soaking it in soothing rubs.

His gentle nature lasts mere seconds, his wrist flicking back only to smack the credit card down again. This time, it’s a pattern of three, repeatedly crashing down on your sensitive nerves one after the other.

In the mirror, you watch him observe as he twiddles the card between deft fingers, contemplation on his mind.

The room’s quiet, apart from your shortened breaths and his deep inhales.

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

It must have been a loud cheer, for you to hear them all the way up here.

And, suddenly, the stakes feel higher than when you were sat at the poker table, counting Javi’s coins with every passing round.

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

This doesn’t seem to cross Javier’s mind, who merely twists your head away from the bathroom door and back to the mirror, to where his hungry eyes await.

All contemplation is gone, he’s decided in what he’s going to do, and so you watch as he takes the card and swipes it through your cunt.

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

In fact, it’s rather uncomfortable, the solid plastic hard on your delicate skin.

It’s the arousal of him doing it that gets you weak in the knees, to have him perform such a mundane act- the swiping of his credit card- in such a crass, dirty, wrong way.

Like he’s paying for you, committing a physical transaction in exchange for your body.

It doesn’t matter that he could have you for free, has had you for free.

He wants to pay, wants to reward you in a way that aligns with the capitalistic world.

“Javi…” You whimper, softly, head lulling back against his shoulder as he swipes the card again.

Your eyes, slowly slipping shut, shoot right back open as you feel the rounded corner of the card prod at your opening, as if trying to notch itself within you.

“Think she could take it, corazón?” Javi bites at your ear, teeth clamping down and pulling at it’s lobe. The card sinks in, not even an inch. You nudge back into, your cry circling the room around you both. “I know, baby, I know. It’d be a wide stretch, but ain’t that all pretty whores like you are good for, hmm?”

It’s automatic, the way you bend to his every whim, head nodding without direct orders from your brain, every part of you, conscious or not, ready and willing to prove you could fit his card inside of you.

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

Surprisingly, the hand between your thighs retracts and you watch as he brings the card up to your mouth, glistening with your arousal.

“Open,” the directions are unnecessary, your mouth already dropping open for him in an act of muscle memory.

He hums approvingly, yet his eyes are still fury filled as he slots the card between your lips, lathering your tongue in your own taste. 

“You’ll take anything I give you, won’t you, corazón?”

The statement rings true, both ways: as much as you’ll take anything, he’ll give anything.

You don’t tell him that, though, finding it much easier to rest your palms on the countertop, backing your sopping core into him, enticing him with the wiggle of your hips and whines from your lips to take you already.

“Shh, shh, don’t you worry that pretty head. Javi’s gonna feed this greedy little cunt, ok?”

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

Something smashes, in the basement, and it’s enough to have you flinching.

Javi’s touch soothes you, a hand running over the curve of your shoulder as he presses yet another kiss into your neck.

“S’okay, probably just a beer bottle.”

He doesn’t move another inch, not till he sees you nod, melting back into him.

You hear, more than you see, the way he tugs his trousers down, just enough to free his hardened cock from its jean-clad confine. The risky business of a quickie in your parents’ en suite calls for clothing moved aside, and not removed.

Much to your annoyance, his all-encompassing warmth drifts away as he moves back, hands clamping down on your hips. 

He tilts them to the angle he wants, the angle he knows gets him brushing all your sweet-spots.

He tugs the skirt of your dress up, and then readjusts your soiled underwear.

You hear him draw a deep breath and watch his eyes in the mirror, glued to that spot between your legs, entranced.

The drag of his cock over your folds is familiar, the way he smacks the head of it against your clit is welcomed.

He spears you no gentle coaxing, no stretching around his fingers first, coming undone just for him to fill you right back up, this time with his cock.

No, this is a vengeful touch, the kind that’s meant to display his irritation, his fury, for reasons you’ve yet to confirm yet you’re more than willing to accept.

A man like him, so unfairly selfless, taking something in this world for himself, how he wants to and how he likes to.

You’ll be his vice, so long as he grants you his virtues.

Javi fills you with a single thrust, grunting low into your ear as you feel the way the air is physically knocked out both for your lungs.

He’s still, head buried in the crook of your neck as he works on steadying his breathing, giving you time to adjust to the delicious stretch.

You whine out some version of his name, feel yourself pulse around him.

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

He’s making you wait for it, you think, torturing you with an impending paradise.

He’s savouring the feel of you, he thinks, taking advantage of the few moments alone he wins with you.

"Javi,” he barely lets you part from him to speak, chasing a trail of kisses down your jaw. “This isn’t the time to develop patience.”

The snide remark earns you a bite, his teeth nibbling on the sensitive skin of your earlobe. You squeal, try remind yourself to be quiet, only to squeal louder when his hands tickle at your waist.

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

His hips roll back, slowly, but it’s better than nothing, better than when he wasn’t moving at all.

Still, he makes you squirm a little longer, moan his name a little louder.

Only then does his fake resolve snap and he’s fucking into you at a brain melting pace in the blink of an eye.

Javier does his best to keep quiet, at first, biting down on his lip and your neck just to contain all those melodies he usually makes.

You can’t say the same for yourself as, despite your efforts, broken moan after broken moan tumbles out your mouth and into the sink, filling and filling and filling it in sync with how Javi your cunt.

You wonder how long till it all spills over the edge.

“Joder (Fuck),” he groans as you unconsciously squeeze him tighter, pulling him deeper into your walls. serves him right, for the teasing and the torturing. “Tienes el coño más lindo en todo el mundo. (You have the prettiest cunt in the whole world.)”

You feel lightheaded.

Warm, sweaty, covered in the fingerprints of a lover you shouldn’t be with.

The bathroom fills with an array of sounds. The slapping of skin against skin, the broken cries of an agent’s name, the mindless rambling of a man drunk on pleasure.

“So good to me, baby. Always so fucking good to me.”

“Gonna stay here forever, fuck. That sound good to you, corazón, hmm? Full of my cock always?”

“Look at yourself… Pura belleza (Pure beauty).”

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

There’s no worrying about the happenings around the poker table, no listening out for your father’s car pulling in the driveway, no worrying about your tousled hair or sweating skin.

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

“Please, please, Javi-“ The words all melt together, pleads becoming his name, his name becoming pleads.

You’re not sure what you’re begging for.

It’s okay though, Javi always knows what you need.

“I know, amor (love), I know,” he murmurs into your skin, butterfly kisses so gentle you wonder how they come from the same man that’s pistoning his hips into you like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get. “Let go, c’mon. Show me how much you love this cock, how much you love-”

He’s cut off by his own groan, you cunt fluttering around him as you inch closer and closer to the edge of euphoria.

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs. 

It brings a welcomed cushioning, shielding you from repeatedly bumping against the marble of the countertop.

Your legs part further, eagerly, an easy pathway for his yearning fingers to seek out the wonders of the female body as they brush over your clit.

The gentle tactile that he strokes over your bundle of nerves, partnered with the repeated brushing of his cock against that spot that makes you weak in the knees, drool out your mouth, it’s becoming too much.

Eyes glancing in the mirror, you wonder if yours is the same image of the whores who’d warmed his Colombian nights: sweat soaked skin, hooded eyes, messed up hair, wrinkled clothing.

He tilts your hips, a deeper angle to fuck into you that has you perching up onto the tips of your toes, fighting with the chance of losing balance.

He’d catch you, if you fell.

Wrap you up in an embrace that’s more familiar than your own.

“I’m gonna- Fuck! Corazón, need you to cum. Now, please. Please. Need to feel you-”

He’s babbling, losing composure and revealing the side of him you pray he never showed those other women: the side that needs, the side that longs, the side that begs to see you cum before he allows himself to, before he’s able to.

“Javi,” it’s a struggle to speak, but you endure, fighting off your orgasm and holding back tears. There’s something you need from him too. “Cum with me. Wanna be full of you, all of you-”

“¿Sí? (Yeah?)” He pleads back, thrusts already getting a little sloppier, hands a little shakier in the way they touch you. Much like his poker face, you know how to read the face he wears moments before he falls apart. “¿Eso es lo que quiere mi corazón? (Is that what my sweetheart wants?) Want me to cum in you, hm?”

“Yes, oh god yes! So bad, Javi, I want it so bad!”

“Ay, bebesita, no llores. (Aw, baby girl, don't cry.)” He coos, a condescending lilt to his words that has you falling into a bigger mess. “Shh, don’t worry, baby. Gonna fill you right up, so my cum’s dripping down your thighs when that poor kid asks you for your number. Thinks he’s got a shot with you cause he made you laugh, poor boy wouldn’t know how to deal with all the noises I get out of you.”

Javi divulges into a spine-tingling rant of burning hot jealousy, the kind that leaves your cheeks burning and your heart scorching, lit under a flame of your desire for more of him. To have him, equal parts physical and emotional.

You try warn him of the bubble that’s about to burst, the feeling in your loins building and building till it’s seconds way from toppling over. 

“That’s it, baby, squeeze my cock. Lemme feel it,” He urges, heart pounding out his chest against your back, hands tightening their grip on your hips. “Need to feel you cum, ‘s all I want.”

You both crash and burn, together.

You fall first, a chaos of unfinished words, crying out for Javi.

He follows close behind, body pressed against your own like he’s willing you to fuse together, to become to entangled in one another that all possibilities of separation become void.

“Take it, cora-” He’s in your ears, in your head, in your heart. Inside of you, consuming you, as eagerly as he’s willing to be consumed by you, fingerprints on hips and teeth-marks in necks. “Take it, take it, take it.”

Arms envelop you from behind, crossing over your chest to pin you back against him.

He’s nearly stagnant, nothing but the twitch of his cock and the shallow thrusts he fucks you deeper with, filling you with another, another, another pump of his cum.

“So good,” Javi’s voice persists, teeth gritting as he bites back the need to be loud, to be heard, to lay a claim on you so blatant no one could deny hearing it. Your relationship with your father is the only thing that holds him back. “Good to me, baby. Always… Good… Díos. (God.)”

Craning your neck to the side, you manage to pull him in for a kiss.

It’s something he accepts easily, lips parting and melting into a dance against your own.

One of his hands falls over your jaw, twisting your face even closer to him.

The kiss dies slowly, with each of you refusing to truly part, pecks being splattered messily against the other’s mouth.

“Was I,” Javi interrupts you with another kiss, his free hand smoothing up and down your side, his hips still slowly rocking into yours, a delicious sting of overstimulation biting at your core. “Am I worth it?”

He pulls back, tired gaze warm as it takes in your messed features.

With the smile that stretches over his lips, however, one would think you were the prettiest creature in all the world.

He calls your name, calmly, slowly, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of it on his tongue. “You’re worth everything I could give, and more.”

There’s something behind the ways he says it that makes you believe him.

With little will to do so, you peel apart from each other, his hands moving quick to adjust your underwear as his cum starts to leak out onto your folds.

He exits the bathroom first, a final kiss placed on your cheek before your left alone, forced to confront the wrecked version of you that will never see your parent’s en suite in the same light.

Your dad arrives back just in time to see you slipping back down to sit at the poker table, no seat left for him to take but the one between his sweet daughter and his loyal best friend.

If only he knew he was placing you both where you most wanted to be when he suggested Javi give you a ride home, waving you both off through the car window with no idea Javi's cum sat dripping out your cunt, staining the car seat.

Your phone buzzes to life in your hand, slipping you out of your memories.

Your father’s contact name reads clearly on the screen.

Hitting decline one more time, you roll over and try ignore the gathering slick between your thighs.

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

Mr, I don’t want a label You made me a little miss unstable (And it)

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

Pick out a tree, synthetic, and lump the box up the countless stairs to your apartment.

Try not to think of how he would’ve insisted on helping, refused to let you carry it.

Even if it culminated in him doubled over in pain, clutching his lower back.

