#I'm kind of...just a wanderer at this site??

[inbabylontheywept]

The Motherfucking Lizard King

No one at work trusts my boss. 

He's smart. He works hard. He's not trustworthy. He hasn't actually fucked anyone at work over, but he's ruined his last two marriages with affairs, and got dumped by his third fiance when he wouldn't sign a prenup. The fact that we all know this is just a hazard of working in a small town. 

Anyway: The thought process of the people in the lab is that if he screwed over his first wife, and his second wife, and was probably planning on screwing over his third wife, it would be insane for him not to screw us over. After all, what kind of idiot treats their employees better than their spouse? 

I dunno. His kind, I guess? He's had a few chances to fuck us over, and he hasn't taken them. Opposite really. When our parent company was doing furloughs, he stayed in the office almost a hundred hours, talking and talking and talking his way up the corporate ladder. And in the end, no one at our site got furloughed. 

He's pulled strings like that before. And it baffles me, right? Because it really does make zero sense. He'll move the heavens and the earth for us, but his wife and kids are afterthoughts. It feels like any moment, he's going to look into the mirror and realize how stupid that is. It feels like I'm betting on him making the same stupid mistake again, and again, and again - like it would be less cynical to believe he was, eventually, going to stab me in the back. But he hasn't yet, and as far as I can tell he's been making that mistake for close to fifteen years, and it's already cost him everything it can. If he was going to learn, he would have by now. 

So my position on him is that if he wanted to date someone I cared about, I'd warn them off. I don't trust him there. But I tentatively trust him to be my boss. Maybe one day he'll stick the knife in and twist, and everyone will say Ah, Babs, we warned you, but for now, I accept that he's doing a very predictable, very irrational thing, and I've made my peace with it. 

---

My job has glue traps. 

No one likes the glue traps, but we don't have a lot of options. Poison's banned by state law, spring traps are banned by company safety, and several non-lethal options tried in the past failed to work. The mouse problem can get pretty bad if it's ignored, and there's some real health hazards in that. Our site has never had a positive hantavirus test, thank God, but the big base about a half hour away has. That guy's gonna be on oxygen the rest of his life. 

If a mouse gets caught, we just euthanize it. But more than mice get stuck. Lizards can wander into those traps too, and the people working there have different feelings about the lizards. They don't pose nearly the same kind of risk mice do. They're chill little guys, and they keep the moths away, and they're just 

You know. They're friendly. There's something to be said about walking into a room, and hitting the light switch, and seeing two little guys on the wall start to do pushups as soon as they see you. 

People used to just euthanize the lizards too, but I had pet leopard geckos as a kid and I couldn't take that so I wound up googling how to free animals from glue traps. Now, when a lizard gets stuck in a trap - which happens once or twice a week - I get some vegetable oil from the breakroom, and a little plastic fork, and I'll spend fifteen to twenty minutes just kind of gently prying the little guys out. 

I have a team of technicians that help me operate one of the larger machines. They're real blue collar guys, ex-airforce, and they make me look like a little kid. Being an engineer means they'll look to me as a leader sometimes, which is a wild experience. And I started helping the lizards for my own conscience, but one of the crazier consequences of it has been that it seriously boosted my leadership cred. Because those guys see me, and they go: Hey. If he's willing to fight for a lizard, he's gotta be willing to fight for me. 

I cannot overstate how nice that is. Most engineers that want to make a change to a maintenance practice, or try an upgrade, they have to work their asses off to get the techs to buy in. But I can just ask. They already trust me to do good. They know I'm new, and they know I'm not the smartest engineer in the building, but they also know I'm the one who gets lizards out of the glue traps. 

And just because of that, they're willing to follow me. 

---

My boss has a meeting every month or two. It's typically basic house cleaning stuff - reminders about routines we've gotten lazy on, and updates on future projects. Maybe some warnings about problems coming from higher up in the company.

People are, in my opinion, a bit too cynical about the meetings. It stems from people not trusting our boss, which again, I understand, because it would make so much more sense if he wasn't trustworthy. It's a testament to the man's incredibly unhealthy priorities that he is. But as we made it to the end of the meeting, one of bullet points was: 

Do NOT mess with animals in the building. 

So I looked at my techs, and they looked at me, and when he got to the point, he was so scathing I actually just wanted to crawl under a rock and die. He said basically that he'd heard some reports about someone in the building handling animals that found their way in and got stuck, and that he just wanted to emphasize how insanely inappropriate that was, not to mention dangerous, and that if he needed to speak to anyone about it again, there would be severe consequences. 

I was willing to just take the shame and move on. I was. But one of my techs is old. Old enough he could've retired two years ago. And his actual literal goal is to one day get angry, yell at someone, and storm out. That's how he wants to retire. So instead of biting his tongue like everyone else, he stood up and said: I hate the glue traps. You hate the glue traps. We all hate glue traps. But we've all sat here for years, ignoring the little things that get stuck in them, watching them die, and then Bab's comes in, and he is the first person in decades to give enough of a shit to start pulling the lizards out. And I don't want him to stop. 

Get humane traps or shut up but we are not going back to the old way of just letting things starve. 

And my boss actually froze up. He got all wide eyed and stared at Marc, and then the other techs jumped in, and there was a very small but intense rebellion in the meeting and my boss kept trying to interrupt while getting absolutely bowled over by this gang of angry middle aged air force vets, and eventually he just went 

I will speak with Babylon about this afterwards! After! And then he will speak with everyone else, but I have more points to cover. 

So they went silent, and my boss rushed through the last five minutes, and we all adjounred. The techs really didn't like that I was going in alone - they thought our boss was going to try and shout me into compliance. Marc in particular was like, Look, if he tries bullying you, stand your ground, and if he threatens anything, just come get us, and we'll give him hell. 

So armed with that, I went to my boss's office. I sat in the chair across from him, and he kept his composure for maybe five seconds before just flopping back into his chair. 

I had no idea you were saving lizards, he said, but I'm glad you are. I always hated seeing them die in the glue.  

I wasn't expecting that. I was about to ask him what the comment from the meeting was about then, but he answered that before I even got the chance.

A snake got into the building last week, and - someone picked it up and chased a coworker around. Turns out that coworker was severely afraid of snakes, and now it's a shitshow. We're a small site, and now I can't ask those two to work together anymore, to say nothing about how the snake fared after all that. Being upset about that is a reasonable thing, right? 

And he gave me a look like he actually wanted an answer, so I said Yeah, totally, chasing a coworker around with a snake is a dick move. Especially if that coworker is already afraid of snakes. 

And he said Exactly! and then we sat there a few moments longer. He looked so incredibly tired that I did, actually, feel kind of bad for him. And then he somehow managed to sink even further into his chair, and said

Look, I know I'm not a good guy. But I'm not evil. I'm not some sort of crazy asshole that's going to demand that everyone watch lizards starve to death. When you go back downstairs, could you try to pass that on? That I'm not evil? 

I said Sure because it wasn't a hard request, and he looked relieved. I actually made it halfway out before I realized I had a question. 

Who grabbed the snake? I asked. 

Not supposed to talk about it, he said. But whoever comes to mind first is probably right. 

ThatGuy? I asked. And he looked me in the face, nodded his head yes, and said No. 

---

The techs seemed a little disappointed that they didn't get to storm the boss's office, but were otherwise in good spirits. They were actually a little bit embarrassed to hear about the snake story - apparently, it wasn't much of a secret. It'd just slipped their minds because it happened three weeks ago. 

We did maintenance after that, the same basic repairs we did every week. The meeting had been stressful and it was a relief to work with my hands. When the parts were reinstalled, everything cleaned and smooth and ready to go, Marc found me again. 

You know what the lesson of today is? he asked. And there were quite a few answers to that that I could have taken - from don't assume the worst of people to be careful with how you spend your trust - we all need it more than we think. 

But instead I said what? because I wanted to hear what his answer was going to be. 

That I got your back, he said. Then he clapped one very, very large hand on my shoulder, gave it a good squeeze, and walked back to dosimetry lab.

---

The next day, Marc gave me a package and told me to open it in my office. I was suspicious, but I followed the request.

Cardboard gave way to a small baggie, obviously full of fabric, which opened to reveal a t-shirt that read

"I Am the Motherfucking Lizard King."

I looked at it, I loved it, and then I got an idea. I went to my boss's office and knocked on the door. When he opened it, I asked him if he would be willing to allow something very unprofessional to happen for morale building purposes.

How unprofessional? he asked. I held the shirt up in answer. He gave the shirt a short look over and snorted.

You can wear it on weeks without customers, he said. Which just so happened to include that week.

I'll pass on that it came with your blessing, I replied, and he looked oddly relieved.

Thanks, he said. And then I went downstairs.

---

The techs were very, very happy to see the shirt. And while my boss's reputation remains in tatters, and probably will be until he moves (or dies), the next time there was a meeting, there was quite a bit less complaining about how mere presence. Which is, I guess, a start.

We'll see if he squanders it.

[nightmare-niko]

Pretty When You Cry [Father Charlie Mayhew x reader]

pt. 2

Word Count: 1916

Warnings: manhandling, kinda munch! Charlie, one slap, mean! Dom Charlie, blasphemy (they fuck in the church😬)

A/N: not my gifs! I have the originals reblogged on my page😘 this was actually already being written and then I got an anon request for basically exactly what I was already writing!! Hope ya like it hehe 🙃 i also dont really ever write like this kind of smut so i hope i did good!!

Copying or translating my writing is not allowed. If you see my work on another site it is stolen. Reblogs are appreciated and encouraged.

You weren't a religious person by any means. But staying the night at your parents had you up early, trying to find the most church-appropriate outfit. of course, your parents failed to tell you that they were planning on bringing you along to church. Your skirt was a bit too short. But it is not like you had room to complain with such short notice!

You remember going to high school with Father Charlie— or as you knew him Charlie. The two of you didn't run with the same crowds-- but you knew each other.

Now, here you were. Paying no attention to the words coming from his mouth and all attention to how good he looked. Damn-- maybe you should have shot your shot years ago when he was a personal trainer.

As you watched him at the head of the room, you allowed your mind to wander.

