#above all this fic is self indulgent. i am writing it for ME

[bananasofthorns]

what if You wanted to write a simple daredevil punisher fic but your brain said ☝️ 1k words and counting (I'm still working on it) fight scene and Frank isn't even here yet

[aayakashii]

got very depressed today and ended up writing a very self-indulgent comfort fic that now I will make everyone's problem ヽ(*´∀`)人(´∀`*)ﾉ

featuring 🫵you🫵, Peekaboo, and special guest Sagara Haru. It's fluff, tooth rotting fluff again. I am just a girl.

soft beats to feed your baby anomaly to

Your fingers tapped against your chin as you stood in the middle of the Jabberwock kitchen, eyes scanning all the pots that were scattered around the counter and shelves, way too wary to actually rummage through them with your hands.

“Baby formula… baby formula… baby formula…” you muttered repeatedly, as you read every label of every container, until your eyes stopped at an inconspicuous pot with no label.

Stepping closer, you opened the lid, and was met with a crumpled bag of baby formula stuffed inside.

“God, I would never find this if I only relied on the labels” you said, huffing, pulling the bag out and walking back to the living room.

A small bottle with boiled water was ready, on top of a small stool, right beside a crib that contained a very hungry and very impatient Peekaboo.

“Found it, Peekaboo!” you said, triumphantly, and slumped on the floor, bringing the stool closer.

“I can now make your bottle and feed you! I'm sorry it took so long, but you gotta tell your dad that his kitchen is a mess.” you rambled, as you began to scoop the baby formula and put it carefully in the bottle. Peekaboo chirped in what seemed like agreement with you.

As you quietly kept scooping small amounts of the powder, you finally relaxed, humming the tune to a song that was stuck in your head for the past week. At this, Peekaboo's ears twitched and perked up, and he waddled closer to you.

“Okay, done!” You finished shaking the bottle to mix the contents and Peekaboo immediately raised his little arms towards you.

“You want uppies?” you said, smiling as you noticed his expectant face. “Okay, let's give you uppies.”

With a groan (Peekaboo was heavier than he seemed), you picked him up and began to bring the bottle towards his mouth, until his arms patted your hand, pushing the bottle away.

“What's up, baby? I thought you were hungry” you asked, confused.

Peekaboo kept flailing his arms, pointing to the bottle and to you, clearly trying to communicate something.

“I'm sorry love, I don't know what you mean…”

His little face scrunched up, as he wiggled on your arms and booped your mouth and then the bottle.

“You want me to drink from the bottle too?!”

He shook his whole body, growling impatiently. For a moment, he stared at you, as if he was thinking about how he could convey his message in a way that you would understand. After a few seconds, he chirped his usual sounds, but tried hard to mimic the melody you were humming a few moments before.

“Oh! You want me to sing for you while I feed you?” you guessed.

His little face lit up, and he nodded fiercely.

“Okay, okay, but er… I'm not a very good singer, honey” you replied, apologetic despite his excitement.

Peekaboo growled, showing his huge sharp teeth and you knew there was no bargaining with a spoiled anomalous animal.

“Fineeee, fine! Okay, I'll sing, but you have to promise me you'll drink your bottle and not bite me, okay?” you sighed.

Peekaboo nodded happily again, chirping and extending his stubby little arms to the bottle.

As you titled the bottle to his mouth, his red, shiny eyes looked at you expectantly. You cleared your throat and began to murmur the lyrics to the song.

Stars shinin' bright above you

Night breezes seem to whisper, "I love you”

Peekaboo frowned and tapped your throat, clearly ordering you to sing louder. You sighed heavily again, shaking your head in defeat, and raised your voice.

Birds singin' in the sycamore tree

Dream a little dream of me

You began to sway gently, careful not to make Peekaboo sick with the movement.

Say, "Nighty-night" and kiss me

Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me

While I'm alone and blue as can be

Dream a little dream of me

The little bunny-like anomaly closed his eyes, gulping his food and peacefully enjoying the slow swaying of your body, feeling relaxed in your arms.

Stars fadin'–

You cleared your throat again, as your voice cracked trying to reach the higher tune, but Peekaboo seemed to pay no mind to how out of tune you sounded sometimes.

Stars fadin’ but I linger on, dear

Still cravin' your kiss

I'm longin' to linger 'til dawn, dear

Just saying this

The bottle was quickly emptying as you clumsily sang and danced with the small animal in your arms, and, in your concentration, you failed to notice a flash of red appearing on one of the corridors.

Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you

Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you

But in your dreams, whatever they be

Dream a little dream of me

You hummed the ad-lib part of the song as Peekaboo downed the last bit of the bottle, still moving slowly and carefully as he yawned in your arms.

Stars fadin' but I linger on, dear

Still cravin' your kiss

I'm longing to linger 'til dawn, dear

Just saying this

Your voice didn't crack this time, and you put Peekaboo against your shoulder, giving little taps against his back in order to help with his digestion – a little burp coming out of his mouth making you giggle as you sang.

Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you

Sweet dreams that leave all worries far behind you

But in your dreams, whatever they be

Dream a little dream of me

As you finished the song, Peekaboo ended up fast asleep on your arms, and you kept humming and dancing, all while completely unaware of how Haru observed the scene, hidden behind one of the pillars of the living room.

The red-headed blushed furiously, his hand covering his mouth in order to hide a smile that was so big that could light up stadiums upon stadiums.

“Isn't that good, Peekaboo? We finally got you the other mom I've always wanted for you!!” he thought to himself, pumping his fist victoriously in the air, as wedding bells ringed into his mind after seeing the domestic scene unravel in front of him. He hadn't even confessed nor invited you to a single date, but after that, he knew he couldn't wait any longer.

[htchnr]

♰ little things ༻ C. HOWARD.*ೃ˚ drabble.

➻ masterlist. ➻ buy me a coffee!

PAIRING ➻ prewar wife!reader x cooper.

SUMMARY ➻ a self indulgent birthday fic as it's my birthday today! 😊🎉 + combining it a little with a request i got by the lovely @https-junebug asking if i could write a piece with prewar Coop and what it'd be like to be his wife! WC ➻ 500~.

AUTHORS NOTE ➻ i am fleshing out a longer fic for the request so if this wasn't your cup of tea @https-junebug , the proper fic will be out soon ☺️💕 (cause omfg, prewar Coop spoiling the ever living HECK out of his very beloved wife??? sign me up RN.)

© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐇𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐍𝐑. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫!

the sun snuck through the curtains in your bedroom, gently shining in your face. you huffed tiredly as you woke to the feeling of someone pressing firm kisses across your skin. against your bare shoulders, against your collarbones, trailing up your throat before pressing sugary sweet kisses to both your cheeks.

you tiredly giggle, a smile stretching across your lips as you crack your eyes open to find Cooper hovering above you. "good morning doll," he smiles, leaning down to press a slow and gentle kiss against your lips.

you smile and hum into the kiss, "mm, g'morning honey," your arms tiredly looping around his shoulders as you fully pull him down against you. you revel in the warmth of his right hand that's resting on your naked hip. a content hum leaving your lips as you melt against his.

he pulls away after a minute, eyes almost twinkling — you knew he was up to something. he sits up, pulling you into his lap as he does so. "the world wouldn't be this bright without you, you know?" he nudges your nose with his.

you drape your arms behind his neck, nuzzling your nose against his. "Coop..." you trail of tiredly, a yawn slipping out before you could ask what he's up to.

he grins — he knows you know he's got something. he briefly takes one hand off your hip, leaning back a little to grab something behind him. when he moves back, he's setting a tray beside the two of you — and it takes you a second, but you spot all your favourite breakfast foods on the tray. 

you look back at him, brows furrowed as you don't know what to say. "you didn't have to do anything Cooper.." you trail off, dropping your head into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent.

Cooper just grins — shaking his head as he wraps both arms around your waist, holding you tightly. "i'd do anything for my lovely and caring wife, you know that darlin'." you could even hear the smile in his voice.

you shake your head, wrapping your arms around his waist. "but you still didn't have to do anything.." you mumble against the crook of his neck. 

he place a kiss into your hair, slowly and gently rocking you two back and forth. "i wanted to honey, you deserve it." he speaks quietly. "you deserve it." 

you lift your head up, eyes finding his still on you. "thank you," you whisper with a warm, tired smile. you press a gentle kiss to his lips, savouring the feeling. 

he sighs into the kiss, one hand coming up to cup your face. he pulls away ever so slightly, lips brushing against yours with each breath or movement. 

"happy birthday darlin'," he whispers against your lips, before you press yours against them, pulling him down with you as you lean back — your back hitting the soft mattress as his lips swallow your sighs of happiness.