Lights, baubles, action.

The tree’s smaller than you expect, barely reaching your hip, but it’s green, tree-shaped and festive. It’s enough.

Your decorations are minimal, a few inconsequential things you picked out your parents’ stash. There’s a Santa hat, frayed with time. A few cracked baubles, with string so thin you suspect they’ll snap off. A gingerbread man ornament, a glass snow-flake. A crooked star, missing one of its points, tops the tree.

A homemade snowman, one you’d gifted your parents after a busy day in nursery. Neither of them had the heart to tell you you’d made its nose a rather phallic shape.

And then there's the red phone-box, nestled somewhere in the middle, an etching of LONDON brandishing it as a reminder of your trip.

You’d picked it up in a tiny bookstore, right next door to The Distillery Club.

The winter season has never felt so lonesome, tucked away in your grown-up apartment. 

There’s no fireplace to warm your hands, no hot cocoa boiling on the stove. No cheesy hallmark movies to laugh at with your mother, no racing past your father to grab the last slice of dessert.

It’s just you, alone, with only your wandering mind as company.

Sometimes, more often than not, it wanders to him. To if he’s alone.

To if he’s filling his heart as easily as he fills his bed.

To if he’s finally bought a second seat for his dingy balcony.

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

He hums, brows furrowing, lips pouting, smoke dragging into his lungs.

The cigarette sits perched between two fingers of the hand resting on your knee, his other curled around your waist.

“Some what?”

“Tactic,” you repeat. Watch him blow a puff a smoke, taste his ash at the back of your throat. “Only having one chair, so pretty girls have no choice but to sit in your lap.”

He lets his gaze wander away from the streets below and up to you, sitting pretty in his lap. Like a cat, draped over his thighs.

Nothing but his own rumpled, inside-out shirt to cover your skin.

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

Fingerprint bruises littering your hips, bitemarks etched into your collarbone.

“I gave you a choice,” he speaks with a reservation he didn’t have before, when he’d offered you a ride home from the bar. There’s an etching of something that’s diluting his expressions, sinking him deeper and deeper into his own pensive mind. “You were the one who insisted on sitting on me.”

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

Nails pinch at your thigh, causing a squeal out of you.

A few birds fly off a nearby wire, a head or two turn in the street below.

They don’t see you, or Javi, or the lack of clothing that sits between you.

“Neither were you. In fact, you were a little busy fucking my fac-”

“Stop!” Your sudden modesty feels unearned, yet that does nothing to stop you from placing your hand over his mouth.

He licks at it, you grimace, he licks again.

Then takes another breath of nicotine, as you wipe the remnants of his spit onto his naked thigh.

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

The whiff of Javi’s post-sex smell- muted cologne, matted sweat, burnt ash- steals your senses, reminds you you’ve already done enough to disappoint your father, a cigarette can’t do much damage.

So you let him hold it up to your mouth and inhale it’s poison.

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

But that was supposed to stay in Vermont, tucked between snowy slopes and wooden cabins. Existing in a timeline separate from your reality, where you are your father’s precious daughter and Javi is his trustworthy colleague and friend, that is where it should have stayed.

And it had, for two weeks. Sixteen days, specifically. 

You’d returned to classes, to sharing lunch breaks with your father in his office, to slowly moving more of your things out the family home and into your new apartment.

And Javi, from what you heard, had returned to keeping civilians safe, to sharing a drink or two with your father at the end of the work week, to flirting with every secretary within a mile radius.

Neither of your crossed paths and, when you nearly did, the other made the effort to turn a corner, shut a door, hide behind a wall.

Until tonight.

Until you ditched your mediocre date, some lame excuse of having a last-minute paper due.

Until you’d gone to console yourself over your failing love life, unknowingly sliding into a bar stool right next to the most desired cop in town.

Until he’d turned to you, tilted his head, and asked “d’you wanna get out of here?”

He’d offered to take you home.

The drive was quiet, tense, until his hand drifted over the gearstick and you dragged it down onto your thigh.

He squeezed.

You inched it further up, till the tips of his fingers brushed at the edge of your dress.

He took the invitation, took a turning towards his own place.

Brought you into his apartment, drowned you in his fountain of kisses, begged you to sit upon his face. He’d made you see stars beneath a roofed sky, eyes rolling so far back they threatened to get stuck there.

With barely a moments recovery from a third blinding orgasm, he dragged you down the expanse of his body, sat you down on his cock and refused to help your overstimulated, puddle-brained self ride him, grinning cunningly with his back pressed against the mattress as you struggled through shaky legs.

Eventually, he tired and launched himself, arms tangling behind your back, feet planted flat behind you, hips fucking up into your battered cunt until you both came to a haltering crescendo.

He’d layed you down to rest, cleaned you of any mess, and then wandered out to his balcony, inviting you to join him when the feeling returned to your legs.

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of.

“Huh?”

“This. Us. It could be casual, y’know?” Another puff of smoke slips right through his lips. “If that’s what you’re worrying about… your dad, and all that other stuff. I don’t need a label, not if it means I get to have… We could keep it casual, if that’s what you want.”

It takes a few moments for you to fully register his words, and then a few more to formulate a response.

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

Because what else could Javier Peña, notorious womaniser, want with you if not a casual, no-strings-attached permit to sleep with you, as many times as he sees fit, without the risk of losing his job or, worse, his best friend?

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

Within a half’s hour, he’s got your hands white knuckling as they grip the metal bannister of his balcony, his own hands busy pulling your hips back to meet each of his desperate thrusts, not even the cool air of the night enough to soothe the flaming desire that burns between you.

Your stomach twists, your mouth dries, your eyes water at the thought of him out on that balcony now.

Somebody else, some new body sat in your spot, upon his lap as they exchange smoke rings and warm mouths.

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

The Laredo sheriff’s department is known best for three things: its lack of parking, its swoon-worthy ex-DEA agent, and its office holiday parties.

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

A Christmas wreath, mistletoe hanging from every doorway, egg-nog and mulled wine.

It’s not just Christmas.

It’s menorahs, and ficus trees, and a statues of different gods.

Each piece of culture, tradition, holiday that makes up the people that inhabit the station, day in and day out, behind desks and in cop cars, filing paperwork and fetching coffees, represented in some way, celebrated.

Each member of staff is encouraged to bring their friends, their family.

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

Then there’s the gift exchange, a Secret Santa system, optional for each member of staff.

It’s the part you look forward to most.

Crowding your dad the minute he gets home on the first of December, poking and prodding till he lets it spill who he’s got.

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

Drawing up a list, made of details and anecdotes your father remembers of his target.

Dragging your shop-avoidant father down to the mall, for a day of gift hunting and sweet-tooth indulging.

Getting to watch your father’s coworker open their gift, eyes lighting up as you once again knock the ball out the park and gift them something perfectly tailored to them, winning your dad the spot of top gift-giver year after year.

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

No trying to crack just what exactly your dad should gift his person.

No waiting with baited breath to watch them open it, heart racing with that little fear of them not liking it, of you failing.

No, the moment that name fell from your father’s mouth, you knew what he needed to get.

Hinted at it, slightly.

Claimed you’d smelt it on a friend, thought it would be a good idea.

Sipping on some wine and picking at the buffet, you watch him pick up his gift.

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

Look down at the box, confused, then tear into the wrapping paper.

The whole room stops.

Not really, but it feels like it does, as somewhere across the room Javier Peña holds up a bottle of that damn cologne.

And, when his eyes instinctively find yours, it feels like everything else fades away.

Fades to grey.

It’s just him, and you. The only two within the room, holding a secret too heavy on the tongue to ever speak it aloud.

He knows.

Of course he knows.

Knows you’d watched him spray it on his skin, day in, and day out.

Knows you’d worn it on your own, sunk it deep into your pores after intertwining your souls upon wrinkled sheets.

Knows you’d watch its contents decrease over time, time you’d spent with him.

That bottle of cologne reminiscent of a timer on you both, that morning before the hospital trip becoming the last few sprays he got out of it.

Colour returns to the world that surrounds you as your dad steps into view.

He’s hugging Javi, pathetically tipsy and ignorant to the lipstick stain on his cheek, no doubt ingrained to his skin with how hell-bent he is on having your mother kiss him beneath each mistletoe.

They’re exchanging words you don’t hear, slapping one another on the back.

You turn on your heel, insides twisting as nausea overcomes you at the scene.

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

You’re trying to leave, tempted to take the good old Irish exit and just slip out a back door.

But your parents- ne, your father- are so busy show-ponying you around the room, that you fail to take a single step that goes unnoticed.

“There she is!” Your father calls out, somewhere behind you, as you slip your hand into the arm of your coat. This act sparks outrage, a frown birthing onto his face. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving too.”

You say you’re tired.

He boos, loudly, like he’s not the chief of police and a whole grown adult.

Grabs at you, lovingly, trying to pry the coat out of your hands.

The effort is minimum, and you know he’s only messing around.

You can leave, if you want to, even if he’d rather you stay.

“It’s not even midnight and you two buzzkills are leaving!” He wails, all the while he’s reaching around and helping you slip your other arm into the coat.

That’s when Javi’s face comes into view, over the arch of your dad’s shoulder, sporting a smile and a pair of keys dangling off one finger.

You try your best to counter his smile with your own, though your throat feels dry and your cheeks feel tight.

“I can’t believe I’m being betrayed like this by two of my favourite people!” The smile slips before you can catch it, eyes widening at your father’s words.

Words you’d spent months agonising over the thought of hearing. Picturing the circumstances in which he’d find out. Imagining the horrendous fallout, a red slash over Javier’s reputation. Swearing you’d quit it, quit him, and then winding up tangled in his sheets again, head pressed to his chest, eyes closed in the soundest of sleeps.

Javi plays it cool.

Nudges your dad’s shoulder, shakes his head and tells him to “quit the dramatics, viejo (old man).”

“I gotta head out to my pop’s first thing in the morning, he’s wanting me to help him rewire some of the fences.” Comes out as his excuse, one your dad can’t really argue against.

He knows better than anyone that Javi drops everything for his dad.

Well, better than anyone but you.

Your excuse, however, falls a little short, a consequence of the last minute conjuring of the lie.

“I’ve, uh, got an early class. Don’t wanna flunk out in my last year, right?”

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

And that’s how you know you’re screwed.

“Class? I thought you were on winter break.”

Javi takes the momentary distraction to shrug his coat on, over those broad shoulders.

Shoulders that twist with the rest of him, as he makes space for you in the doorway, nodding you over. Here, he’s saying without really speaking, escape with me.

So you do, tiptoeing past your parents as though, the slower and quieter you move, the less they’ll notice your approach to the exit.

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

“The library, it’s still open for the graduate students,” Javi swoops in effortlessly, dragging the spotlight off you.

He takes hold of your jacket, too, slipping the zip into place and dragging it up the length of your torso, over your chest, till it rests snuggly at your sternum.

A little too snug, making each new inhale deeper, harder, practically heaving the air into your lungs.

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

You don’t get to dwell on it too long, fortunately, for your mother lets out a gasp.

She points, eyes a little widened by excitement, at the both of you and nudges at your father.

“Look!” She tells him, and you watch in confusion as he displays her same reaction, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Then comes the laughter, straight out the depths of your dad’s belly and right to your weak heart, a melody that reminds you so much of easy Sundays and curling up next to him on the sofa, watching kids’ shows that seemed to entertain him more than you.

“Oh that’s just,” he takes a laugh break, doubling over slightly, his own finger joined in pointing at you two, beneath the doorway. “Too perfect!”

Before you can inquire on either of your parents bizarre reactions, Javi’s eyes are staring into your own and pointing upwards.

Wrapped with a red bow and barely hanging onto the door frame with a single strip of tape, a mistletoe stares down at you, two white berries like mini eyes.