One extremely long and boring sermon later, you stand awkwardly behind your parents as they talk to what Seems like every member of the church. God how you regret agreeing to come-- It's not like you knew anyone here- none of your friends went to church. But here you were, being judged by middle-aged churchgoers. How fun.

The sound of your name being called catches your attention.

You whip your head around to the noise, "Father Charlie!" The name is unnatural as it falls from your lips. You quickly look at your parents- too engrossed in a conversation. “It's been a while!" You awkwardly step closer to the man.

He hums, "It has been, hasn't it? The first time in the church as well.”

“Well, you know...” You gesture back to your parents.

"I'm assuming this wasn't on your schedule.” He looks you up and down, “Given your attire.”

You gasp sharply, heat rising to your face as you pathetically try to pull your skirt down. "I-uh,” you try to think of an excuse, "I didn't pack any pants..." You lie-- lying in a church is one thing but to the priest?

If Charlie sensed your lie he didn't comment on it. "Well, I hope you enjoyed today's sermon.”

"I did!" You lie again, a little too enthusiastically.

Charlie narrows his eyes at you, "You weren't paying attention, were you?" His voice is playful.

"No, I was not," You quickly confess.

He laughs, you have to fight to not stare shamefully at his beautiful face for too long. "That's odd— because when I looked at you, you looked very focused," He teases.

“I wasn't paying attention to your voice. Just your fa-" you stop in your tracks. Utterly petrified at the situation you have just found yourself in. His eyebrows raise in surprise at your slip-up. “I mean I didn't even know that you could see me in that crowd-- I-I- just figured that-”

“That every time we locked eyes it wasn't on purpose?” he finishes your thought.

You nod pathetically, your shoes suddenly extremely interesting.

Charlie takes a step towards you, the proximity making you look up at the man. Has he always been that tall? "I want you to go into my office and wait for me.” His voice is a seductive tone you have never heard him use before. It sends a shiver down your spine.

“But what about my parents?” you ask, voice just above a whisper.

“Dont worry about them,” he assures before walking away. Leaving you standing alone— stunned.

To say you were terrified was an understatement. Sure, you weren't in any danger-- at least you didn't think so. What exactly had you gotten yourself into? Here you sat, in a priest's office. Surrounded by biblical Imagery. And you were 99% Sure you were soaked through your cotton panties, you didn't care. No one but you was going to know... right?

Five minutes turned to ten. You sat anxiously in the chair across from Charlie's desk. A clock on the wall ticked away obnoxiously. You had figured when you walked in it would take him a while for him to return. how long should you wait? Has he forgotten that you were sitting in his office, impatiently waiting? You didn't dare to snoop, or even scroll on your phone. Charlie said to wait for him, and that's what you would do.

For thirty minutes you're alone in that office. you straighten your posture when you hear the clicks of Charlie’s boots nearing. The sound of the door opening makes you flinch pathetically. You don't dare turn around. Eyes glued on the desk in front of you.

Charlie is silent as he moves around behind you. Your pulse pounds in your throat at the anticipation.

“You seem nervous.” You tense at his voice, still refusing to turn around and face the man.

You try to swallow the lump in your throat, “I am nervous, Father.” You press your thighs together in an atempt to find some sort of relief to your throbbing center.

He groans quietly from behind you, “look at me.”

Like a magnet your head whips around to look at the man. His sharp gaze made your breath hitch. You felt hazy as he stepped towards you. Your eyes locked on his as he comes to stand right in front of you. Your breath quickens when he captures your chin in between his thumb and pointer finger.

Charlies predatory gaze on you deepens, his lips curling into a smirk, "you--" he rubs the lipstick on your mouth, smudging it. "Are such a pretty mess for me, darling.”

You bat your eyelashes up at him, “I don't know what you mean, Father.”

He grips the sides of your face harshly, cheeks smushing together into a pout. “Showing up to my church dressed like a slut—” he spits, “shamlessly eyefucking me the whole time like you were the only one in the room.”

You whimper at his words— he was right of course. But that didn't stop your face from flushing in embarrassment.

“Now look at you. Slut. Sitting before me like a doe as if you didn’t wait in my office hoping I would come in here and fuck you like the whore that you are.”

You moan shamelessly when he lets go of your face, while your whole body was screaming at you to submit to the man before you. You could help but push his buttons just a little bit further.

“You know for a priest you sure do have a filthy mouth—” His eyes narrow on you as you speak. “im such a slut but here you are hard in your pants over a damn mini skirt.” If looks could kill, you’d surely be dead. You needed more.

You open your mouth to speak again. But before you could even get a sound out, Charlie strikes his large hand across your cheek. You moan again, “fuck!”

Wordlessly, he turns to the desk before you. You watch curiously as he haphazardly pushes the clutter on his desk onto the floor. Your hands tremble in anticipation as you watch him bound towards you. He effortlessly picks you up from the chair you sat on, as if a reflex you cross you’d ankles behind his back as his hands greedily grip your thighs and ass.

He gently places you on the recently cleared off desk. A stark contrast to the way he effortlessly hoisted you from your seat. You attempt to grind down in the wooden desk under you for some kind of stimulation, but Charlie’s grip stops you.

“So impatient,” he purrs. He captures your lips in a quick, gentle kiss. You whine at the loss of him, but you don’t have to worry for long as his hands greedily grasps at your skirt, tearing at your legs. He leaves you with one last opened mouth kiss as he begins to trail wet kisses down your neck.

He mumbles something you can’t quite hear. But you don’t really care when he sinks to his knees, his strong hands prying your legs open. He trails more kisses to your inner thigh all the way up to your core. He licks a stripe over your soaked through panties, your legs try to close but his hands are holding your thighs open. His eyes lock on yours as he pulls them down your legs, the speed agonizing as you whimper. In a second his lips are back on you, his wet kisses up your thighs driving you mad.

“Charlie,” You thread your hand through his hair as he bites and licks at your heat like a starved man.

He mumbles a quick “no,” as he pulls away from you. His chin slicked and shiny from you. The scene is pornographic, if you had a camera you’d take a picture. He fumbles with his belt buckle and throws it to the side, the metal clanking to the floor loudly. You shamelessly stare as he stands back up, towering over you again he gets close enough that you feel his breath on your face.

“Look at you,” he tuts. You lurch forward— pulling him into a greedy, filthy kiss. When he moans into your mouth it’s the most heavenly sound you’ve ever heard. Pushing you back into the desk, once again he’s muttering something, a prayer. You paw at his zipper and he lazily watches you has you pull out his angry cock.

“Please?” You beg, tears welling up in your eyes from sheer sexual frustration.

“Since you asked so nicely~” he steals a quick kiss before dragging his leaking tip through your folds.

He pushes into you fully in one smooth motion. Your back arches up off of the desk, wood painfully digging into your spine. You didn’t care— all you cared about was him.

Fast sharp deep thrusts have you screaming as the sounds of skin ring throughout the office. You curse- throwing your arms over your head. Charlie’s mouth gaping while he groans, pressing and thrusting himself into you.

"Just, like that, oh.. god." You wail as he slams himself into your g spot repeatedly.

Charlie greedily paws at your clothed breasts as his hips slap into yours. You clench around him— you can already feel your orgasm building from the rough pace set. Charlie’s hips stutter from your action and you clench again. A low groan leaves his beautifully shaped lips as he digs his fingers into your hips.

You moan— you try to form words but Charlie feels so good inside of you that your brain feels like mush. He seems to be able to tell your close however by the way his thumb reaches down to rub sloppy circles onto your clit.

Your vision turns white as you come undone. Your nails dig into the desk below you as Charlie chases his own release. He leans down, pressing kisses into your cheeks and necks, unlike the kisses before; these are gentle and caring. You hiss when he pulls out of you, missing the feeling of him inside you immediately.

“How much convincing will it take for you to come to next weeks service?” He breathily laughs against the side of your face.

“If it’s gonna end like this again— none at all.”

♡︎༻🌸༺♡︎

Tag list (If you want to be added just comment!)

@Nallasstuff @chmpgneprblem @qoopeeya @lilybellalana @sleepysongbirdsings

[hedgehog-moss]

I say this with genuine care for you and all your creatures: You gotta get a real fence. One of these days someone is going to get out and it’s not going to end well. You do not want that kind of guilt on your conscience and you definitely do not want to deal with the kind of assholes on this site who will spend every day reminding you of it.

I do have a real fence! I spent 2 years building it. It was a big investment of time and money; people who've followed me for a while will remember what a long and gruelling process it was. It involves 2-metre posts, wood crossbars at the top and bottom, and solid wire netting which I spent hours and hours tying to the crossbars every 10cm (for hundreds of metres of fence!) so Pampe has absolutely no room to fit her head anywhere.

It's a marvel of modern engineering and Pampe has never managed to jump over it or break it on her own, but sometimes things happen to fences—last time it was a boar that ran through the netting, today it was a large branch that fell on a crossbar and broke it. I actually went to investigate before dinner to see what was wrong and if I could patch it up quickly tonight and repair it tomorrow.* I usually check the fence for damage after a storm but there was no storm this week, just some wind...

When Pampe gets out it's not because nothing is done to keep her in her pasture but because my fence is not made of pure titanium and Pampe is always quicker than me to detect any damage. She escaped twice this year, one time because of the boar hole, and once via a gap in the still-incomplete living fence I'm trying to grow, but then I made a better temporary fence in this area and she didn't get out again. I think the last time she got out before that was when I let the llamas graze in my neighbour's pasture (with his permission) for an afternoon, and his fence isn't Pampe-proof so it was a game of constant vigilance, which I lost. If I sound breezy when I write a Pampe escape post it's because I know she doesn't go very far, she goes for a stroll in my woods then comes back. The road near my house is a small road between villages where cows frequently wander about—you're much more likely to run into a cow than into my llama!

* Morille accompanied me when I went to inspect the fence earlier and had a wonderful time with the string I was trailing behind me :)

[typezerostudios]

.

[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.

[natsgrave]

TO BE LOVED IS TO BE KNOWN | wanda maximoff

i don't wanna look at anything else now that i saw you. i don't wanna think of anything else now that i thought of you. i've been sleeping so long in a 20-year dark night, and now i see daylight, i only see daylight. i do not give permission for my work to be copied or translated on other sites. plagiarism is a crime! masterlist whispers of heartache m.list

AU

In the heart of a bustling city, amidst the clamor of everyday life, there was a small bookstore called "Whispering Pages." This quaint shop, with its creaky wooden floors and shelves overflowing with books, was a sanctuary for those seeking solace and understanding in the pages of stories. It was here that two souls, Y/N and Wanda, found each other and began a journey that would teach them the true meaning of love.