When you glance at the agent once more, it’s hard to read what he’s thinking.

His shoulders are tense, his lips are pursed, his brows are furrowed. But, his eyes.

His eyes burn you with an unspoken intensity, a look he should never possess in front of your parents.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” You mom, camera in hand, urges you both, a wide grin cast upon her face.

You dad is in no better state, rushing forward to squeeze you both closer, one hand clasped over the back of Javi’s head.

When the once-agent exhales a nerve-striken breath, the warmth of it, of him, hits your neck.

“Dad, c’mon, stop-” you’ve never imagined yourself stuck like this, your mother and father both urging you to kiss a man you spent months tossing and turning in bedsheets with behind their back.

The creatively deviant part of your brain tells you this is how it could be, maybe, in some other life.

Some other life, where Javi’s not a cop, you’re new in town, and you both bump into each other at the grocery store.

Both of you reaching out for the same apple, or box of cereal, or bottle of milk.

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

He’d charm you, easily as he always has.

Get your number and then, the next day, a date.

One date leading to two, three, four, more dates.

Till you bring him home to meet your parents at last, squeezing his hand tighter when he tries to pry it away as the door opens to your father’s stern face.

It would take a while, you reckon, for your dad to see past the difference in years.

Your mother wouldn’t care, wouldn’t spare a second thought to it, not when she notices how much he makes you laugh and how he can’t keep his eyes off of you in any room you occupy.

This could be your first Christmas together, your parents begging for one sweet photo of you under the mistletoe, before you both head off to spend the rest of the holiday season with Javi’s father.

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

“C’mon, it’s bad luck not to!” Back in the present, in reality, your dad’s found his way over to your mother’s side. “Peña, just kiss the girl on the cheek for Christ sake, I ain’t gonna bite your head off for it this one time!”

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

Gentle, a hint of warmth, a tickle from the wisps of his well-groomed moustache.

“Get a bit closer, you’re not fully in frame!”

The flash goes off on your mother’s camera, and the two give a little cheer, and Javi wraps an arm around your back, squeezing you a little closer.

When all is said and done, your mother’s forcing you both to stare at the camera screen, a perfect picture of the most doomed couple to ever grace this Earth.

Such dramatics in your thoughts reminds you of the copious glasses of prosecco you’d downed throughout the night, and of your intentions to get yourself home before you done something stupid.

Like stand under the mistletoe with your former casual lover, the very same man your father calls for golf matches and March Madness debriefs.

Javi offers you a ride home, an idea your father approves of.

“I’m heading that way anyway, gotta pick up a few things before I drive out to the ranch.”

A part of you thinks he’s lying, wanting any excuse for a moment alone with you, but then that’s the kind of delusions you shouldn’t be feeding into.

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

You part ways at the door, your father watching you from inside.

Javi calls your name, before you can take more than a few steps.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Then his arms are pulling you in, and he’s got you right against his steady chest, and he’s resting his head atop your own, arms squeezing tightly at your sides.

“Get home safe.”

He walks away before you can tell him to do the same, the door slamming to his car the last thing you hear as you pull out your phone and call a cab.

It takes twenty minutes for it to appear, in which the rain starts and your clothes get soaked, but all that and the fifteen dollar fare are a cheaper price to pay than the torture of letting Javier Peña drive you home.

Crawl up the stairs, unlock the apartment door, drop your clothes onto the floor.

You find sanctuary under the shower, soap suds and boiling water, a dynamic duo that scrub off any remnants of his skin against yours.

Even as you step out, fully cleaned and towel wrapped around yourself, you catch a hint of his cologne, the very same one you’d made sure your dad picked out for him.

And as you pick your coat off the ground, a distant voice that sounds much like your mother scolding you for leaving such a mess, you notice it.

First, just a little extra weight.

Then, scratchy paper as your hand dives into the left pocket.

The wrapping is haphazard, with an uneven bow tied atop it, but that’s not what matters.

You tear away at it, let the paper fall to the floor at your feet.

Then you’re met with a small box, which you tear open too. 

And find it sitting neatly among balls of yarn, the prettiest, most delicate looking glass bauble.

It’s ribbon a deep green, and it’s centre an image of mountain slopes, backed by a green forest and a valley full of wooden lodges.

It shakes in your grasp, and you spy the snowglobe-esque white foam that dances around within it.

In it’s centre, in bold, italic and green, Vermont.

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

You fish it out in one breath, hold it up to read what it says.

Corazón, For your tree. I hope there’s still space.

[thebibliosphere]

So, I've been getting a few "hey, so now you're fixed, you're going to write books faster now, right?" type messages, and hmmm. That's a loaded word right there. "Fixed."

Yeah, not too keen on that word.

What I assume these people mean to do is congratulate me on finding out a major cause of distress and illness in my life and offer well wishes for my continued relief and recovery. I assume that's what was really meant. But just to entertain the first part of that ask, no, I am not "fixed."

There is no "fixing" the kind of chronic illness or disabilities I have. My ailments are genetic and lifelong, and if you're new here, newly diagnosed at the start of the pandemic, so my treatment thus far has been limited. Most of it is things I have pieced together myself.

That I've been able to do anything over the last year when I suffered 215+ migraine days on top of the connective tissue disorder I have, and the other condition that causes spontaneous anaphylaxis--not to mention the unmedicated ADHD I cannot treat with meds (yet)--is nothing short of miraculous.

So, now that my migraines are improving thanks to finding out I have binocular vision disorder on top of all the other stuff, will I be writing books faster?

I can only hope so.

But I also cannot say, "yes, absolutely, one book a year from here on out," because I just do not have the physical and mental capacity to guarantee that. Nor am I going to inflict that kind of mental and physical torture on myself (again) because it's the exact kind of thing that causes my health to crash and burn. And here's the thing:

Every time I burn myself out. Every time I push myself too far to keep up, it takes longer and longer to recover. The harder I push myself, the fewer books I will produce. That's the truth of it.

So I get it, it's frustrating. You want more of the fun thing (and thank you so much for loving what I do!), but you'll have to bear with me a little bit longer.

I am finding my stride as a multiply disabled creator, and I've spent the last two years untangling the guilt and imposter syndrome I experience over being "popular" but not being well enough to produce work at the same pace as everyone else around me.

I have worked out a system that I hope will be sustainable instead of leading to the continuous cycle of burnout I was trapped in for 10+ years as an editor. I have safety nets and supports in place that I didn't have before, and hopefully, those will help too. Time will tell.

Am I excited to get back to work? Absolutely. I'm ecstatic at the prospect of having fewer migraine days and more coherent brain days. But I'm also going to take my time to enjoy the process as well. I'd like to enjoy the things I write too. And I hope you can appreciate that.

So thank you for understanding, and for your patience. If you decide you can't wait, I'll understand. But please don't send authors, even able-bodied, neurotypical ones, messages like that. It's unkind. And I don't think any of you mean to be unkind.

[abyssalzones]

C-PTSD as a diagnosis makes so much sense for Ford because he really does fit almost all of the criteria, ESPECIALLY if you take the stuff in J3 into account in conjunction with his traumatic childhood (bullying, bad dad, etc.). It just makes sense in regards to his motivations and his issues with interpersonal relationships (like with Stan). Also buring yourself in your work (like he does) is a very common 'flight' coping mechanism to trauma in adults

I'm smiling like this right now

ford's whole.... mental health deal is extremely interesting to examine because Oh my god this man is the textbook image for "reacting to ongoing, continuous trauma". intentional or otherwise (I'm inclined to believe it's both).

like. okay hang on I'm about to get very in depth with it

I feel like there's no way this entire guy's life and in some ways his lasting identity haven't been defined by and constructed around various forms of trauma, maybe the most obvious and true-to-canon-intent being peer abuse/bullying from childhood. a lot of people downplay the impact of this type of abuse but it's... responsible for a lot of social ills in shocking ways. (if you're more interested in this topic here is an article my friend mer linked me a while back, it gets into it very deeply)

(a lot of this is going to be sourced from the wikipedia page for CPTSD [and my own experience Living with it] which I realize isn't very professional of me but Whatever this is tumblr)

one of the core tenets of ford's personality is that he's Different. he owns it, sure- his six fingers become a point of pride rather than something to be ashamed of- but they make it extremely clear that from a young age he associated being different with being a social pariah. ford's generation was characterized by notoriously cruel bullying, and anything that remotely made you stand out rendered you a target. ford could've been bullied for being nerdy and jewish (and failing to perform socially, ie dating) alone, having such an obvious mutation definitely was not winning him any points.

so it's honestly no surprise, when from childhood ford feels like he has One person in the world to trust and confide in, that he would go on to form very unhealthy attachment patterns typical of CPTSD. as you elaborated on regarding AvPD (which I know far less about but seems to have comorbidity with CPTSD): if you're hard-wired to believe socializing with others results in failure or betrayal, then you're not going to make an effort. but what does end up happening is that you're going to pour all of your trust and dependency into one person at a time, one person who is "safe".

previously, that was his brother. and it's not really hard to draw the conclusion from there that fiddleford was a subject of ford's attachment style, considering he was his One friend from college, and... one of Maybe two people ford is friends with at all who he isn't related to. he cites him as the only person he can possibly trust to work on the portal project alongside him, and he still can't bring himself to tell him the full truth, because he's terrified of losing him. I love their dynamic (I do think they were mutual best friends, and there was no small amount of trust reciprocated between them. "fiddleford was weird as hell too" is something I keep coming back to) and I don't think it's built on entirely unhealthy terms, but that kind of pressure is... setting things up to crash and burn.

enter bill stage left. back to "continuous yearning to be liked and accepted"- this guy knew that and made every effort to prey on ford's insecurities to reel him in as close as possible. this is what really pisses me off about the idea that bill was just "inflating ford's ego", because it's way, way more insidious than that. throughout the entirety of journal 3 we see ford reintroduce someone to his life he has a very positive relationship with (fiddleford) and how that trust gets gradually broken down by bill's influence "winning out" over their friendship. I think it's safe to say ford was already vulnerable: from the start, he'd been isolated in his research for six years (and it's unclear for how long he'd known bill by 1982), and bill proved time and time again to be someone who wouldn't judge him, someone who would praise him for his hard work, and perhaps most critically, make him feel like being different was something special.

like that's... that's really not good!!!! and that kind of thing works wonders on someone who has already settled with the idea that they're inclined to be alone just by design.

trying to put a cap on this. in relationships like the one he's had with his brother or fiddleford it doesn't even necessarily have to be ""toxic"" (vague term anyway) or outwardly bad to be built on unhealthy attachment patterns, and considering for a good chunk of ford's life his attachment to others can be characterized as "I can only trust ONE person at a time" it feels essential to any discussion of his CPTSD or canon trust issues. That is something that happens a lot in Real cases of CPTSD (hi) and only further snowballs into More trauma by leaving you vulnerable to manipulation and abuse (see: bill.)