Wanda was a quiet, introspective woman with a penchant for losing herself in the worlds crafted by her favorite authors. Her days were spent managing the bookstore, and her nights were filled with the comfort of a good book. She was content in her solitude, finding companionship in the characters and stories she cherished.

Y/N, on the other hand, was a vibrant, outgoing woman with a zest for life that was contagious. A journalist by profession, she was always on the move, chasing stories and capturing moments. Despite her busy lifestyle, she had a deep appreciation for literature and often found herself wandering into "Whispering Pages" to escape the chaos of the outside world.

One rainy afternoon, as Wanda was engrossed in organizing a new shipment of books, Y/N entered the store, shaking off the droplets of rain from her coat. She walked to the counter, where Wanda was carefully arranging a display of classic novels.

"Excuse me," Y/N said, her voice warm and friendly. "Do you have any recommendations for a good read on a rainy day?"

Wanda looked up, momentarily startled by the sudden interruption. She saw a woman with kind eyes and an inviting smile, and despite her usual reserved nature, she found herself wanting to engage.

"Well," she began, her voice soft but steady, "it depends on what you're in the mood for. Do you have a particular genre in mind?"

Y/N leaned against the counter, considering her question. "I think I'm in the mood for something introspective, something that makes you reflect on life and love."

A smile tugged at the corners of Wanda's lips. "I think I have just the thing." She walked over to a nearby shelf, selecting a book with a worn cover and handing it to Y/N. "This is one of my favorites. It's a beautiful exploration of what it means to truly know and be known by another person."

Y/N took the book from her, their fingers brushing briefly. She glanced at the title and nodded appreciatively. "Thank you, Wanda. This looks perfect."

Over the following months, Y/N became a regular visitor to the bookstore. Each visit brought with it a new conversation, a deeper connection. They discussed books, life, and their own hopes and dreams. Wanda found herself opening up to Y/N in a way she had never done with anyone before, and Y/N, in turn, shared parts of herself that she usually kept hidden.

One evening, as the sun began to set and the bookstore was bathed in a golden glow, Y/N approached Wanda with a sense of purpose. "Wanda, would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

Wanda hesitated for a moment, her heart racing. She had grown accustomed to their conversations, to the way Y/N made her feel seen and understood.

She nodded, a shy smile spreading across her face. "I'd like that very much."

They walked to a nearby café, their conversation flowing as naturally as the evening breeze. As they sat across from each other, Y/N reached for Wanda's hand. "You know, Wanda, I've been thinking a lot about what it means to love someone. I used to believe that love was about grand gestures and passionate declarations, but you've shown me that it's about something much deeper."

Wanda squeezed her hand gently, her eyes meeting Y/N's. "What do you mean?"

"To love someone is to truly know them," Y/N said softly. "It's about understanding their fears, their dreams, their quirks. It's about seeing them for who they really are and accepting them wholeheartedly. And Wanda, you've made me realize that I've never known anyone the way I know you." She added, "You have a way of speaking that is uniquely on your own, a melody that dances in the air and lingers long after the words have faded. Your voice, soft and melodious, carries a warmth that can soothe even the most troubled soul. When you speaks, it's as if each word is carefully chosen, imbued with meaning and intention. Whether you're sharing a grand idea or simply recounting on your day, there's a sincerity in your tone that draws me in." Y/N started. "Your laughter is like a burst of sunlight breaking through the clouds on a gloomy day. It's infectious, a sound that bubbles up from deep within you and spills out in a cascade of joy. I love the way your eyes light up when you laughs, how they crinkle at the corners and sparkle with mirth. It's in those moments, when you're lost in laughter, that I see the purest, most unguarded version of you—a sight that never fails to make my heart swell with affection."

Tears welled up in Wanda's eyes as she listened to Y/N's words.

"One of the things I adore most about you, Wanda, is your kindness. It's not always in grand gestures, though you're certainly capable of those, but in the little things you do every day. I've seen you comfort a stranger who looked lost, offer a smile to someone who seemed down, and take the time to listen to a friend in need. Your empathy knows no bounds, and it's in these small acts of kindness that your true beauty shines." Y/N continued to ramble, "You also have this habit of tucking your hair behind your ear when you're deep in thought, a gesture so simple yet so endearing. I've watched you do it countless times, each instance a reminder of how intimately familiar I've become with your little quirks. And when you're excited about something, your whole face lights up." She stopped for a moment before gazing at Wanda's eyes, "But perhaps what I love most about you is your unwavering authenticity. You are unapologetically yourself, never trying to be anything other than who you are. It's a rare and precious quality, one that draws people and makes them feel comfortable in your presence. You have a way of making the people around you feel seen and valued, of creating a space where we can be our true self without fear of judgment."

"Y/N, I've always been afraid of letting people in, of being truly known. But with you, it feels different. It feels right." Wanda stated, tears in her eyes.

Y/N smiled, her heart swelling with emotion. "Wanda, you are the most incredible person I've ever met. And I want to spend the rest of my life getting to know you even better, loving you for all that you are."

It's the small things, the details that might go unnoticed by others, that have woven Wanda into the fabric of Y/N's love for her. She is the embodiment of everything Y/N cherish, a constant source of joy and inspiration. To love Wanda is to know her, truly and deeply, and Y/N count herself incredibly fortunate to share this journey with Wanda.

Years passed, and "Whispering Pages" became more than just a bookstore; it became a testament to their love. Wanda and Y/N built a life together, filled with the understanding and acceptance that comes from truly knowing and being known by another person.

In every glance, every touch, every word, Y/N find new reasons to fall in love with Wanda all over again. She is her muse, her confidante, her greatest adventure. And as long as there are new things to discover about Wanda, Y/N know that her love for Wanda will only continue to grow, blossoming like the flowers she so adores, forever and always.

In the end, they realized that love wasn't about perfection or always having the right words. It was about being present, listening, and cherishing each other's hearts. And as they stood together, surrounded by the books that had brought them together, they knew that their love was a story worth telling, one that would endure for generations to come.

[chorllosbook]

When you accidentally touch their chest or ass(fem reader)

Including-

Raiden,yae miko,navia,shenhe.

+ confessions -in yae mikos sorry:(

-yae miko

You and miko have known each other for awhile now and it’s safe to say you two get along quite well and make quite the interesting pair...you and miko were eating lunch together the food was of good quality and had a creamy texture that would melt in your mouth as your taste buds tingle from the slight spice that lingered threw you mouth made your eyes slightly widen “miko what is this?” Miko moves her gaze from the plate to you”hm why? Not a fan of it?” Miko swears this dish you would’ve loved “ah no not that it’s just…so good”you eyes look down to the plate of your food as yae miko chuckles “dear (reader) I knew you would be a fan of this particular dish in fact I’m quite a fan as well.”you wander your eyes back to hers”oh what is it?””oh this hmm..just some curry”you haven’t been in inazuma long so the food was truly a new adventure for you to continue,miko takes a spoon of the dish until a little bit falls about to dirty her shirt..her white shirt making you jump up and try to catch the small creamy orange droplet…when you open your eyes you see a small stain on her top “fuck” you whispered to distracted to notice your head cupping the fat of her breast you thoughts got cut off by miko chuckling”my~my~ feeling naughty arnt we~” miko jokes as your face flushes a slight shade of peach “s-sorry” you remove your now blessed hand off her chest miko smirks at your reaction she’s gonna tease you about this moment forever now good job…

-raiden Ei

Ei was siting alone under the sakura trees of inazuma as her purple hues glistened in the morning sun a certain sadness or perhaps loneliness reflected off them…you observed silently from behind how it hurt you so to see such sadness,guilt even in her eyes it made you so soft and weak….”Ei I’ve gotten you some sweets I hope they are to your taste” ei looks at you with a slightly more joyful expression “oh why thank you how thoughtful of you..”you place down the small bamboo tray down “mind if I join you ei?” Ei lightly pats beside her for you to sit next to her you slowly move to sit next to her "ei.." you lightly mutter under your breath "hmm something wrong" ei's voice slightly dims "I...I love you" tears find their ways into the corner of your now glossy eyes as ei slowly turns to you with wide eyes "i-I see...well I must admit I have fallen for you as well.." your eyes widen in surprise "wait really?!" You jump on ei with the look of a puppy that just found its favourite chew toy "I must admit I wasn't expecting you to be so intimate from the start.." you look down to see your hand on her chest making your face heat up as you pull your hand off her chest "I'm so sorry ei.."

-navia

It was truly a wonderful day clear sky's not a dark cloud in sight and a warm sun shining on you and navia's skin "thank you so much navia first you take me out to lunch now you walk me home are you sure this is okay?" Navia giggles "nope! Not at all anything for you ;)" you lightly blush as you look at navias face and study her features such lovely curls and bright big eyes oh how you viewed her as perfect you vowled to never make her cry or give her sadness you just "y/nn you there" navia lightly nudges your shoulder "y-yea sorry" naiva moves closer "whats got your head in celestia thinking of somone~~" navias statement makes you look away "don't be shy tell me the lucky person!" You slowly look down "it's you.." navai looks confused "hmm what was that I didn't hear you" you look up at navia "it you! I was thinking about you!" Navias smile grows impossibly wider "me huh" you slowly nodded "c-can I hold your hand naiva" "of course ma douce" you move you hand to hers but you didn't feel hand more like a soft pillow kind of thing "oh my! Feeling passionate already!" Navia giggles as your eyes widen and quickly move your hand away form her lower "ik so sorry!" You face bright red as navia laughs

-shenhe

Shenhe liked to follow you around the mountains after meeting you in the harbour she likes watching you as you went fishing or simply got cooking ingredients cloud retainer advised her to talk to you but shenhe didn't know how to approach you she was stuck looking at you from afar peeking from behind a tree "master said I should give it a go and so I will.." shenhe slowly walks up behind you "hello y/n" you turn around and stop what you are doing "oh shenhe how are you it's been so long" you smile at shenhe with that bright kind smile "I've been rather fine lately may I ask about you" you giggle "I've been very well lately" you pat the spot besides you shenhe slowly sat besides you "here you like Qingxin stalks I saw you buying them in the harbour to eat" you hand her the plant "thank you very much" shenhe face light turns abit pink shenhe doesn't know why she feels this way around you and why master always encourages her to get to know you better "some thing wrong shenhe?" Shenhe shakes her head "I must take my leave now.." "Wait!" As shenhe gets up you grap apart of her bird tail like cloth to stop her making her trip taking you with her...your head didn't feel any force of the fall just in something soft and warm you didn't really want get off.."apologies are you alright y/n" shenhe looks back at you "OH IM SO SORRY SHENHE I DIDN'T MEAN TO LAY THERE!" You quickly get up as shenhe looks at you confused and concerned "why is it you're sorry" "it's ok never mind" you mutter "y/n what do you think love feels like" you are lightly surprised at the question "well um when you admire somone or think they are as stunning as a flower and they make you feel warm..well that's how I see it" you lightly blush "hmm I see...well y/n I think I love you" your face flushes as you get taken back by her words "me to..I love you shenhe.."

Sorry if they are ooc I gave it my all😭

[alta1red]

HAZBIN HOTEL . IMAGINE . II 'The Darling Artisan from the Clouds'.

𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀 : [ NAME. ] Is exploring Pentagram City, and runs into a certain Radio Demon..

𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮 : [ NAME. ]'s luck might either be the worst, or the best no in-between . Alastor being a creep . OOC Alastor . Small amount of dialogue .

𝑷𝑻. : II.

— Well, congrats ! You somehow managed to avoid probably all the wrong kinds of people in Hell ( that being certainly 99% of its total population.. ) , was it due to sheer luck? Or by some stupid twist of fate something else awaits you in your path? Maybe, maybe not.

• As you wandered the streets of Hell and witnessed around One.. Hundred incidents of violence, abuse, prostitution, people getting mugged and drug dealing —You remained peaceful (?), ( you held your art matierials closer to your figure. ) although your inspiration did take abit of a dark turn in its source. Your cloak, and subtle presence helped you alot in hiding your angelic features .

• But your presence certainly didn't manage to slip by a certain .. Shadow Minion of a Radio Demon.

• 'It', 'He'? Observed you with careful precision, you certainly didn't think you'd be able to just waltz around in Hell unnoticed, did you? As you wandered mindlessly through Pentagram City blissfully and ignorantly prancing around as you gazed at horrid theatrics.

• How interesting ! Oh how 'His' smile got even wider ,

• As you accidentally bumped into people left and right in the Enertainment District, you always muttered small apologies —As if the reciever was even sober to hear it.

• Your manners were impeccable, how kind of you ! It's almost as if you don't belong here.

• 'He' knows you don't.

• You feel it, the feelings been gnawing at your back for awhile now.. Someone has been following you, and so that's why you were practically near a sprint as you ran through Districts, and Border zones —Fully debating on using your wings to get away from 'It' entirely, but weighing the pro's and con's were obviously needed before taking such a drastic option and life threatening decision.

• And since you didn't want to be hunted down, or even worse —Reported to the King of Hell, you took alleyways and random directions hoping to run away and have its sight's lose you. ( Dumb Decision. )

• Now DEAR. You didn't think you'd run away so easily now do you? After all, the site of an angel after the extermination was worrying ! How he wanted to try Angel Meat —However, he must introduce himself to you first !

• As you ran into another alleyway —" Shit! Dead end — "

• A dark murky shadow formed behind you, your instincts caused you to turn into fight or flight mode — Your halo glowed violently reacting potently from your panicked emotions,

— START OF MEMORY.

" No need to act so —violently, My Dear ! " The Demon's voice had a static filter —possibly done on purpose, he donned a transatlantic accent —He felt powerful, yes —but you've been enhancing your ability, even when Heaven was probably the most peaceful place in the entire universe, despite the fact Adam caused a ruckus every now and then —but he's already dead, so peaceful it was once more;

The Demon found your panicked expression comedic, hilarious, fun.

Like Prey facing Predator.

Could it be you felt fear? Panic? Whatever it was, it was certainly messing with your train of thought— you needed to rationalize yourself !

Talking a sharp breath and sucking it up, you then inquired — " I'm so sorry Sir, I was just rather startled .. " Your tone was geniune, yes —But your actions certainly told what you actually felt —Your hands quivered and beads of sweat started to form under the hood of your cloak.

" What a frightened Swan ! What's an Angel like you doing here ? " 'He' mused, relishing within your frightened presence. Your gaze turned cold as you felt your sweat turn freezing, your jaw slightly agape—

You looked at him before saying, " —

— END OF MEMORY.

• Your encounter with the Radio Demon was far from pleasant, but you wouldn't admit it. It's not nice to do so,

.

.

.

—FIN.

[nonbinarylocalcryptid]

Astyanax procrastinates a little that thing about going to save his baba in the same very way I'm procrastinating my thesis a little

Enjoy the snippet

Astyanax was afraid.

He was just a boy after all, so he postponed his departure from Troy a few hours. Enough time to eat something, gather his belongings and clear his head.

He cooked whatever fish he had left, sit at the beach, looking at where the city once stand, lost in thought.

"Would you be so kind to share some food with these old man?"

The boy jumped and coughed, as the bite he was chewing almost shock him.

"I didn't mean to scare you." Said the gray haired man.

"And somehow I believe you". Answered Astyanax. "Please sit with me and suit yourself, if not, it would go to waste."

"That would be tragic."

"Indeed."

The stranger took a site at the other side of the little fire, yet Astyanax didn't pay much mind, distracted as he was. That didn't mean he wasn't ready to run away at the very first sign of danger from the old man, but sharing a fish wasn't much of an effort.

The Trojan ruins stood tall in the distance, making Astyanax sad for something he couldn't quiet place. Can you be sad for something you don't remember? Is there such thing as homesickness for a place that was never home? And yet he had spent a week alone wandering in his homeland, and he had known peace there.

"Did you know that those walls were built by Poseidon and Apollo themselves?" The old man's voice brought him back.

"I can't say I have heard that story," replied Astyanax with amusement, "would you tell me more?"

"Would you accept it as payment for the meal?"

"The meal was given freely, but you can pay with your story if that's your wish." Assured the kid.

The old man had a soft expression when he looked at the walls, Astyanax dared to think that he saw something similar to pride in his eyes.

"For irrelevant reasons to this story", started the man, "the two gods were punished by Zeus to live as mortals for a year, and looked for work here, at Troy. The king at that moment wasn't a fair man, and ignorant to the fact he was treating with gods, he only hired the two of them to build the walls."

"That's definitely some shitty behaviour right there."

"Language."

"Right, sorry. Please keep going."

"The king gave them a year to complete the work, but they did not relent. Poseidon was skilled in the ways of the rock, and Apollo was a diligent work partner. Together, they make the walls grow more and more everyday. The year passed and there was only a thin gap in the wall that could have been done in an hour, but the king said the work wasn't completed in time so there was no payment. And the gods left."

"Let me guess," said Astyanax, with a mischievious smile, "because Zeus' sentence was over, they have regained their power, and make the king face the consequences of his actions."

"You're correct, more or less." The old man confirmed. "I remember when Troy was in its full glory, what a beautiful place it was."

"I don't know, maybe." Melancholy was back in Astyanax's face.

"What's wrong? You are young, but your eyes are old, my boy."

"I...I guess that's a good way to put it. I was born at the war", confessed Astyanax, "but I'm too young to remember Troy, or anything related."

"And yet, here you are."

"Not by choice." Muttered the kid to himself, the old man heard him, but didn't say anything. "Did Apollo came back to Troy?"

"He did," answered the old man, "he sided with the Trojans. The Acheans had disrespect him, and Zeus was telling him to do so." When he said that, Astyanax snorted. "What's so funny about it?

"It's just...the gods, they are gods, yes, but they are also... people, emotional people. I'm sure he even cursed the Achean Camp, just to because he could."

"Something like that."

"See? People."

"Maybe you're right."

"Talking about people, were you there? At the war?"

"I was," the answer was concise, "why?"

"Did you ever meet Hector of Troy?"

There was a silence.

"You could say that, why the question?"

"Could you tell me what was he like?"

"Wise," the answer came quickly, "he was wise, and honourable. He was trying to do the right thing in a time no one was listening." The old man stood up, having finished his food. "I'll leave you to it, thanks for the company, and the meal."

"Thanks you for the stories." Replied Astyanax.

Despite his own words, the old man made no move to leave.

"Your bow, did you make it?"

"Yes, I did, why?"

"It's a good bow, I'm sure every arrow you shoot with it will land right in its target."

"Thank you, that's so kind..." Astyanax stopped talking, because somehow, while he was looking at his bow, the old man had disappeared. " Of you."

He shook his head, trying to calm himself. He was sure he didn't imagine the encounter, the fishbones the stranger had taken out of his food were still there, in a little neat pile. Even the sand where he were was disrupted.

Whatever, he was no threat and meant no harm. Astyanax finished his meal and stood up to put out the fire.

He had spent enough time among ghosts, time to go looking for the living.

[sissylittlefeather]

How the Web Was Woven: Chapter 1

A/N: New series alert! This is a time travel/soulmate AU with Elvis and a reader insert. I've had this one in my head for a while, so I hope you enjoy it! It'll get spicy soon, but this chapter is mostly setup. Hang in there! I think this'll be good! Special thanks to my beta reader, @ccab for helping me with this one, as always.

Warnings: none really. This is mostly fluffy setup! Oh yeah, there's an erection lol

Word count: ~2.7k

You've been an Elvis fan for your entire life. Your grandmother was a big fan and it's something the two of you shared while she was alive. Since she passed, you've become even more obsessed, traveling to Graceland and anywhere Elvis performed whenever you have a chance. It's weird, but you have this strange feeling like there's something that ties you to him, despite the fact that he died 10 years before you were born. You don't really tell people this, but everyone who knows you knows how much you love him. Your roommate is consistently amazed at the lengths you'll go to in order to experience something related to him.

"You're really going to miss class for half a week to go to Tupelo?"