I've been going on for way too long now and I feel like I've only scratched the surface of the thing I wanted to elaborate on sorry. that post traumatic stress disorder can complex

[bluebellofbakerstreet]

A-Z Sherlock Fan Fiction Tropes Bingo

Many thanks to @swissmissing for creating this bingo card! Because I'm like that, I decided to go for a blackout bingo! And because, even as I was typing these, I kept thinking of more wonderful fics that would fit the brief, I hope to fill in my bingo card again. Writers are amazing and deserve to be lauded, and I have left off so many amazing fics and authors. Besides, we all need fic recs. 💙

AU/Amnesia The Murder of Emory J Amat by chriscalledmesweetie. Sherlock and John in 1920's AgathaChristieLand. It's a WIP but is currently updating weekly. (52k, T)

BDSM/Bodyswap - Certain Skills by NoStraightLine. John expressly told Sherlock that if he stole his gun again he’d get the fucking he was asking for. Sherlock “Boundaries Are Boring” Holmes stole John’s gun. (3k, E)

Crossover/Crack - Repo Men by Anyawen. In which Mrs Turner's married ones are James Bond and Q. Q is kidnapped; everybody is a BAMF. (7k, G)

Domestic/Disability A Building of Bridges by pengke. Alternate first meeting. No one would ever send Sherlock in to defuse a stand-off; but on one unlikely day, that’s exactly what happened. “Congratulations, Lestrade,” he called out sarcastically. “You’re traumatizing a war veteran.” (11k, G)

Established Relationship/Enemies to Lovers - Interview by bluebellofbakerstreet. In which the boys are in an 80's punk band, and are being interviewed by Rolling Stone. (2k, G)

Future/Fluff 50. Be You - No one Else Can by KittenKin. John's had a bad day and Sherlock doesn't know how to help. They both feel better at the end, and you will, too. (1k, G)

Gen/Genderswap - The Art of Communication by stillwaters01. Lestrade is receiving odd texts from Sherlock; he reads between the lines and brings help. (2k, T)

Historical/Humor - Acceptable Behavior by bbcatemysoul. Sherlock isn't really sure why John wants to shag him, but he's certain that if he's careful to behave properly about it, John can be persuaded to keep doing it. (3k, M)

Illness/imprisonment -  Radioactive Trees in a Red Forest by Maribor_Petrichor. Harrowing account of John's battle with mental health issues and addiction after - you know - everything. (280k, E)

Jealousy/Jilted - Hungry by LipstickDaddy. John can't figure out why Sherlock is being so nice to that new guy working with the yard. (7k, G)

Kids/Kink - The Alchemy of Sea Glass by reveling_in_mayhem. Salt and air and sand surrounded their little party of three. Crashing waves, gull cries, and the exhilarated exclamations of an excited three-year-old served as the soundtrack to a day filled with blue skies and bright sunshine. (22k, E)

Long/Love Triangle The Edinburgh Problem by snorklepie. “A nice holiday, just a bit more...murdery. ” John said drily. “Yes! The best kind of holiday!” Sherlock beamed. “So we won’t get bored!” (152k, E)

Magical Realism/Major Character Death Left by LifeonMars. John Watson is left-handed. He’s tried not to let it affect his life, but as any Lefty knows, that’s almost impossible. (45k, M)

NSFW/Next Gen. Warzone by abundantlyqueer. Three smutty stories that pick up where the first two episodes left off. (13k, E)

Omegaverse/Only One Bed - Scars Don't Lie by CumberCurlyGirl. The prospect of going undercover as husbands to a couples retreat is just too enticing to refuse. (33k, M)

Parenthood/Platonic The Man With the Cartier Frames by JRow. Sherlock's top priority is The Work, just as it's always been ... in between trips to Putney to help with Rosie, collecting Rosie from school, and preparing for Rosie's sleepover at Baker Street. (32k, T)

Queer/Quest Dance With Me by TotallySilverGirl. Sherlock's queer quest for johnlock requires dancing, and some help from Sally Donovan. (28k, E)

Retirement/Road Trip - The Winter Garden by Callie4180. As Sherlock nears the end of his career, he's given the gift of a cottage in Sussex. The honey from the beehives out back is amazing. Almost...magical. (31k, T)

Soulmates/Slow Burn Soul Mate by Mottlemoth. Mystrade. The words appeared on Mycroft's arm aged fourteen. He's now lived with the unfortunate words all his life, not certain that he even wishes to meet his soul mate if that's how the man talks. (4k, T)

Teen AU/Time Travel - The Curious Adventure of the Drs Watson by ShinySherlock. What if ACD Watson and BBC Watson switched places? (40k, M)

Undercover/Unrequited - Last Call at the Homesick Pub by Chryse. During the hiatus, Sherlock is both undercover and suffering from unrequited love. (3k, T)

Vampires/Villain POV - Nine Tenths of the Law by bendingsignpost. John knows what's his - of course he'll kill for it. (Modern vampire AU) (18k, M)

Whump/Werewolves When Your Belly’s in the Trench by Morgan_Stuart. The next time that door opens, John Watson will kill the person on the other side. (4k, T)

Xenomorphism/Xmas - Ghost Stories by SwissMiss. Sherlock's parents think he and John are a couple. They might be onto something. (22k, M)

Zombies/Zoomorphism - Aim for the Head by Breath4Soul. Sometimes you don't really find yourself until everything has ended.A fic about finding love, healing, and purpose after everything has gone to hell. Still a WIP, but worth it. (44k, M)

[loveandmurders]

Hi! So I absolutely love and adore your sister AU fics for the Sinclair brothers and I’m just wondering if you’d ever do a similar thing with Brahms maybe? I’ve just had these thoughts about what if Brahms had a twin or younger sister who he loved because she was like his only true friend but then after what he did to Emily Cribbs, your parents had you sent away out of concern for your safety either before or after the fire. Maybe you have burn scars that aren’t as severe, or maybe you got away unscathed. But you somehow ended up coming back to the manor many years later (you’re on vacation, you get lost and/or your car breaks down, you get dared to enter the “haunted house” locals are wary of, idk) and at some point Brahms recognizes you and doesn’t want you to leave. He wants— no, he needs you to remember him. He lost you once, and he can’t let it happen again. Your parents and Greta are gone by this point, and he’s been so lonely. Of course weird ghost things happen that conveniently keep you confined to the house (The old doors get stuck and lock you in certain rooms, severe rainstorm/power goes out, idk) and other weird events make you think the place is haunted. Maybe you also have a porcelain doll in your likeness like he does and he tries to gift it to you without showing himself but it unnerves you. Maybe you find old pictures of yourself as a child but don’t recognize them as you until you read your name that’s written on the back. Just an idea, I know you probably have tons of requests to get through so no worries I just thought it could make for a very cool AU since your Sinclair AUs are so incredible and some of my favorite work 💜

Hello love and thank you for your kinds words and for this very cool idea!!!

I had a lot of fun writing for this (wrote two parts for it so far), so I hope you'll enjoy it as well &lt;3

THE PAST HAUNTS ME - PART I (sister!reader x Brahms Heelshire)

Warnings: no proof reading, angst, nightmare/mansion burning down on Brahms, amnesia, mentions of death in a car crash, mentions of killing and violence, mentions of small past injuries and blood.

You woke up, with a strangled scream stuck in your throat, covered in sweats and madly shivering. 

You had this nightmare again. 

It felt like you couldn’t escape it since you were a child. You didn’t remember much of your past, but you perfectly remembered that, as far as your memory was going, there was this nightmare haunting you. You dreamt of a little boy who was screaming your name while a big mansion was burning down. His voice was coming from the mansion and you wanted to run in to help him out, but two adults were holding you back. You were screaming so much, you thought you were going to break your vocal cords. You were absolutely terrified and panicked and concerned, tears freely cascading down your face. You seemed to know who this little boy was. You seemed to care very much about him as well. Sometimes, you even screamed his name when you were waking up from the nightmare. 

Brahms. 

You always opened your eyes when the mansion was collapsing down on him.

You talked a lot about this dream to your adoptive parents and to the doctors you consulted as a child. You had always wondered if those images were actually coming from your past. Because of a very traumatic event, you lost your memory of when you were younger than 9 years old. It was as if your story was starting when you got adopted by your foster family. Because of your amnesia, your parents went to see a lot of doctors and therapists to make sure that you were doing alright. However, at the same time, your new family never wanted to talk about it directly with you, and they always said it was just a nightmare and that you shouldn’t worry about it too much. 

They wanted to be certain you were in good physical and mental health, without having to talk about what they knew about you. They always said that they had no idea who your real parents could be, and you had always wanted to believe them because they were good to you. They treated you well, and they dearly loved you like their own daughter.

Despite your amnesia, you were happy to have a family and you hoped that everything was going to be alright. You grew up to turn into a young woman who was often questioning herself, but who was also afraid of what could await for her if she ever found out the answers to her questions.

When your adoptive parents died in a car crash, you thought you were going to lose it. You never cried that much in your whole existence, and felt so alone. You had no idea what to do at first. You weren’t sure to be ready to carry such a burden on your shoulders and on your own.

And yet, you decided to be strong and you focused on taking care of their funeral and then of their belongings that were now yours. They had a lot of kids but you were the only one they adopted, which was a little bit strange to you. But you didn’t really think about it: you were broken. You lost your second family as well. You felt like you were cursed; it was the only explanation on why everything and everyone was always leaving you. This idea was haunting you as much as the nightmare now; you needed to stay busy to forget about it.

As you were going through their documents, you found a very odd contract. They seemed to receive a lot of money every month in exchange for adopting you and making sure you would never remember what happened. There was an address on the contract and names. Mrs and Mr Heelshire. At first, you didn’t believe this was true. So you checked their bank account, but you realised that they indeed received the money every month from the Heelshires. It would explain why your adoptive parents never wanted to talk about your past; however it didn’t explain why everyone wanted you to stay in the dark. It made you feel sick and you left the contract on a table, while you left the room, trying to digest this crazy news before doing anything about it.

And now that you woke up from your nightmare, all you could think about was finding this burnt mansion. It had to be a memory. Or at least, a part of it even if your mind might have twisted it. It had to be the traumatic event that made you forget about everything.

You needed to know the truth about who you were… About who was Brahms too because he seemed important to you. Now that you lost your adoptive family, you had the even stronger urge to find out your past. You felt ready too. You were an adult, you could handle whatever you were going to find in this mansion. You just hoped you would be able to find it and that it didn’t fully burn.

Even though it was still the middle of the night, you dressed up, took some food with you and clothes, and left. You couldn’t stand to stay around now your parents were dead, so this little adventure was more than welcomed. You started to think about the contract while you were driving. You could only assume that the Heelshires were your biological parents (otherwise, why would they know you and why would they pay for people to care for you?). You couldn’t understand why your real family would have wanted you away from them though and why they would have paid for it. Was it because you did something? Was it because of the little boy who was screaming your name in the fire? Was it because he died?

You realised how far away from where you were the address was, but it was alright. Everything was going to be alright. After a little while, you actually found yourself relaxing and your mind was quietening down.

You made some little stops on the road, sleeping in cheap motels before resuming your journey. But at some point, you finally arrived in front of the big mansion. It seemed empty and you were disappointed. It was in the middle of nowhere too, but it was so beautiful. It was the same one as in your nightmare; except that it wasn’t burning down. You thought the place had to be rebuilt after the fire, because it didn’t seem damaged at all. You wondered if the Heelshires still lived there or if they sometimes came back. You were looking at it from your car, in the middle of the road. 

A car, on the other way, came by and stopped next to you. The man lowered down his window.

“Got lost?” he asked, he seemed quite friendly. You shook your head.

“I was looking for this house. Do you know if anyone still lives here?” you asked

“No one since a while… You aren’t from here, are you?” he asked

“No indeed. Why?”

“Well there are a lot of stories about this place. Last time someone was in there, she said a man who was living in the walls tried to kill her. Cops never found anyone but there was blood and dead bodies in the entrance. The owners killed themselves too” he explained “If I was you I wouldn’t stay around or try to get inside. Some teens disappeared after some stupid dares. And even if cops can’t find shit…” he explained to you and you were positively horrified

“Thank you” you smiled “You seemed to be used of strangers wanting to get in there?” you asked, out of curiosity. He shrugged.

“Can’t explain it, but this mansion is fascinating. Can’t blame people for wanting to explore it to be honest… But it’s not safe. I don’t know how you heard about this place, but trust me, there is nothing for you in there.” he answered and plunged his eyes inside of yours. 