"Yes. I don't know why, but I need to be there at the same time he was."

"Y/n, it's 2007. He's not going to be there."

"I know that, Katie. I can't explain it. Just mark me present in algebra, please." She shakes her head with her eyebrows raised.

"If you insist."

******

It's 1957 and Elvis has had a small break since his last show, so he spent it at his new home in Memphis. The house is everything he's ever dreamed of for his family, so he's almost reluctant to go back on the road. Still, he's promised to do another show in his hometown after the one last year was so successful. Going back to Tupelo is always a strange experience for him, especially now that his financial situation has changed so much. His memories there are difficult, at best, so it's strange to go back as a famous performer.

He shakes his head to refocus on the conversation he's in about getting things ready to leave. The Colonel is there and he'll need to get in a car with him soon. No time to ponder the philosophy of how much things can change in a few short years.

"My boy, are you ready to leave? We need to make sure we have plenty of time to get there before the show."

"Yeah, I'm ready. Let me grab my suitcase." He picks up the piece of luggage and wraps his mother in a hug. She whispers in his ear.

"Love you, booby. We'll see you soon." He nods and kisses her cheek. Then, he makes his way to the car and slides into the back seat. Next stop: Tupelo.

******

When you get to Tupelo, you head straight to the fairgrounds where Elvis played his show in '57. There's something magical about being there exactly 50 years later. You wander around the site, closing your eyes to imagine what it must have been like to be there to see him. There's a strange pang in your heart like you miss him, even though you've never met him.

******

Elvis is putting on his best show for all the screaming girls in the audience. He's dressed in a gold jacket and black pants and he's not holding back at all in his performance. He sings, he dances, he wiggles, and the girls go wild.

Something about the energy of the crowd and the feeling of being on stage has him excited. He does his best to hide it during the performance and is pretty sure he manages to keep anyone from noticing. But as soon as the show is over, he knows he's going to need to find somewhere private to either take care of himself or at least adjust his pants so that it's less obvious. He runs down the steps of the stage and heads behind it to try to find some kind of place to do what he needs to do.

As he's walking around quickly, he gets the strangest feeling in his stomach and then runs smack into a girl.

******

You're wandering around where the stage would've been when you run into him. The shock of meeting another person here at the fairgrounds after dark is nothing compared to what you feel when you look up at him as he grabs your upper arms to steady you.

"Honey, be careful. I'm on a mission here."

"Holy shit. You're..."

"Yes. Now I have to..." He looks you up and down and realizes the strange outfit you're wearing. Then he looks up and realizes the stage has disappeared. He looks around frantically, forgetting that he needs to posture himself to hide his erection.

"You're... how? Oh God." You can't believe what's happening. You're pretty sure you must have fallen asleep somewhere. You pinch your arm, just to be sure. But no, this is Elvis Presley. And he has a massive erection.

"What the hell is going on here, honey?" He looks into your eyes fearfully.

"I don't know. Are you really... you?"

"I'm Elvis Presley, if that's what you're asking. Where are we?"

"We're in Tupelo. At the fairgrounds."

"No, that's where I just was." He looks around again and you look down, blushing.

"Are you... are you okay?" You ask sheepishly. He gasps and turns away from you to rearrange himself. When he turns back around, he grabs you by your upper arms and looks into your eyes again.

"What is happening?" Just then, the security guard calls to you from across the grounds.

"Hey! You can't be here!"

"Oh, shit, we need to go. Come with me." You grab his hand and pull him toward the exit. He follows along reluctantly.

"I'm sorry; I know this is weird, but we need to go." You break into a jog and he jogs along with you, still holding your hand. When you finally make it back out to your car in the parking lot, you stop and catch your breath.

"Okay, honey, what the hell is going on?"

"I need you to not freak out when I tell you this." He shrugs.

"I can't make any promises."

"You, well, you travelled through... through time."

"I don't understand."

"Elvis, it's 2007. You've travelled 50 years into the future."

His face goes white and you're afraid he's about to pass out, so you quickly open the car door and let him fall into your front seat.

"The future?"

"Yes."

"2007?!"

"Yes."

"That's why you're dressed so strangely. And why this car is... different..." He looks around your car incredulously. You nod.

"Is this a thing people do in the future? Travel through time?!"

"Oh absolutely not. I don't know how this happened. Also my outfit is not strange. Your outfit is strange." He smiles a little and then leans back against the seat, wiping his forehead with his hand. You walk around the car and slide into the driver's seat. He turns and looks at you.

"Well, I guess I'm stuck here. Where are we going?"

"You're really Elvis Presley?"

"I'm pretty sure." You shake your head, trying not to cry, but the tears start to stream down your face. "Aw, honey, don't cry. Why are you crying?"

"I can't believe it's you. I've loved you forever."

"How do you know who I am?" You open your mouth to answer and then close it quickly. You'll have to be careful with what you say, so you don't tell him too much about his future. Assuming you'll be able to get him back where he came from.

"My grandma was a big fan of your music in the '50s."

"Oh. Your grandma?! I'm sorry. I keep forgetting what year you said it is."

"It's 2007. Exactly 50 years from where you were."

"50 years. Wow. So I'm 72?! Wherever I am." You swallow hard. You can't tell him. You decide to change the subject.

"I need to go home. I guess you'll have to come with me. Unless you object?"

"Where else am I going to go?"

"That's a good point. Back to campus we go."

"Campus?"

"Yeah, I'm in college. You're gonna have to stay at my dorm. I hope that's not too weird." He looks at you with an incredulous smile.

"Everything about this is weird."

"That's valid." You both laugh as you start the car and drive away.

******

When you pull into a parking space on campus, it's close to 1am. He yawns. You forget how tired he must be. You've actually been able to talk quite a bit on the drive and you're surprised at how easy he is to talk to.

"Are we going to have to sneak?" He looks at you curiously.

"Well, no. This is a coed dorm. No one cares."

"A coed dorm?! What has the future come to?"

"Oh, honey, you have no idea." You make your way to the elevator and ride up to your floor. When you get to your door, you realize you're going to have to come up with a story for your roommate.

"Okay. You're an ETA. Follow my lead."

"I'm sorry. A what?"

"Elvis tribute artist. Impersonator. Basically you're a guy that likes to dress up as you." He laughs.

"That exists?"

"Ha. Yeah. Try not to ask too many questions." You put your key in the door and open it carefully. Hopefully, Katie is already in bed and you won't have to have this conversation.

But she's not.

"And just what kind of hour do you call- oh. Hello." She stops her sarcastic greeting when she realizes you're not alone.

"Katie, this is... John. John, this is Katie, my roommate."

"Nice to meet you, Katie." He extends his hand and she takes it slowly. She turns to you.

"I didn't expect you to pick up a stray in Tupelo."

"Yeah, well, look at him. How could I say no?" Her eyes wander back to Elvis and she shrugs.

"I can't say that I blame you. Okay, well, you two don't have too much fun. I'm going to bed now that I know you're home safely." She turns and heads into her bedroom. Thankfully, you live in a suite style dorm, so you each have your own room. You gesture for him to follow you and head into your room.

"You're going to have to stay in here with me. If you sleep on the couch, it'll be too weird. I'm sorry."

"Does she think...? Is this something you do a lot?" He looks at you with a glint in his eye.

"I mean, not a lot. No. Honestly, like never." You feel yourself blush and you look at your feet. He puts his hand under your chin and tips your face up to look at him.

"It's okay. I'm learning quickly that the future is different. I don't mind staying in here with you." Your stomach flip flops when he touches you and you're overwhelmed with a need for him to kiss you. He seems to feel something too because he turns from you and clears his throat.

You go to your drawers and dig for something he can wear. Luckily, you wear a lot of men's sweatpants and oversized t-shirts to sleep, so you get an outfit together for him and show him the bathroom to change. When he comes back out, you laugh. He seems so out of place dressed so casually. You change into pajamas and wash your face, coming back out to find him settled into half of your double bed. You crawl into the bed next to him and he turns over on his side facing you.

"Thank you for taking care of me. You didn't have to do that. You don't know me from Adam."

"Well, I somehow feel like this is my fault. I'm not sure how, but I feel responsible. And I do know you, kind of. Thank you for trusting me to take care of you." He smiles.

"I didn't have much choice. But it's strange. I feel like I know you, somehow. Like we met once and forgot about it. But I know that's not possible. Either way. I'm glad to be here with you." The feeling that you want him to kiss you is back. But he doesn't. Instead, he closes his eyes and is asleep pretty quickly. You roll over and try to go to sleep too, ignoring the racing thoughts in your head.

You really have Elvis Presley in your bed.

******

When you wake up, you're tucked up under his chin with his arm around you. You're not sure how you got this snuggled up, but it feels nice and for a second you forget who he is. He stirs about the same time you do and stretches, wrapping his arms around you tighter. When you realize the situation, you sit up.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, honey, it was nice." He yawns and pulls you back down to him. You relax against his chest and he kisses the top of your head.

"You don't even know me." You whisper.

"Yes, I do. And I like you. Is that okay?" You nod and wrap your arms around him.

"What are we doing today?" He seems to be taking being stuck in 2007 in stride. What you don't know is that he's actually really grateful for the break from his performance schedule. And he can't explain it, but he knows you somehow. Or at least, that's how it feels.

"Oh, well, I already missed my 9am class, so I guess we will hang out around town. We need to go to the mall and get you some clothes. You can't be wandering around in that ridiculous gold jacket." He laughs.

"What do guys wear these days?" You think about the skinny jeans and band tees and you're not sure what to tell him. This might be harder than you thought.

******

At the mall, you take him to a store that sells guy's clothes and watch him as he marvels at the modern styles. He's immediately drawn to the studded belts and you laugh, thinking of the studded jumpsuits he'll wear in the '70s. You find some jeans that aren't too skinny and he stands looking at the wall of band t-shirts.

"All of these are rock'n'roll groups?!"

"Well, we don't call it that anymore, but pretty much."

"Which ones do you like?" You point to a few of them and tell him about the music you listen to that isn't his.

"Can we listen to them?"

"Of course! But clothes first." You take him to the fitting rooms and he picks out a few pairs of pants and some button down shirts. You also let him pick out a studded belt and he goes with a pink one with silver studs. When you get to the checkout counter, he's absolutely shocked at how much it costs. You assure him that this is normal and pay for his things. As you walk out, he leans over and whispers.

"If I ever get back to '57, I'll never complain about the cost of things ever again." You laugh and take the hand he offers as you walk through the mall. He's amazed at how many stores there are and all the noise and technology that's around you. He keeps stopping and looking at things, so it takes you a while to make it through. He stops at a calendar kiosk and finds a calendar with photos of himself. You quickly yank it away from him and put it back.

"You can't see that."

"Aw, honey, why not?"

"I can't let you learn anything about your future." He looks at you with concern.

"Is it that bad?"

"Well, not exactly. I just don't want to ruin anything for you. You have to live it."

"If I ever get back."

"You must, or this calendar wouldn't exist. We'll figure something out." He puts his arm around your shoulders as you move on through the mall.

When you get back to the car, you pull a cd from the holder on your car visor and put it in for him to listen to. His eyes widen as the fast-paced drums and guitar chords start.

"Wow."

"This is what you started. You made this happen."

"It's so... it's a lot. But I like it. A lot." He starts moving to the music and you laugh.

"I'd love to see these guys live."

"I have. It's pretty great." He looks at you with envy as you start to sing along to the music. Somewhere inside him, he kind of hopes you won't be able to find a way for him to get back. Everything in this time intrigues him and the thought of leaving you is certainly not appealing, especially once he hears you sing.

Maybe he'll just stay with you forever.

******

Until Chapter 2!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Taglist:

@ccab @elvisfatass @elvisalltheway101 @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @ashtag6887 @your-nanas-house @deniseinmn @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know!

[yourfatherlucifer]

You Smell Divine (PSH/JWY)

Fallen Angel!Seonghwa x Afab!Reader x Gumiho!Wooyoung

Warnings: "Baby I'm Preying On You Tonight, Hunt You Down, Eat You Alive, Just Like Animals."

Warnings: MDNI, cuckolding, voyeurism, biting, tail pulling, dom!wooyoung, superhuman stamina, , mischievous woo, superhuman speed, superhuman smell

AU: supernatural

Genre: Smut

WC: 1.4k

Rating: R

Taglist: @k-hotchoisan @wooyoungqueen @stardragongalaxy @min-inu @staytinyville

Nets: @cromernet @kflixnet @cultofdionysusnet @k-labels @pirateeznet @wonderlandnet @monsterfvckersunited

Thanks @wooyoungqueen for the ideas! Hope you enjoy my first Wooyoung fic! <3

part one | part two

"When's the last time you cleaned up this place, Seonghwa? It looks abandoned." You were standing in front of a very dirty looking cabin in the woods.

Seonghwa scoffed as if he was offended, "First of all, rude. The inside is very clean and maintained, this is where I resided before I met you and fell."

"Besides, you'll love it, Y/N." Seonghwa grabbed your hand and brought you inside, he wasn't wrong either. The inside was very well organized, not a spot of dirt on site.

You could smell some kind of cinnamon with vanilla, and several candles lined the living area. He had flowers on the floor, Seonghwa must have put in an effort to make it romantic for you. 

A smile plastered on your face, "What is all of this for?" 

"Its for you, to celebrate our love, because I am happy to meet you." He wrapped his hands around your waist, smiling with such loving eyes. 

"Oh, Seonghwa." You brought your lips to his.

Seonghwa brought you to the couch, but sitting down first so you could straddle his thighs. His hands wander up the inside of your shirt. You moaned when he cupped your breasts, then deepened the kiss. As you ground your hips into his lap, an animalistic growl could be heard outside the front door. Seonghwa's wings shot out of his back and wrapped around you, in a protective manner. 

"Stay here." he quickly released you, his demeanor quickly changed into something sinister as he stared at the door. The growling only increased as if mocking whoever was on the other side of it. As you hid behind the couch, Seonghwa yanked open the door. 

"Wooyoung??" 

The growling ceased but then howling laughter replaced it, "Hi Seonghwa! It's been awhile since I last smelled you here. I also smell something delicious~" 

Wooyoung popped his head over his elder friend's shoulder, "Oh! What's this? You got a girlfriend? Since when!" his friend rambled on, excited. 

You stood up, now curious, "Seonghwa, who is this?" 

Seonghwa facepalmed before throwing his head back. After inviting his hyperactive friend in, "This is Wooyoung, he's a gumiho, in other words, he's a fox spirit, guardian, nine-tailed fox, whatever." 

"Wooyoung, this is my girlfriend, Y/N." 

Wooyoung smiled, "Ah! You must be the one that made his wings go black then."

"I guess." You stepped back as he tried to grab your hands in his own. 

You could see a fluffy large tail sway behind him, and ears pop out of his head. 

He took notice of your staring, "Did you wanna touch them." He smiled, revealing his canines. 

Seonghwa smacked his friend on the back of the head, "Leave her alone, Woo." 

"Fi-" Wooyoung began sniffing the air like crazy, smelling something so sweet, it was overwhelming, his dick hardened immediately, "Don't tell me, were you two about to get down and dirty?" He smirked. 

Your face had reddened as you hid behind Seonghwa, "What are you on about Woo?" He said.

"I can smell her arousal, Hwa."

"Too bad, she's mine you fox." 

"Keep the attitude, Seonghwa and I'll eat her liver."

"You will do no such thing!"

"Fine, I won't do anything, just as long as I get to have a piece of her, but you get to watch only." Wooyoung stepped up to his elder, eyeing him with a sharp grin. 

Seonghwa tipped his head to the side, "Hm, alright, deal." 

"Y/N, bedroom, now." Seonghwa demanded. 

Your feet quickly dragged you down a hall and into a room on the left, somehow finding the bedroom, which you didn't know the location previously. 

There was a neat queen sized bed in the middle with white sheets, and a matching white recliner in the corner across from it. Marching your way to the bed, quickly sliding off your shirt and bottoms. 

You could hear the footsteps of both men walking down the hallway so you threw yourself up onto the bed. 

Wooyoung slipped into the room, the grin still on his face, "Oh? She's all ready for me!" 

Wooyoung practically ran over to the bed, pulling his shirt over his head. 

Seonghwa sighed, "Be careful with her, Wooyoung, or you'll be done for." He sat himself on the recliner, getting ready to enjoy the show. 

Wooyoung hovered over you, pressing his covered and hardened cock into you, "You feel that? Yeah, you feel my hard dick on you? You feel how you're making me feel?" He leaned down and growled into your ear, "fuck, you smell so delicious, in my centuries of being alive, never have I smelled something so divine."

While he was distracted whispering filthy words into your ears, you took that as an opportunity to reach behind him and grab his tail. He yelped in surprise, a lengthy but whiny moan followed after.  His strong demeanor falters for a second before returning back to a hard stare. 

"Oh-ho-ho, you really messed up." He growled again. Wooyoung flipped you onto your stomach, pulling down your underwear and laying a few smacks onto your bare ass before squeezing each cheek in his palms. 

"Ah! Wooyoung!" you yelled out.

Seonghwa was in the corner, palming his bulge.

Wooyoung shoved down his pants in a quick manner. 

"Should I even prepare you? You were so bad, I should really just shove my dick inside of you." 

"Wooyoung." Seonghwa warned. 

"Yeah, yeah." He waved him off. 

Wooyoung ran his fingers up and down your wet hole before pushing them in, "I'm gonna have so much fun with you."

You whined as you gripped the bedsheets, anticipating for what was to come, you wanted to look at Seonghwa, but knew this is what he wanted, he liked seeing you stuffed full of other  mens cock, preferably non-human cock. He really did love seeing you come undone for the supernatural.

Wooyoung bared his canines as he watched himself pump his fingers in and out of your aching cunt. He leaned down to bite your shoulder, seeing yet another bite mark, “What’s this?”

He pulled his fingers out of you and glared at the mark, “Seonghwa, you don’t have fangs, what happened?”

Wooyoung sat on his knees and turned back to look at him. 

Seonghwa sighed, getting aggravated his show was interrupted, “Demon. Now continue. I need to see her come undone more. Corrupt her. Now.” His eyebrow twitched. 

Wooyoung cackled like a hyena, unlike his fox persona, “Ooo, so demanding, spooky.” He wiggled his fingers at him. He turned his attention back to you who had your face in the pillow. 

Wooyoung yanks down his boxers, his reddened cock springing free, ‘Now this is what I am talking about.” He pulled your hips to him.

Rubbing his cock on your clit, “Get ready.”

He shoved his cock into your hole, moaning at the sensation of you squeezing around him, 

“Fuck~” His moans reached in pitch, creating such a delicious sound from him. 

His hips falter for just a second before creating a rough pace, slamming your hips into his. His speed reached inhuman heights. Seonghwa pumped his own cock from across the room, watching your fucked out face. 

Wooyoung flipped you back over, not pulling his cock out even for a second. He reached down for your lips, before he heard Seonghwa growl himself, “Don’t even dare, fox. I will kill you if you kiss her.”

“How’d you know?” He grinned evilly. 

“How’d I know you want to steal her vital energy? Because I am not stupid. Now fuck her like your life depends on it!” 

“You got it~” Wooyoung placed both hands on the sides of your head. His hips created bruises on yours by how fast he was going. You couldn’t even breathe for a second, “Please!” You cried out.

At this point tears were pouring down your cheeks, you had already orgasmed multiple times, wondering just how this man hadn’t himself.

Your arms wrapped around his back, your nails scratching down his back. He was enjoying the pain. “Feels that good, huh? I bet he can’t fuck you like this, can he?” Wooyoung whispered in your ear. 

“Maybe you should be with me~ I could give you everlasting pleasure, just give me your life.” 

Seonghwa could hear everything, despite what Wooyoung thought. He was tempted to throw him into the wall and teach him a lesson but he was too busy chasing his own release. 

Wooyoung leaned down to your breasts, licking them all over before pulling a nipple into his mouth, “I am so close, human.” 

You were too far gone to even respond, but could feel his warm cum spill into your walls, “Oh, fuck!” His hips stilled into yours. 

Seonghwa stood up, now pulling his friend off of you, “That's enough, I didn’t say you could release in her.” 