You thanked him again and faked leaving. You waited for the man to disappear before parking nearby the house. Even if his stories made you shiver in fear, you still needed to get inside the mansion. You didn’t know if the owners were the Heelshires or not, but you hoped they weren’t. You had so many questions to ask them. You couldn’t have done all this road for nothing. And you couldn’t be so close to knowing more about yourself and turning back now. You had to have a quick look around the mansion. You weren’t going to touch anything, you were just trying to remember. And then you were going to leave before the crazy killer ghost attacked you. It seemed like a fair plan to you. You took a little knife pocket with you, just in case though.

You discreetly found a way in the property and quickly climbed the stairs towards the entrance. You knocked at the door, just to make sure no one was home. You waited a little while before trying to open it. It was unlocked and you thanked your luck before getting inside.

“Hello?” you called out and your voice resonated in the emptiness of the place. You shivered before sneezing at all the dust flying around. It really looked like the place was deserted. “I don’t know if someone’s here, but I’m not here to rob or do anything bad… I’m just looking for my past. If it’s okay with you, I’ll have a look around and then I’ll go. So please, don’t hurt me” you said. You really thought you were insane, but maybe it would keep the killer away from you. And being polite, even to ghosts (especially to ghosts?), never hurt anyone. You could at least believe it.

You waited a little longer, trying to hear anything, before starting to have a look around when only silence answered your call.

Brahms also woke up from a nightmare the morning you arrived at the mansion. It was always the same as well: his parents were sending you away because he killed a little girl of his age, and full of rage he burnt the mansion down while screaming your name because he couldn’t stand the idea of being apart from you. You were the only thing he ever loved, and your parents were worried he would corrupt the light your eyes always used to hold. He couldn’t explain to them that he would never hurt you in any way. You were his twin sister, you were his best friend, you were his sun. And he could only burn the whole world down if you weren’t there to appease his violence.

It was what actually happened.

And he woke up with the same sadness and anger burning him even worse than the fire did. The physical pain he felt and that his skin still remembered sometimes, was nothing compared to the pain of knowing he had lost you. He missed his baby twin sister so badly. You were what he loved the most in his life. When you were both children, he couldn't stand to be away from you, even though you were of a more independent nature. He killed Emily Crabs because she liked to say things about you. She was saying you were ugly and stupid, and that Brahms deserved a better sister. She was just fooling around, trying to annoy the boy. She couldn't know his love for his sister was so strong, and that he was ready to destroy everything and everyone for her. He killed Emily and your parents understood what happened when they found him covered in blood. They found the body too after they made Brahms talk. They did their best for you to never know about this, and Brahms was eager to keep it a secret from you too. But he hadn’t thought they would decide to keep you away to protect you from him; he was your big brother, he was the one supposed to protect you. Your parents discovered how obsessive he seemed to be and they couldn’t let you be his obsession. 

They hadn’t thought he would go that insane once you would be away. And you hadn’t understood what was happening. You fainted from the panic when you saw the mansion burning down. After that, everything went dark and your parents were grateful for that. It was better that way, so you wouldn’t try to come back home.

Brahms was certain he lost you because you never came back. Since you were forced to leave his life, he could only sleep with a little porcelain doll looking like you when you were a child. Your parents always used this doll as leverage to make him obey when he was being uncontrollable once again. As he grew up and became strong, they worried it would stop working, but it was the only thing that kept him a little bit sane. And even when your parents were still alive, the doll was the only thing he talked to. He was whispering sweet little things to it, because he couldn’t do it with you anymore. He didn’t care about Greta, he just wished he would have killed her like he did with the other “nannies”. And now his parents were gone, he was left alone with his thoughts. He hated it. He hoped some stupid people would come inside the mansion, so he could lurk around before slaughtering them. It was the only thing that was making him almost happy. It was the only thing that made him forget about you, even just a few hours.

He instantly heard your voice echoing around and he quickly got up. He didn’t know who it was, but he knew he was going to play around. He was glad the devil heard his prayers. He didn’t understand what you meant about “your past” though. He wasn’t caring too much; he was just excited to have a new toy around.

He found you and he started to watch you from a hole inside the walls. He thought you were pretty and he appreciated how you truly didn’t touch anything, even if it wasn’t going to change much of your fate… He might give you a quick death if you kept being good. 

He watched you stopping in front of the family pictures laying around in the living room, and tilted his head to the side as you seemed to frown and to internally question yourself. As you leaned closer to the picture, your cardigan fell from one of your shoulders. There was a scar on it, that you did by falling off a tree as you were playing with your brother. You had fallen on a stone that cut deep into your skin. Brahms perfectly remembered how worried he had felt when it seemed like you weren’t going to stop bleeding. After this, Brahms had always kept you under his watch and more importantly he had kissed your injured skin every night before tugging you to bed. So when he saw it, he recognised it right away. He also started to recognise the way you were putting a piece of loose strand of hair behind your ear, and how you were nibbling on your lips in thoughts, and when you turned around, he clearly saw your eyes and your face. He was certain it was you. He wondered if it was all a dream. He wouldn’t survive if he realised it wasn’t reality. He needed you to be real so badly.

He understood why you were here; you were looking for your family. For him. He was so excited. You were back home. You were finally back where you should be.

And he would never let you go ever again.

PART II

[frownyalfred]

*busts down your doors* HEY! Long ask for ya

okay so I was rereading your fic where EMS showed up because Dick couldn’t flip on the trampoline (rip) and it got me thinking about routine trauma.

So here’s the thing: I am not EMS. I know three people who are EMS, but my extent of EMS experience comes from one (1) ride along and lurking on EMS subreddits. Those guys are a hoot. Great memes. Anyways.

A comment stuck out to me: “You haven’t truly lived the job until you’re eating a gas station burrito next to a dead body”. I’ve seen a bunch like that. Nonchalance and dark humor because well, that’s their job. Gore is the norm. Sure, depending on the area, your usual calls might just be lift assists, but other areas are neck deep in gang violence and violent crime.

A pretty common post on that subreddit is also, sadly, “I just got a call that’s never bothered me before but all of a sudden I’m broken” or “I’ve never had a problem running this type of call before but all of a sudden it just hit me.” Delayed trauma is a bitch. Someone pointed out that if a civilian saw a fatal car accident with multiple corpses, they’d be in therapy and given support and it’d be a huge deal. With EMS, they’re just expected to deal with it. (EMS mental health is getting better- there are helplines and resources and first responder focused therapies- but it’s still a developing field)

ANYWAYS, now that I’ve given you a crash course on the EMS mental health crisis (someone should really write a feature on EMS in Gotham those fuckers would be crazy and I love them already), my point is, how would this apply to the bats? Seeing bodies is treated as very much the norm to them, but do you think it ever just… catches up? The impact of seeing corpses day after day? Do you think they have to fake being fine and tough during those times because well, “everybody else in the family is fine with it, I’m not going to be a liability/burden/weak/etc”

Do you think Bruce, the goddamn batman, who shouldn’t be ruffled by anything, ever just feels something crack inside when he looks at a little boy who could have grown up healthy and strong like his Jason, had (Bruce) someone been there for him? and then he can’t work cases with kids for a week?

This is such an excellent ask, thank you so much for gracing my inbox with it!

It's a very good question. I'm also on a lot of those subreddits (needed to do some research for that fic) and the discussion in those forums and on TikTok is like you described, a kind of practiced desensitization to all gore and suffering in order to survive in their job.

What I've seen from those discussions (and my EMT friend) is an almost sub-conscious trend where they allow themselves the "thing" that breaks them, and they push a lot of that trauma and emotion onto that thing. Like an EMT saying they don't do kids, or they don't do gunshots to the eye, etc. And they'll sob like a baby on those calls, while remaining stone-faced and level-headed through the triple homicide.

I'm just theorizing here, but I imagine the Batfamily uses similar coping skills -- pushing all that trauma and suffering into a box which cracks only under limited, defined circumstances. And they break or snap only under those conditions, because, subconsciously, they allowed themselves to.

So yes, Bruce might be 99% fine with most of the bodies he sees, but there might be a little boy who has a detail (like Jason's dark hair) that just slams into him out of nowhere.

PTSD and trauma literally change the structure of the brain. Individuals react differently to trauma after that, but there does appear to be a "desensitizing" effect with repeated trauma, as the body tries to compensate.

I agree that the Gotham EMTs must be some crazy motherfuckers. They probably deal with 6x the normal shit EMTs deal with in other cities. They probably take on a lot more trauma and burn out quicker than other EMTs, too.

Anyone else have thoughts on this? I admit I don't cover PTSD explicitly in a lot of my fics.

[deceitful-darlings]

How, just wanted to come and ask if you’re okay? I hope this doesn’t cause any sort of pressure or guilt towards you but I just want to know if you’re still alive

Hi all!

First thing first, definitely still alive! Somehow. Physically at least. I promise to be quick, because I don’t wanna sound like I’m just here to complain, but I know the question a lot of you have: Where have you been?

Speaking bluntly, 2024 has been literally the worst year mental health wise for me. I’m not kidding when I say that if I weren’t living with people that I felt the need to play a part of ‘mentally stable’ for, I would’ve easily just rotted away in bed, not even eating. I’ve essentially been emotionally numb for most of it and not even had the mental capacity to open tumblr. So that’s been fun!

Onto more pressing matters though, as I’ve noticed an uptick in notes and questions: What’s happening with the blog?

It is not being deleted, and it’s not being abandoned. Over the past year I’ve come to a few realisations about myself, including coming to terms with the fact I may be less neurotypical than I believed I was. I could joke easily about my quirks, and while I don’t have an official diagnosis so I’m not going to say I for certain have any conditions, I’ve had numerous people who’re officially diagnosed tell me it’s very likely I do have them when I’ve spoken to them about my thought processes and action.

The issue is the way I was trying to keep this blog running on a hyperfixation I’d burned out on. I fell out of love with TW and the way the story was going with it, and my brain was trying to jump onto the next thing, but I felt like I had to keep answering for TW. So I crashed, and I burned. Hard. I didn’t have the energy to write.

This is very hard for me to do, because I feel awful for those who have sent asks, but I think I’m going to have to just completely empty my inbox, I feel like I need a fresh slate, and to step away from TW being my main focus. I wanted to be a variety blog, and while I do think my hyperfixations will normally be the focus, I do want to have more flexibility in my writing to avoid this kind of burnout happening again quickly with requests.

It’s super early here, so my brain isn’t at 100%, but Baldur’s Gate 3, Honkai Star Rail and Genshin are the main 3 pieces of media that immediately come to mind.

I’m not emptying the inbox quite yet, I’ll get some sleep, then scroll through it and see if there’s anything that grabs my attention now that I’m back to hammer out, but it will be being cleared out soon.

[cosmic-ships]

Good Company

Ship:Superstitious Sweethearts (Clyde x Kaden)

Words: 1,273 (we're cute please read it lol)

cw: minor consumption of alcohol.

summary: idk read it

okay to reblog || if you don't self-ship please dni, I got mad anxiety lol.

Kaden sighed, steeling themselves before they pushed open the doors to the Duck Tape bar, a familiar scent of aged wood and beer hit their nostrils as they walked in. The place was pretty quiet with only a few patrons scattered around. Of course, a few of their glances caught onto Kaden and they felt a wave of homesickness crash over them, they missed Canada and the comforting sounds of home.

Boone County had been the chosen escape, a place they believed they could really make a difference in with their work. The scenery reminded them of home except here it was a lot quieter than the forest city where they came from. Everything today felt so heavy and uncertain. A bad mental health day as they would call it.

Clyde was behind the bar, wiping down glasses and arranging bottles. He glanced up towards the door where Kaden entered, noting the new face and the unmistakable air of someone who needed a drink and perhaps a distraction?

Kaden approached the bar, sliding onto a stool, they weren't really paying any mind that much but offered a half-hearted smile.

"What can I get ya?" Clyde asked, his voice warm and welcoming.

"Something strong please.." Kaden replied softly, their voice a mix of fatigue and resignation.

"Rough day?" Clyde asked gently. "Burbon alright?"

Kaden nodded their head a small sigh leaving them "Yes and also yes.." Kaden gave a small chuckle.

Clyde poured them their drink and slid the glass over to them. "Names Clyde, by the way."

"Kaden," They responded softly, picking up their glass to take a sip, savouring the burn that coated their throat. "Nice to meet you."

"You aren't from around here are ya? 'least not one of my regulars," Clyde remarked. "What brings ya to Boone County?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Kaden sighed, setting their glass down. "I moved here from Canada, I thought I could do some good here, I'm an environmental consultant, I fell in love with the scenery here, reminded me a bit of home." Kaden inhaled deeply before blowing out yet another small sigh. "Today however is one of those days where nothing really feels right you know? Like something is off and I can't place it."

Clyde nodded his head, listening intently. "That's quite a ways away. Gotta admit you don't look the type for an environmental consultant-"

Kaden let out a genuine laugh, their eyes glancing upwards towards Clyde "It's the hair" They gestured to their snakebites "And the piercings isn't it?'

Clyde grinned playfully "Yeah, somethin' like that"

"Never judge a book by its cover" Kaden warned lightheartedly. "You'd be surprised what people can do despite what they may look like."

"Fair enough," Clyde replied as he leaned up against the bar. "So, what kinds of work does an environmental consult do exactly?"

Kaden took another sip of their drink, feeling the warmth spread throughout their chest. "Mostly advising on sustainable practices, helping businesses reduce their environmental impact. It's rewarding but it can be frustrating when people don't see the importance of it-" they gave a small shrug.

Cylde nodded his head thoughtfully. "Sounds like important work, also sounds like it could take a lot out of ya."

"Some days more than others," Kaden chuckled softly. "Today's just been…one of those days I guess…"

Clyde smiled warmly at them, leaning a little further on the bar. "Well, you're in the right place for a lil R&R. Bar's always have a way of makin' troubles feel a bit lighter."

Kaden nodded their head, their eyes finally truly gazing at Clyde behind the bar. They couldn't help but notice how attractive he was. He had a rugged charm about him, the kind that seemed effortlessly authentic. His dark hair was combed back and over, yet a few rebellious strands fell across his forehead, it was dark and wild. His eyes were a rich, warm brown, like freshly brewed coffee or dark earth after rainfall, and they held a warmth that made Kaden feel instantly at ease.

They noticed his broad shoulders and muscular arms suggested he was no stranger to hard work, and the way his shirt clung to his frame left little doubt about his physical strength. His right hand, large and capable, moved with practised ease as he handled the bottles and glasses, displaying a kind of grace that belied his tough exterior. His left arm ended in a sleek prosthetic forearm and hand.

Even the way he stood, with a confident yet relaxed posture, spoke volumes about him. There was an unspoken gentleness in his movements, a quiet strength that Kaden found incredibly alluring. Then there was his smile—easy and genuine, it lit up his entire face and it actually made Kaden's heart skip a beat. Clyde was undeniably handsome in Kaden's eyes, and they found themselves captivated.

Clyde took note of how they were looking at him and a small subtle smirk tugged the corner of his lips when Kaden cleared their throat awkwardly and brought their attention back to their drink, trying to play off the fact Clyde had just caught them staring.

"Well…I can see why, this place has a nice vibe.." Kaden glanced back up to Clyde and gave him a small smile "The bartender isn't so bad either~"

Clyde chuckled, a light blush creeping up his neck. "Well, flattery will get ya everywhere."

They both laughed softly, the tension easing a bit. The conversation flowed easily between them light and a bit flirtatious. Clyde found himself captivated by Kaden their purple hair, vibrant and unique, contrasted beautifully with their bright green eyes, which seemed to hold a world of stories. Kaden's outfit caught his attention too—black jeans paired with a grey and black striped t-shirt that was a little too big, the neckline hanging off their left shoulder. The overall look was relaxed and confident, and Clyde found it pretty cute, his eyes lingering a moment longer than necessary as he took in their appearance.

It was Kaden's turn to catch him staring, they let out a little chuckle, their cheeks tinting a rosy pink. They decided not to call him out. "Well…I think I've found my new favourite spot~" Kaden hummed, finishing off their drink and paying for it. "I'll definitely be back."

"Glad to hear it," Clyde replied, a smile tugging his lips. "Lookin' forward to it."

Kaden gave a happy little wave before heading out the door, it closing behind them with a soft 'thud' Clyde stood there, feeling a surprising sense of anticipation for Kaden's next visit.

Within moments Jimmy, Clyde's brother saunters up from across the room, having just finished a round of billiards. "So, who's the new friend?" he asked, his tone teasing.

Clyde shook his head, trying to play it cool. "Just a customer, Jimmy."

Jimmy gave Clyde a knowing look. "Sure didn't look like 'just a customer' to me. you were practically starin' holes through 'em."

Clyde felt his cheeks get warm. "Ain't nothin' like that. Just had a good conversation that's all."

Jimmy leaned against the bar, a grin spreading across his face. "uh-huh. Well, if you ask me, it's about time you found someone. Never seen ya lookin' so love-struck before."

Clyde rolled his eyes. "It ain't like that!"

"mhmm, well in any case good luck brother." Jimmy chuckled. "See ya later."

Clyde watched as Jimmy wandered away, his thoughts drifting back to Kaden. Maybe there was something about them after all. He found himself looking forward to their next visit, wondering what more he could learn about that intriguing purple-haired consultant with the pretty easy smile.

@ama-ships || @deathnot-e || @heatobrienswife || @dragonsmooch || @mahitosoulmate

[totaleclipse573]

So, I was watching the new Bad Guys dub and there's a panel that slightly shows that scar thingy on Starline's hand and I'm thinking about it again. Let's theorize, shall we? What do we think it is? Where did it come from? When did it happen? Does it still hurt?

I saw that too >:D

Ahaha. Ramble incoming. I am so so normal about the subject of his scar. Sorry not sorry XD

Something I noticed about that panel, the scar looks slightly less visible than before? Either because it’s healed (meaning it can be healed,) or just because you can’t see it well enough to truly tell. Personally I hope it’s a permanent scar. (Listen I can explain-)

My current running theory is that it was caused by the energy of the Warp Topaz. We don’t know exactly where that thing came from or what it’s FULLY capable of, explanation wise. And I don’t think we ever will get one, sadly.

I want the Topaz to have some kind of damaging effect that lasts. We’ve seen before that Starline has neglected his own basic needs and health (such as sleep) just for the sake of getting something done

Who’s to say he didn’t notice any effects the topaz could’ve had on him? And who’s to say he would stop because of it? He wouldn’t! Maybe his glove was made of some kind of material that was supposed to MAYBE stop that injury from happening to him? But didn’t. And I have a panel to prove that little glove theory!

“The components of my glove were built after countless hours of careful testing” he says. Perhaps even to withstand something, hmm?

Did he quit because of that? Of course not. It doesn’t matter to him, it’s a strange little mentality of his that I personally find SO interesting.

For the when, I can’t really think of a specific time. It wasn’t at first, but it also wasn’t too later on. The scar looks pretty bad in that one panel, like it’s been there, untreated, for a little while now. You get what I mean? Like, look at it.

So, make of that what you will.

Does it still hurt. Hmm. That’s really a tricky one to answer. He doesn’t really show many signs of it hurting? I have to wonder if that’s for a reason, or if it just doesn’t hurt anymore unless bothered or something. In one panel, they look like burn marks, almost. But later on in bad guys, we see it looks like a scar. As someone with a permanent injury scar, I can say from experience that scars don’t really hurt unless you like. Overly specific example : somehow manage to crash into something in a way that makes direct contact with that scar. That hurts for DAYS (Or, I guess depending on the injury?) That’s my extremely messy take 😅

I really think Starline was a more interesting character than people often regard him as. Maybe it’s because he was killed off 💀 But I wished they could have at least some what dove into the whole deal with the scars/burn markings. You can’t just PUT THAT THERE AND THEN NOT SAY ANYTHINGGGGG

Thank you, for letting me ramble about duck man (I’d love to hear any theories you might have also!)

[dragon-queen21]

hi back again ! sorry for my small absence, my school year just finished and testing is approachin & ive been very stressed ☹️

but this time its gonna be about sanji (like the last two were supposed to) this is actually kind of angsty,, um,,, whoopsie

-i have a hc that during wholecake when sanji was with his family he was actually regressin. i dont think he was fully regressed but definitely wasnt fully big the entire time. please tell me you understand what im gettin at here. the amount of stress he must have been dealin with, unfortunately he needed to cope somehow, kind of angsty i know, but sanji fully regressin the second hes safe and with his crew again, and luffy (and the crew) just being there to help him (they didnt leave his side for hours)

-sanji is the straw hats resident baby like i said in a previous ask i believe that him and luffy regress the youngest, both needin the most care and attention out of everyone else in their straw hats agere universe. hes not as clingy as luffy, but will get fussy if someones not with him

-for some reason i am so diggin usopp watchin lil sanji, I DONT KNOW I FEEL LIKE THEYD HAVE A BLAST

i feel like usopp would be tryin SOOOO hard to helo sanji have a good time considerin usopps not his primary cg

-the girls are the ones who mostly care for sanji when hes little, robin being a little more motherly, and nami bein sweet and spoiling the hell out of him

-sanji called one of the girls “mommy” once and got SO embarrassed. locked himself in the kitchen stress bakin until the one he gave the title too came and talked to him

-once JUST ONCE he called zeff when he was really little and was genuinely tryin his hardest to act big when he was talkin to zeff. i cant imagine how he would react exactly, or if he woukd even understand what was happenin or what agere even was, but he raised this boy he can tell when somethins up. imagine franky, or robin, brook or someone findin him and having to slowwwlllyyy take it away from him and apologize to zeff so he can get back to his job

OKAY IM DONE BECAUSE IM TIRED RAAAH I HOOE YOUR HAVING A GOOD DAY sorry i think this is really difficult from my normal asks/rambles sanji is more personal to me than anyone else on the crew so i think about his highs and lows a lot more than anyone else in the crew! im sorry if its a bit to angsty ☹️

(also sorry i want to drop this,, inosuke agere? real? him regressing and hes just like a nonverbal baby boar. very very energetic kiddo)

(ive also been slightly fixated on ‘metal family’ recently as well. mom the hyperfixations are fightin)

📷

Hi hi! Good to see ya :D please ignore how long it took me to respond, this has been such a busy week for me and my mental health has been a roller coaster. Ooh I get the stress before tests, praying to Jesus for you that all goes well <3 Make sure to study a little, take breaks, and get a good night sleep before and I bet you will do just great! :D

Okay onto headcanons now~

~Sanji kind of teetering between headspaces is so real. Not feeling safe enough to fully regress but also his brain pushing him to be small because he’s upset and usually being small means getting comfort. He would probably crash and burn for days after once it finally hits him that he’s safe. Practically drunk of off familiarity of his crew.

While I am kind of aware of whole cake I’m not up that point in the anime, if I was I would give you a better comment, but alas :<

~The resident baby prince. Ahhh I love him so much. First thing I thought of is Sanji being sat in the corner with a blanket and some toys content to play by himself, but the moment whoever is watching over him leaves it’s instantly tears and crying. Object permanence who? If the baby can’t see his crew they therefor must have disappeared and left him and he is going to be sad about it forever. Never to be consoled agai- oh wait never mind they’re back now. All is right with the world.

~Usopp watching over anyone would have a blast. Let’s be honest- it’s Usopp. Something about him just screams caregiver coded.