Wooyoung grinned, “Oops~”

[funemployed-fangirl]

Modern Bridgerton AU

Colin & Penelope

Colin has no interest in getting anywhere near the family business. He takes an extended gap year after high school (he goes to “find himself” on a farming collective in New Zealand…after parting his way through Europe for 6 months). Eventually he does make it to college, after which he fucks back off to wander around the world.

Penelope has always enjoyed writing, but more importantly loves observing people from the side lines. She’s the quiet one in a loud, kind of obnoxious family, so pretending to be invisible comes easily for her. She goes to NYU and gets a degree in Journalism. While there, she starts the Whistledown blog making observations about the New York elite (it started as a class project…then she kept going). It's mostly benign. Sometimes it’s the social stuff (who was at which party wearing what), and sometimes it's in-depth analysis of how someone’s business is doing (data and all). Whistledown basically becomes required reading for New York upper social circles. 

Fun side note: While Colin and Penelope have always known each other (Penelope is best friends with Colin’s younger sister Eloise), they’d never spent any time together (who hangs out with their little sister’s friends?). That is, until they get to college. Because of Colin’s gap years, they end up overlapping at NYU for a couple years, during which time they get pretty close…like, REALLY close. But then Colin graduates and heads off for his adventures and Penelope stays in New York with her ever growing Whistledown blog.

They reconnect when Colin comes back to the city. There’s a drunken hook up in the back of a cab (following a party of some sort), after which they spend the next day together. Since it’s a Sunday, Violet is hosting Sunday Family Dinner, so Colin just texts "I'm bringing Penelope." Everyone's like, cool, great, we love Penelope. They show up holding hands and keep sitting down next to each other with his arm around her waist, holding hands, leaning into each other - full couple mode, no shame. It still takes everyone legitimately half the night for someone to go... is something happening here? 

Patented Bridgerton style everyone-at-once conversation explodes at the table: 

Benedict: Surely Penelope can do much better than Colin. 

Eloise: No way something is happening here. Oh my god are you two dating? No way, you would have told me. Oh my god, are you two actually dating?

Kate: Eloise, are you going to be okay? 

Daphne: They did look awfully cozy at Cressida's birthday party last night. 

Sophie: Did you two hook up after Cressida’s birthday party?! 

Anthony: Did you think none of us would notice that you were suddenly a couple?

Gregory: We’ve all been here for 3 hours and none of us did notice. 

Hyacinth: Except for me, obviously. 

Francesca: Then why didn't you say anything?

Hyacinth: I’VE BEEN SAYING SOMETHING FOR YEARS!

Colin gives them a few minutes to wear themselves out before announcing that yes, they are together. And things escalate quickly after that, with them getting engaged after a couple months. At their engagement party, a drunken Colin makes an impromptu speech where he announces that he’s “just SO PROUD of his fiancé, Penelope! Do you guys know how awesome she is? She runs that gossip blog that everyone’s obsessed with ALL BY HERSELF! How cool is that!” Yeah…no one knew it was Penelope’s blog.

The consequences of her being outed as the author of the blog aren’t dire (it’s not like she’s ever been intentionally malicious or tried to ruin someone). In fact, she starts getting access to hot ticket restaurants and parties, and the society girlies are suddenly nicer to her as they start trying to score spots on the site for their side hustle brands. She gets a buy-out offer (Buzzfeed, Cracked, Wired, whatever) and the site expands. A lot. She continues to run it, and Colin writes travel articles every once-in-a-while (he’s basically a kept man and living his best life in their Upper East Side penthouse).

more (x)

[gabby-msr]

As a more recent fan of the x files (first watch in 2020), can I just thank every single person who has ever contributed to this online fandom, especially when it comes to fic archives?

It took me a while to find today's fandom in 2020 so at first I kind of just wandered around the internet and found so much.

I remember distinctly reading about Gossamer on a reddit thread so I looked it up and to this day I don't think I can explain in words the feeling of complete euphoria that overcame me as I explored the site and discovered endless pages of fanfiction. I loved reading fics that were submitted there, as many came with comment thanking betas, about their lives, and also their thoughts about the show as it aired. I felt like I'd found my people (a little too late). People cared (and still care) so much about the fics, enough to have had fandom awards, and really put in the work to keep these stories around.

There is something really special about reading a fic from 1997 from a writer who had no idea how the show would turn out, in 2023.

While Gossamer isn't exactly AO3, it has story categories, divided into themes (romance, adventure), and then again, sorted by the 1st letter of the title. And then there was the possibility to sort by spoilers. And sort by author and date, and a search function. Fic ratings and even ship tags.

It's so impressive. I'm in awe.

And I know lots of fics were lost because some websites purged content in many fandoms, and it has probably happened to us too, but we still have so many stories on Gossamer and other smaller archives.

Thanks to you, the stories have survived and new people get to read them. Some are fandom classics now. And some of us out there do read them, years later.

[sapphim]

Since everyone's been so nice about the other snippet I posted 👉👈 here are the good bits from sth else with the warden squad I wrote last year (since I might never get around to sprucing up the long and boring bits). Right after Lothering before anyone involved knows how to get along with each other so they're all kind of just standing around being assholes 🩷

—

"Not to catastrophize," Alistair says, to nobody in particular, "but when they find their way back and inform us with deep regret that they have no idea where we are or where we're going and we all die in the woods after wandering in circles for weeks, I'm going to say 'I told you so'."

"That's not going to happen."

Alistair twists around to gawk at Sten. The Qunari soldier has been standing at the outskirts of the group, stone-faced and completely unmoving—as far as Alistair can tell—since they paused their slow march through the woods.

"I think that's the first thing I've heard you say all day," he says incredulously. "Humor me. Why won't it?"

"Because in this scenario you've crafted in your mind, you'll be too dead to say 'I told you so'."

"They'll be my dying words," Alistair insists. "As I lay dying in the underbrush I'll croak, 'I told you this is exactly how it would happen, Sten,' and then I'll perish on the spot. See if I don't."

"I look forward to it," Sten says. "At least then you'll be quiet."

"It'll be a touching moment," Alistair says, settling back down into his seat at the base of a tree and staring up into the canopy, "and you'll miss me when I'm gone. You'll see."

"If it will make you feel any better," Zevran pipes up from his seat on low branch a short distance away, "if the end does come—which I very much doubt, mind, given what a capable group you have assembled here—I can swear that I will ensure you a swift and dignified death."

"Absolutely not," Alistair growls.

"My apologies," Zevran says mildly, as he has found himself doing not infrequently over the last few days since his initial ill-fated encounter with the wardens. "The offer was meant with no ill intent."

"Do not stab me."

—

"What's that?" Micah asks, pointing upward. Alistair and Rafael crane their heads to look at the rustling tree branch she's indicated.

"That, my dear, is another squirrel," Zevran says.

"Squirrel," she repeats under her breath.

"Don't have squirrels in Orzammar?" Alistair says, conversationally.

"We've got nugs," Micah says. "And moles. Mice. Deepstalkers. No squirrels."

"I guess everywhere has mice," Rafael muses.

"The one thing that unites us despite all our differences," Alistair agrees. "Mice in the larder. Hey, Sten, do Qunari have–"

"They're returning," Sten interrupts, nodding curtly in the direction of more rustling brush, where glimpses of Leliana's pale skin and vivid red hair can be caught through the trees.

The mabari crashes out of the underbrush first, panting and wiggling with an excess of excitement. A few moments later, the rest of the wayward scouts rejoin the waiting party.

"We have determined the proper course to reach our destination, and located a camp site for the night," Morrigan announces. "No need to thank us."

"And we saw the fattest squirrel I've ever seen in my life," Leliana adds cheerfully. The dog barks in agreement.

Morrigan sighs. "Yes. And—more importantly—a sight which has never before been witnessed by man nor beast. A fat squirrel. Again, no need to–"

—

"Could you tell if something is possessed by a spirit?" she asks.

The young mage twists the cuffs of his sleeves between his fingers, chewing on his lip. "I– I should be able to," he says. "Yes. I– Yes, I can do that."

"Spoken with remarkable confidence," Morrigan says dryly, earning her a reproachful glare from Alistair.

"Not all that many haunted trees in the middle of the lake, I'd think," he says.

"There was a cat, once," Rafael says, "that got possessed by a demon and went on a rampage through the tower. It killed three templars before they brought it down."

"Ah, 'tis a heartwarming tale that would bring a smile to anyone's face, would it not?"

The mabari huffs and snorts in response.

"Aw, I bet a nasty demon cat would be no match for you," Alistair says, crouching to scratch the pleased mabari vigorously behind the ears. "Isn't that right, Barkspawn? Because you're a good boy! Yes you are!"

"We weren't allowed to have cats in the tower after that," Rafael mutters in conclusion.

"Not allowed," Morrigan repeats derisively. "'Tis a wonder that anything would be allowed to begin with."

"For the mice," Rafael says glumly.

Alistair extricates himself with some effort from the wet, sloppy kisses the mabari is determined to plant all over his face. "Did you get demon mice after that?" he asks, with the gleeful tone of someone who has only just considered the possibility of demon mice and finds it funnier than they probably should.

—

As they fall into line behind the Dalish elf, Micah muses aloud to no one in particular, "So, I'm not entirely sure what a cat is."

Eydis snorts derisively. "It's a surface animal with four legs and a tail. I've been here as long as you have. How do you not know that?"

"Excuse me?" Micah snaps. "You just described every surface animal. They all have four legs and a tail. Or they're birds."

"It's got fur."

"They've all got fur. You're just describing the dog."

The dog in question barks.

"Smaller than the dog. And with a fluffy tail."

"That's squirrels."

"Bigger than squirrels," Eydis huffs. "They were all over the human settlements. Pay more attention next time, brand."

"Watch it, salroka," Micah growls.

"Perhaps I could draw some pictures tonight," Leliana says appeasingly.

"Perhaps you should write a song in memory of the princess, in case I finally kill her tonight."

"Don't be so sensitive," Eydis chastises.

"I've been lead to understand that we are all strictly forbidden from killing each other here," Zevran interrupts cheerfully, "or is that just me?"

"Do not stab me," Alistair repeats.