~Okay but Sanji calling Robin “mama” promptly realizing what he’s said because Robin is so shocked she’s not responding, he’s not about to stick around and find out what she thinks of the accidental nickname, and going to stress bake for hours <- the best idea ever. It makes me so happy. Bdbjbcjdnjdnsj (Like I haven’t said this a hundred times before, I’m soft for mama Robin can you tell :3 )

~I’ll raise you one. Calling up Zeff but it keeps happening when Sanji is looking after regressors. The phrase “I’m telling!” gives Sanji a near heart attack. The ex pirate has gotten used to getting calls from little straw-hats, so imagine his shock when it’s Sanji regressed and calling.

These weren’t too different I would say. Besides I absolutely adore angst just as much as I love fluff. Like let the baby’s suffer a bit >:3

(Very real. The most real actually. Inosuke never got to experience a normal childhood. Let. Him. Cope. 👏)

“mom the hyperfixations are fightin”

😭😂 love that

I’ve never heard if metal family before. I do however understand the fight between hyperfixations. (Looks towards the 5,000+ word Genshin Impact fic I’ve been writing and essentially ignoring all my other current projects for) It’s tough being in multiple fandoms, the struggle is real my friend

[cobawrites]

A Gust of Wind (Vash x Reader), Chapter 8

Vash x Reader, GN! Reader, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn Romance, TW: Mental Health Problems. Reader awakens to an unfamiliar world, left alone and struggling with mental health problems from before the crash. Vash emerges as a guiding light for Reader, and vice versa.

First >> Prev. >> Chapter 8 >> Next

A/N: Giggled and kicked my feet SO MUCH as I wrote this chapter! Hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

(God, this was so self-indulgent… My touch-starved is showing </3)

                                             A Gust of Wind

                                                Chapter 8 

Vash gave a whole new meaning to taking someone’s breath away. You struggled for air with muffled wheezing as he smothered your face into the crook of his neck, pressing his hand to the back of your head, crushing your chest against his, squeezing until he could no longer feel your warm, strangled puffs of breath against his skin. He repeated his words like a mantra. You came back… You came back…

Yes, you came back, but this was not the welcome you expected, nor deserved. His touch, like fire, burned hotter than Marlene’s. As he continued to melt your body into his, something hard and metal on his chest dug into your skin painfully, sure to leave a couple of dark bruises come tomorrow. This small atonement for your sins was all that kept your tears from streaming down your cheeks.

You were dizzy, sore, and blue in the face by the time Vash loosened his grip, giving you just enough room to expand your chest once again. His face was inches from yours as you took deep breaths, and his own ragged panting invaded your lungs. His eyes, beautifully dazed, fixed upon yours.

You would have given anything to gaze into those eyes of his again, the ones that saw through you in the way that, up until now, only your mother had. The ones that carried the same distinct taint of some deeply rooted sadness, of something that could leave anyone feeling othered, and utterly alone. And here they were, those familiar eyes, like home, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to look.

“I’m sorry…” you said in a small voice, your face turned away from his. It was all you could manage. You hadn’t had time to think about what you would say once you found him. Your thoughts up to now were thoroughly preoccupied with deceiving the townsfolk and planning his escape. And besides, you’d be a liar if you denied the fact that you were simply terrified of how this conversation might go. You didn’t want to think about all the awful things you were so sure he’d say to you, and rightfully so. Despite his overwhelming, bone-crushing affection upon seeing you again, you still waited with bated breath for his response.

“Sorry?” Vash’s grip loosened a little more, his hands sliding to your shoulders. “Sorry about what?”

You couldn’t help yourself any longer. A shaky sob escaped your lips. Your hand flew to your mouth in an attempt to muffle the sounds you could no longer hold back. A hasty barricade upon a breaking dam.

Suddenly, it was Vash who was comforting you. After everything that happened, beaten, bleeding, and bruised, he was the one comforting you.

And here you were, trying your damned hardest to keep your cries from alerting the gunmen passing by outside. All for what? Because you hurt your own feelings? Because you’d done a horrible thing you should never have done? Because you were the one responsible for every one of the mars on his beautiful face? You deserved every ounce of guilt weighing down upon you. And you certainly didn’t deserve the way his kind hands cradled your body once again.

Your chest heaved painfully as you desperately choked down your cries. You couldn’t help but run your trembling fingertips obsessively along every bloodstained bandage, as if you could somehow brush the lacerations softly away.

His right hand traveled up to your face, cupping your cheek carefully, like newspaper wrapping brittle glass. Vash pressed his forehead to yours, and coaxed your chin gently so that you’d look back at him the way he wanted you to. Finally locked in the gaze you both craved, each of you wondered if the other saw in themselves what you saw in each other.

Without a doubt, this man could read right through you. His soft, yet piercing eyes left not much to the imagination. You were an open book for him to flip through and enjoy. Something about this should have felt so violating, yet there was some relief in the way he turned each one of your pages with such delicate hands, careful not to make a single tear, leaving only the slightest fingerprints of his forefinger and his thumb. It was enough to make you wish he’d turn the pages a little faster.

But who was to say that the words on the pages read the same for him as they did for you? The way he looked at you was angelic and full of love, as if he weren’t staring straight into the eyes of a sinner. What did those pages read? What could they possibly be saying?

And Vash. He paraded with the guise of a paperback, but underneath the decorative sleeve was a hardcover. You longed to touch it, if only to feel the tiny grooves of the leather, before trading away whatever secret scraps of paper you had left for the chance to read the entirety of his first page. There had to be more to this man than what you could see, even now. You wanted to see, and you knew that he wanted you to, as well.

Still, there were parts of him that maybe even he couldn’t read. Chapters he probably skipped every time he opened his book. Chapters he simply refused to recognize. But you did. You at least knew they were there. Perhaps Vash didn’t quite understand the value of the ink on his pretty pages. He would rather feed them to the fire to keep his neighbors warm on a cold desert night than to ever acknowledge that he may be worthy of something softer.

Your fingers ghosted over a particularly bloody bandage, messily tied right over his clothes. Carefully, you unwrapped it. The gash was long, and rather deep, cutting across the side of his torso. It would leave a scar, for sure.

“Take off your shirt,” you whispered, your hands already sliding underneath the hem.

Vash hesitated as you gently started lifting the shirt for him. “I’d… really rather not,” he responded.

Your fingers pressed against his belly as he placed his hand over yours, preventing you from going any further. His skin was surprisingly rough, and… Was that a piece of metal?

You started to back off, but one more look at the wound you had just unbandaged strengthened your resolve. “Let me help you,” you insisted, tensely gripping the edge of the fabric.

Vash swallowed hard, agonizingly contemplating what to say. It made no sense to refuse your help in his current state, but still. His mind raced through all your possible reactions if he were to go through with this. He wasn’t sure if he could bear much more at the moment.

“Please…” you begged, intertwining your fingers with his and gently guiding his hand aside.

He could no longer refuse you. The way you were looking at him made him wish he could repeat this scenario anywhere else, in a safer place, just the two of you. Taking a deep breath, he slowly removed his shirt.

You couldn’t help but gasp a little. Immediately, there was a look of regret on his face, and he almost began to reach for his shirt once again. However, your hands now rested softly along his ribs, catching him by surprise.

You brushed your fingertips, featherlight, over his torso, almost as if in a trance. His skin was covered all over with large scars, burn marks, and even metal bits that appeared to function as prosthetic pieces. What happened to this poor man?

Images from earlier that day crept up in your mind. Was this the price he paid for the sake of people like you? You bit your lip nearly hard enough to draw blood, all in a desperate attempt to keep your composure. This was a vulnerable moment for him, and you would do your best to make him understand just how special he was.

“Oh, Vash…” you breathed, resting your forehead on his shoulder while your hands lightly stroked each and every scar. The way you caressed his sensitive skin, the way you slowly dragged your hands along the marred tissue over his heart… It sent a shiver down his spine. A shiver that coursed right through your own fingertips.

At this, you reeled yourself in, shaking your head a little and turning around to hide a furious blush. His reaction would stay engraved in your memory for quite some time.

Clearing your throat awkwardly, you reached over for the medical supplies in your bag. You could feel Vash’s heavy gaze on your back as you did so. He watched your every move as you retrieved disinfectant and fresh bandages, and relished in how you cleaned his wound so gently. He could barely hold himself back from putting his hands on you again, trying not to get in the way of your work.

“I know it’s hard, but try not to move so much on this side,” you said, double checking to make sure the bandage was snug. “Otherwise, it’ll just keep bleeding through.”

“Mhmmm…” he hummed, although judging by the glazed look in his eyes, it didn’t really seem like he was listening. His hands snaked up your arms as he pulled you close.

Suddenly, you were pulled flush against his chest once again, and his forehead pressed softly to yours. Vash had a big, goofy smile on his face. “I can’t believe you came back.”

You wanted to smile. You really did. But you couldn’t help but feel heartbroken at the way he said those words. They didn’t quite match the look on his face. Instead, you settled for a nod and a light squeeze to his hand.

“Does this mean… you’ll stay?” He asked tentatively, suddenly not looking you in the eyes.

Your heart sank. You didn’t know what to say. Lying crossed your mind, but he probably already knew your real answer from the way you hesitated to respond.

You couldn’t do it again. As much as you cared for him, you could in no way guarantee that you could do it again. You couldn’t vow to stay the way you’d done for your mother. It was a broken promise waiting to happen.

Vash’s fingertips dug into your skin, not quite hard enough to cause pain, but hard enough that it made you look, just to be sure that it was, in fact, his hands gripping you this tightly. You turned your gaze back to him. He still refused to look you in the eyes, but you could see that his expression was pained and pleading.

“Please… Stay…” he whispered softly, his breath on your lips. “If not for me, then…”

His chest heaved slightly before he continued, taking you by surprise. “God… I was so scared. I thought you’d never come back. I thought I had failed you. I thought you would… I thought…”

At this, it was your turn to give him a hard squeeze. “You are not responsible for me, Vash,” you stated firmly, moving your head to look directly into his eyes. You couldn’t keep the frustration out of your voice. “For the love of God, don’t you ever think about yourself?”

“I am thinking about myself!” He retorted, his words dripping in a tone you weren’t used to hearing from him. It nearly made you flinch, but you stood your ground.

“Does letting others drag you into situations where you’ll get the crap beaten out of you count as thinking about yourself, then?” You hissed angrily, trying to keep your voice down. “You were worried about me, but I was freaking out about you, too! You could have died.”

“You could have died, too! In fact, you did almost die the last time, so don’t give me that!” Vash furrowed his brows. His grip on your arms was starting to sting.

“That is my business. Mine, not yours!” You said, attempting to tear yourself away from him, but he only held on even tighter. “Besides, it’s my fault that you even got into this mess to begin with!”

His grip let up and his expression softened. A few moments of silence passed by as he looked at you curiously. “Is that what you think?”

More silence. Once again, you didn’t know how to respond. You knew this was a question you’d keep coming back to, as long as Vash was the one asking. But the answer was obvious, wasn’t it? There was no other way to put it. Your demons would drag you down, and your anchors down with you.

“Listen, I am being selfish, okay?” He breathed softly into your ear, resting his temple on yours. His hands traveled up your back, wrapping you in a gentle hug, attempting to calm you down. He could feel your pulse rising. “Please, let me be selfish.”

“Let you… be selfish?”

“Yes. You said you were sorry, right?” He asked, rubbing your shoulder blades as he tucked his face into the crook of your neck. You nodded slowly. “Well, then don’t ever do that again. Don’t run from me ever again. Don’t leave me, (Y/N).”

His shaky breath felt warm against your skin. The realization was setting in for him. Swallowing your nerves, you gently wove your fingers into his hair, massaging his scalp in apology for the words you couldn’t speak. You hoped he wouldn’t ask any more questions.

Vash sighed heavily. With sudden force, he squeezed you in his arms. It was too tight, too strong to escape. Once again, you could hardly breathe. 

“Well, that’s okay. I won’t let that happen. Ever again.”