"I swear on my life," Zevran says, "I will make no attempt to harm you unless I am paid a great deal more coin and I have reason to understand that forsaking your company would be to my overall benefit. Neither of which I forsee happening in the middle of a haunted forest. Perhaps that may set your mind at ease?"

"That doesn't set my mind at ease! Why would that make me feel better?"

"Because I am being extremely honest right now," Zevran says. "Unless you would prefer I lie?"

"I would not."

"Nobody is killing anybody," Leliana says.

"Only a fool would do the work of his enemy for him," Sten says.

"Oh! That's very wise, Sten."

"It is not. It's common sense."

[mayfast]

Chapter 3 WIP (Unbetaed)

Crumbs for the the TigerSeal and SeaMonkey fans. So if you've been wondering where I've been, I got diagnosed with epilepsy. So I got put on some meds that make me hella tired. Like all the time. I would sleep 15 hours a day if you let me. So it's been a struggle to get this next chapter up and rolling. But I'm close to finishing it. Afterwards I'll send it to my Beta (I feel so cool saying that), then I'll get it all posted on AO3, God bless that site.

Enjoy~

__________________________

“Jake Sully,” Somehow, he’s been expecting this all night. But he still wishes he could have another day to mentally prepare himself. He throws a casual look over his shoulder to spot Ao’nung behind him, glancing at him almost shyly.

            “Yes?” He sighs. He doesn’t want to give him the wrong impression, he’s started liking Ao’nung more. After he got over the Metkayina calling his daughter a freak, picking a fight with his kids, and almost killing Lo’ak. But hey, everyone makes mistakes, right?

            “I want to court Spider.” He’s blunt and staring Jake in the eyes. Almost like it’s a challenge, like he’s ready to fight. Jake can almost appreciate the little spitfire, but after the tongue lashing from Norm and Max earlier…he’s caught between a rock and a hard place.

            “Yeah?” He acknowledged with some gravel in his voice.

            “…Yes.” The other held some confusion in his eyes. His blue eyes wandering over Jake’s slumped form, trying to get a read on him. “I don’t know what I’m doing though.” This draws a snort out of him. Took a big man to admit when he’s lost. Maybe Ao’nung is maturing.

            “How so?” He raised an eyebrow and patted the ground beside. He had decided to take a little detour back to the center beach, where the adults are still celebrating, after laying Tuk down for bed. He was going to send Spider, Kiri and Lo’ak to sleep when he got back, but he wanted to give them a little more time with their friends. Now the current bane of his existent came and found him.

The younger man sat down on the beach as Jake observed the sky. “I… I don’t … There’s a lot.” Ao’nung breathed after a moment. His shoulders slumping, mirroring Jake’s posture.

“Well, find your first question.” He laughed, turning to watch Ao’nung roll his eyes, tail twitching as he digs his fingers through the sand.

“Is Spider old enough to be courted?” He questions after a moment. His gaze fixated on the sand below him and his ears are pinned back, distraught. Jake can almost feel pain. Dating someone younger than you can be a risky game, especially when they’re a different species with different aging practices.

“Dating.” Jake corrects him and looks up at the sky again. Finding the star that supposedly his first home orbits around. “We call it dating. And yes, he’s old enough to go on dates with you.” Norm’s going to tear him a new one. Max will stitch him up just to tear him a second one.

“It’s where you do courting practices, but you don’t mate even if you think your ready, at least not yet, he’s not old enough for sex, okay?” It feels dirty coming out of his mouth, like ash and acid. Yet, he needs to set some boundaries, some lines in the sand. He’s the only one here who understands how human teens work, kind of.

“Okay.” Ao’nung nods, good, he sounds accepting.  “How do I court the human way?”

“Why do you want to do it the human way?” Jake finds himself suspicious. Not that anything Ao’nung says doesn’t make sense, but why is he going so left field for someone’s who’s so different from him. Jake had to learn the Na’vi way, because he was on Eywa’eveng. Ao’nung doesn’t need to go out of his way to learn another culture.

“He’s ashamed to be human.” Ao’nung tells him after a moment of internal debate. He’s confident in his answer, sounds like he and Spider have already had a conversation. “I don’t want Spider to be ashamed of what he is, or who he is. So, I want to prove to him that I accept all of him. Even the parts he doesn’t like so much.”

            He’s not exactly sure how to feel about this. It’s a lot for his jar head to take in. Ao’nung trying to do this the right way. And shouldn’t Jake want the best for Spider? Someone who wants to make him happy and feel like he belongs? Still, shouldn’t that have been him? What if Spider end up with Daddy issues and acts out later in life? He could get self-destructive, well more self-destructive, or codependent on Ao’nung.

            “Humans are different from Na’vi, Ao’nung, you know this. From how they look, to how they show affection.” He grabs Ao’nung by the shoulder, needing the other to look him in the eye. “They can’t form a tsaheylu, ever. Are you okay that?” Because he doesn’t want Ao’nung to regret his decision ten years down the line and start resenting his baby. It would be unfair to both of them.

            “With him, I don’t need one.” Ao’nung clasps a hand over his forearm. The grip just as tight as his hand on the Metkayina’s shoulder. “I want him the way he is.”

            It soothes a part of his soul. Jake’s gone through most of his life without a bond. But after experiencing it, he’s not sure he could go back. It was like an addiction. The peace of mind his mate gave him. A safe space that only he and she were allowed to curl up into. Ao’nung would never have that.

            “If you’re serious about this, I need to warn you that humans don’t mature until twenty-five. That means he’s still changing a bit, figuring out who he is.” Jake retracts his hand and throws it over his bend knee. “I wouldn’t change being with Neytiri for anything, but I was twenty-two when she and I bonded. I was still figuring out my place in the world, but she helped me through it. Spider may not be the same person he is now.”

            He notices the way Ao’nung closes his eyes and smiles. “Then he is like the sea. It’s never same.”

[salt-volk]

I want to preface this by saying that I've been on DV since August of 2020, so I've been here throughout so many of the changes that this site has gone through.

Though I very much appreciate the fact that the dailies aren't nearly as mind-numbingly awful as they used to be and are way quicker, I still can't overlook my lack of excitement towards the game.

I used to be active on an actual pet site (I really wouldn't call DV a pet sim site because the pet aspect is far less involved than the avatar dressup) which barely ever updated and yet DV in comparison feels... hollow? Perhaps it's because I'm an adult now with less free time to be involved with the community or consistently do dailies, but the fact that so much of the assets being downright unattainable is what bothers me the most.

I'm not saying that as a player, I'm entitled to everything that I want in the game— I'm not saying that at all. I don't have a problem with earning whatever I have my eyes on, whether that be through daily quests, art commissions, or even purchasing premium currency with my own money.

What I *am* saying is that players are given way too much control over site assets and what I'm referring to is the shoddy customs system.

I know there are plenty of kind and generous custom owners that have come up with creative events and are kind when it comes to the price point of the customs that they distribute and I appreciate them immensely for sharing the fun and helping to make the game a more enjoyable experience for everyone. Without them, I would've decisively quit a long, long time ago. I've actually even purchased copies of several customs over the years as well.

However, I ultimately don't understand why the customs weren't limited to being an item/pet that anyone can purchase from an NPC shop rather than from the custom 'owner'— in my eyes, these would better incentivize players to continue playing the game because these things would not seem as impossible to earn.

Keep in mind that the people who use these custom creator items do not personally own these site assets as they still belong to DV.

The first word that came to my mind when I heard that a custom owner who quit is still willing to trade copies of the custom for the site currency of a completely different game is... 'stupid'. If you're not playing this game, it feels scummy to try to still benefit from access to this unlimited site asset. 

There's nothing wrong with trading assets that you have between games, but the fact that this player is trading their unlimited access to an 'infinite money printing machine' (which seemingly doesn't cost them anything assuming that the player that's willing to initiate a trade is required to provide the custom mirrors while the other party only offers a grant) for something that actually is limited in quantity leaves such a sour taste in my mouth.

I've scrolled this blog and found it interesting how people have joined FR to grind for things to trade on DV— because most off-site trades are for FR assets after all— and have unintentionally found it to be a better and more rewarding game than DV. In all honesty, this game is a wonderful advertisement for FR.

In my opinion, customs should have either been relegated to NPC shop items/pets or they should have existed as just one copy for the custom maker-rolled player to use. 

And when I continue thinking about the customs system in general, my mind can't help but wander over to the site's other flaws.

When the custom maker drop rates were announced, the makers stopped dropping only a few minutes after each rollover: this was deliberate and not a coincidence. They changed the rates after they were announced.

Agnes is said to occasionally give out items from previous limited monthly sets, but it's been a few years... is that still being implemented? Otherwise, new players will find it hair-pullingly frustrating to try to acquire any past monthlies and to earn entire  sets is something completely unfeasible.

Why is adventuring still so bad?

What about housing?

As I mentioned before, the site has its good qualities such as the frequent updates, charming characters, and the stunning artwork. I didn't even mind the missed deadlines when it came to updates and events— like how DV skipped over the second summer event entirely.

Truth be told though, the artwork was the only thing that was tethering me to this game. Not the gameplay, not the story, and certainly not the exclusivity that the customs system brought— without mincing words, that ruined the game for me.

Despite having bought some of my own custom copies, it felt like a chore to keep chasing after these custom copies, knowing that I had such a minuscule chance of ever attaining rights to a custom of my own and believe me, I've played for a few years and tried. 

Every time I see a customs topic on the forums where the owner is only willing to trade other custom owners for a copy, it feels like I'm completely being shut out from a part of the game with no ability to access it. I understand why they do it since they want to enhance their own gameplay experience by receiving these special site assets, but it's just another thing that someone without their own custom rights can't set a goal towards and achieve.

At the end of the day, I'm more far more upset at the poor admin decisions than the players themselves.

And hey, I'm actually glad that the site implemented a 'potato sink', because I was able to quickly and efficiently throw away all my potatoes, knowing that I can't afford anything worthwhile with what I have now.

I knew that I was done with the game when I stopped opening the monthly chests that I've collected since October 2023 (and I've collected each chest since January 2021), but I felt like I had to continue doing it since FOMO wouldn't leave me alone.

I really didn't have much more of a reason to keep logging on so I leave you all with this vent and airing out my grievances towards DV.

Now that I've got basically no potatoes, here's to hoping that I hop off this site for good!