[sunsetseason8910]

The Best Brothers Aren't Blood Related llll

Here we gooooo

Tw:mental health, ADHD, language

A slow burn series of Jack and Spot exploring newfound relationships, mental health, and high school as teenage brothers.

"Jack I can explain!" Spot said, trying not to let the worry show on his face, but he really didn't want to dissapoint Jack.

"FUCKING FINALLY! I THOUGHT I WAS GONNA HAVE TO FORCE YOU TWO TO TOGETHER!!" Jack shouted energetically.

"Race... and Spot?? I don't see it," Davey said, bringing his finger to his chin as he pondered the idea of Jack's new favorite couple.

"Fuck you David," Spot said sharply, propping himself up on his elbows.

"Yea Davey, fuck you!" Race added on to Spot's comment, and copying his motion as well.

"Oh, yea, now I see it," Davey said, getting a laugh out of his boyfriend next to him. Spot and Race both high-fived at Davey's acceptance, getting more of a rise out of Jack.

The room went silent after that for a solid thirty seconds before Race said, "Well, this is awkward," breaking the silence.

The whole group nodded in unison as they just kind of sat there, like the awkward adolescents they were.

"Well I'm gonna go, and hopefully Davey you'll follow me," Jack said, winking at his boyfriend before exiting to his own room. Spot fake gagged loud enough for the two to hear, only for Jack to say, "Oh please you're probably about to fuck my best friend," as Davey walked out.

Needless to say that left Spot and Race both speechless.

"Why do you have a whiskey bottle on your nightstand," Race inquired, looking at the bottle of Eagle Rare whiskey on Spot's desk.

"It was my dad's before he passed away. He collected whiskey, and that was his favorite," Spot replied, and he luckily seemed pretty chill about it, as if he had come to terms with his father's death.

"Oh yea didn't he die on that trip to Ireland when he went to tour the distillery?" Race asked. Spot's dad had died when Spot was 10, five years ago, when Medda took Spot in. Mr. Conlon was on a vacation to Ireland when his plane crashed, resulting in the death of the father of everyone's favorite Irish kid- Spot.

"Yup, exactly five years and 19 days ago," Spot said, looking off at the bottle.

Race wasn't gonna question why Spot knew the exact amount of days, because Race knew better than anyone that people coped in different ways.

"My mom died when I was seven," Race said, causing a piercing silence to ring through the air. "My dad drank to cope with the pain. Took it out on me,"

"Race I'm so sorry," Spot said. "Does he still do it?"

"No, not anymore. My aunt sent him to rehab and I lived with her for a year, and when he came back it was like he was a new person." Race smiled slightly, thinking about how his father went from abusive to one of the best fathers in the world (in Race's opinion).

"Oh yea, don't you have one of those big-ass Italian families?" Spot asked. Race and Spot had known each other since they were little kids, what with Jack being best friends with Race. "Yea, Jack took me along to dinner at your house when I was ten. Just a few weeks after my dad died," Spot added.

"Oh yea, I remember my grandma got so sad just looking at you. You had puffy eyes, wouldn't talk to anyone-"

"Let's not dwell on the past," Spot joked. Spot hasn't been one to show vulnerability for a while now, he didn't need his past tainting that reputation.

"Let me take you out on a date," Race changed the subject, picking up on Spot's hints. "I'll pick you up at 6:00 tommorow,"

"Sounds great," Spot replied, biting back the biggest grin of his life.

Race's face practically beamed at Spot's acceptance.

"Can't wait," spot said truthfully.

"Me neither, Sean," Race replied. He knew just how much Spot hated his real name.

"You bastard!" Spot said, causing Race to clutch his stomach laughing.

♧----------♧

"So what are you gonna wear?" Jack said as though they were thirteen year old girls talking about a date to Dairy Queen.

"Fuck, I dunno," Spot shrugged, stealing a bite of ice cream from Jack's bowl.

"We you better figure it out. Race is probably gonna take you to this fancy Italian restaurant he loves. I think its called Fibonacci's or something," Jack said, slapping Spot's hand when it reached for more ice cream.

"You mean like the math sequence?" Spot asked, questioning Jack's sources.

"I dunno I'm probably just fucking stupid,"

"I second that," Spot agreed.

"Asshole," Jack mumbled pointedly.

"Dickbag,"

"Love you too, Spotty,"

"Call me that one more time and I'll strangle you,"

How did you guys like it? I tried to add some depth to Spot and Race's characters, but idk if it was any good. Constructive criticism welcome just don't be a bitch about it <333

[hopefully-nightly-doodles]

I don’t really post vent art here but I decided I o post this one cuz well… Honestly it’s mostly cuz I can’t sleep and have a lot of thoughts circling my head right now…

Vent hidden just incase people don’t wanna get depressed reading my wall of text sndbdj

I used to talk a lot in my twitter and I do have a priv that I had posted this vent art on weeks ago but idk- Twitter has become such a toxic space its hard to be active there even in my private account. Well actually its hard to be active anywhere for me, but if you’re a long time follower you probably already know that. I’m a hermit, and very much an introvert with a weird social battery. Every time someone tells me they think I was an extrovert I always get so confused by it-

I don’t even know where I’m going with this or if it will ever see the light of day, but it can’t hurt to try and process feelings right?

Im not going to go into detail on to what made me draw this or the full extent of what’s been happening cuz its complicated as fuck- But I can try and dissect how I’ve been feeling or at least try to. For the past month or maybe more I’ve been tipping back and forth on my mental health, and at the end of May the scales finally tipped over for the worst and I did something so fukin stupid. It was a snap instant regret kinda moment and I knew I fucked up big time. While yes, there were outside things that happened and build up turmoil months prior that got me to that point of mental deterioration before the snap, its on me to have let myself get that bad in the first place.

I should have taken more breaks when I knew I was pushing myself constantly, draining myself constantly. I should have been more firm with my boundaries whenever I mentioned them and should have been better at communicating the hurt and stress and pressure thats been building up before it all came crashing down.

People always say “love yourself before you love others”, and on a logical and fundamental level I always understand why. At least I think I do… But to deeply understand what it actually meant I knew I only had, at best, a foggy grasp of it. And since what’s happened recently I kinda get a little why now. People who are hurt will always end up hurting other people when that hurt is ignored or not properly processed.

And thats what happened to me. I hurt someone I really cared about and I feel gross and unbelievably disappointed in myself for it.

It doesn’t matter how hard you try to be better for others or to be there for people and be kind and supportive to them. Those acts of service and kindness, tho genuine, isn’t going to fill the hole in your heart that you aren’t giving that kind of support to yourself. It’s so self destructive and will leave you to grow bitter from the inside out. And thats why it was so hard to see, and why I didn’t notice till it was too late. Cuz on the outside I look and acted fine, but inside i was deteriorating so much that I got to a point I couldn’t not see it anymore. And in a desperate cry for help I tried to open about it and explain int the worst way possible up but snapped, crossed a boundary I shouldn’t have then ran away.

And I don’t mean snap like get angry, I meant like snap as in I had a mental break that led to the worst tunnel visioned, impulsive fueled action afterwards. Its so hard for me to get genuine angry at people and when I do I walk away to cool down. I at least have some comfort knowing I didn’t unleash burning hot fury on someone cuz I think I might actually puke if I get to that point. That I have become that kind of person. But anger isn’t the only way you can hurt someone and I feel like what I did was kinda worse then plain anger.

Since that happened I just been away from almost everything. I mean I know isolation isn’t the solution so I kept a couple of friends close to have a support system to help me through this. But I did it to think and process everything that happened and has happened before hand that led to that point. And I haven’t just been overthinking and sulking and mopping in the mess I made because honestly who does that help really? I guess that’s what lead me here, to making a tumblr post on my dump account at 7am in the morning. To pick apart my feelings and toss it into the void.

Well that and 2 other reasons… That part where I was talking about being disgusted by myself? Yeh well thoughts of me “erasing myself form the equation” and just snipping connections left and right had pop up in my head more times that in has ever been recently. Cuz you know if ***I’m*** the problem then haha I probably wouldn’t be missed then!

But then two people check up on me and like I shit you not I started crying on the spot. Actually sobbing (but not too loud cuz I can’t cry in this house hold) because oh wow not everyone hates me. Like yes I had my support system and they are doing gods work, they are lovely beautiful human beings and love and adore them! but it’s different when someone you weren’t expecting checks up on you, to know you occupy a space in their head and to hear and see that they cared enough about you to check.

One of them was a friend from a new more recent friend group I had been in when I joined a new fandom. Me and that person hadn’t been particularly close nor talked too much but I loved their company whenever we did get the chance. I wish I talked more to them but time zones and my own social anxiety kinda prevented that so that is something to work on. And the 2nd one was from an old friend I kinda drifted away from a lil, cuz again I moved fandoms, but was very close with. They have absolutely no clue about my current situation but actually checked up on me cuz of uh… The territorial tension between China and the Philippines hdkdbsjsb. It was so out of nowhere and unexpected like they didn’t even have my alt discord to message me but they found a way so I was kinda just super touched-

And those two interactions plus my awesome friends who have been a great support system, that keep me centered and grounded. Im reminded that people do care and that one mistake doesn’t make me scum of the world no matter how loud my toxic thoughts screams it at me. Especially not when I am trying to be better and recognize the mistakes I made and even apologized before taking my break from most my contacts. No one has even called me that but myself cuz Im so quick to be hard on myself for any mistakes.

All I can do now is keep myself centered, allow myself to feel my complicated feelings and process them in a healthy manner, do my best to be better moving forward, and to be patient with myself and move at my own pace.

Hey if you got this far into reading, wow you must have a lot of free time! /lh jdkdjdhdjdhd-

That or you’re just really interested in how I’ve been. I’ve been called mysterious, aloof and hard to read before so maybe you wanted to know what actually goes on upstairs lol.

But either way here’s a little something for reading I guess. The words in the vent art is actually lyrics and this was the song I was listening too when I was making it. Additionally if you’re feeling sad and need a song to listen to try this, it helps me process emotions. Either way if you happen to stumble on this, I hope you get something form this and that you have a nice day.

[kendraw]

I can't believe its been 6 years since I did these pages... I really want to bring my comic out of hiatus! And I will- SOON... I mainly wanted to remind people that I HAVE a comic! It's called Cosmic Joke! I've been doing a lot of work behind the scenes to make reboot come out without issue, a lot of retooling of the script, learning 3D for the backgrounds- actually having character sheets/model sheets to go off of so things stay consistent... Everything I've shown glimpses of for the past 6 years have been in service of making everything run as smoothly as I possibly can while still maintaining activity- Being a one man machine is hard stuff!

But most importantly... I've been working on my mental health. Right after I excitedly announced my comic in 2015 (and I mean RIGHT AFTER I announced it) Some bad actors and ex friends decided to spread some false rumors and misinformation about me. It destroyed my mental health. I have PTSD from the experience. I'm in trauma therapy for it. I tried to work through the stress and the pain- If I could just focus and dedicate all my time to my comic- I could move past it! Or so I thought. But these things catch up to you, and because of my negligence- I crashed and burned... HARD. I suffered burn-out. I was depressed- struggling to find a way to care about art- to motivate myself. I've always struggled with motivation (turns out I had undiagnosed ADHD- but that's a conversation for another time) But this was different. I needed help. So... I went to therapy! And it saved my life. Now, I'm nowhere near where I need to be- but I'm further than I once was, and that means something, I think! Anyway, I guess I felt it was important to share a message about the state of the comic- No I haven't given up on it, no I'm not done with it, and yes I'll be returning to it- I can't give an exact date, but just know that it's coming sooner- rather than later. Thank you to everyone who has had patience and faith in me and my projects, it means more than you know. I know I'm not the most chatty person online anymore, but I do pay attention and read your kind words- and it does reach me. You matter, and you are great 💕