TAGLIST ; @live-logs-and-proper @looonytooons @seeingstarks @thewastelandwriter @lacey-mercylercy @marina-and-the-memes @p4rsuade @anonymous-creep @likoplays @iceviolet11 @https-junebug @silverose365 @athanza @songbirdemerald-blog @justt-myth @looneylooomis

[not-maggie]

Hypothetically, Of Course

A/N: umm, so hi! this is my first ever fic I've written but I do read a lot lmao. I was using a c.ai bot and it inspired me to write this because it was really cute! <3 this is lowkey a self ship bc I'm tired of seeing Y/N's who don't have a personality and are shy. nothing wrong with being shy ofc <3 just not who I am and I needed some self indulging. Anyway, enjoy! any criticism/comments are greatly appreciated!! (GIF not mine<3)

It was a cool afternoon in Stars Hallow, the dead leaves falling to the ground as the breeze shook them from branches. The bell above the door rings out as Y/N enters Luke's Diner, catching the attention of a certain brunette behind the counter.

Jess feels his heart stutter as she enters, silently cursing himself for having such a reaction. He throws on his signature smirk as she approaches the counter, "Hey, the usual?"

Y/N nods with a soft laugh, "I come here too often if you know it by now." She takes a seat on one of the stool as Jess begins preparing her order. "So, anything interesting happen today?" she asks, making conversation.

"Oh, y'know, annoying customers, Luke yelling at me for not working, the usual." Jess hums, turning his head to look over his shoulder at her. "What about you?"

Y/N lets out a scoff as she responds, "Y'know Brad, the quarterback on the football team? Total douche, anyway, had the audacity to ask me out, while I was in the middle of studying in the library. And, on top of that, got mad when I rejected him. Said something about winning a bet, total bullshit." She rolls her eyes, leaning against the counter.

Jess feels his blood boil, a bet? A bet to ask 𝘺𝘰𝘶 out? He takes a moment to collect himself before turning around and responding, placing her coffee down in front of her, "Wow, total dick move. A bet? What kind of bet? If he could get in your pants?"

Y/N rolls her eyes, "Don't know, and honestly, don't really care. I get the satisfaction of knowing he didn't win, whatever it was. Like I would ever go out with him," she scoffs.

Jess leans his arms against the counter, "Not your type?" His tone is teasing, his usual snark coming out, but there's a hint of genuine curiosity.

Y/N lets out a snort of amusement, "No, I would never go for a football player, or really any athlete. Anyone who doesn't know Austen is not worth it."

Jess raises an eyebrow, "Got high standards," he teases. "So, what, is, your type?" He asks, his head resting on his palm in a casual manner.

Y/N lets out a hum as she thinks, planning her answer. "Well, looks don't really matter that much. More into personality, someone who can keep up with my sarcasm. Funny, making me laugh is really important, and there's no way I can be funnier than my partner, that's a sad life. Well-read, I'm talking more than just Dr. Seuss and the Outsiders. Someone...spontaneous, impulsive, acts before thinking; adds fun to life. And, someone who isn't afraid to show me off, not saying we have to make out in town square, but hand holding, stolen kisses, stuff like that."

Jess's heart flutters as he hears her words, that's him. 𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦. "So," he tries to maintain his casual, aloof appearance, "You got a guy in mind? That all seems pretty specific."

Y/N smirks at his words, "Maybe, it's kind of hard to find someone like that in this small town. You either get guys like Brad, high school has-been's, or Dean Forester. Perfect Dean Forester, although I guess technically he did move here from Chicago. But he has the 'Small Town Boy' act down."

Jess chuckles softly at her words, she was right, Dean did have that Small Town act perfected down to a science. "So, if there we're to be a guy, who matched this description, would he have shot with you, hypothetically of course."

Y/N grins, picking up what Jess was hinting at. "I'd say, hypothetically, if this guy we're to ask me out, or confess his undying love for me, I wouldn't shoot him down."

Jess straightens out, hip pushed against the counter as he leans in a bit. "So if this guy were to, hypothetically, say that he likes you and have for a while, you'd go out with him?"

"Yes, I would, but only if he told me directly." Y/N challenges Jess, knowing that he isn't big on sharing his feelings.

Jess stands up straight behind the counter as he meets Y/N's gaze, he takes a moment before talking. "I like you, have for a while." He runs a hand through his messy hair, "In fact, you drive me crazy. There isn't a moment when your'e not invading my brain, very distracting."

Y/N's smile grows as she hears him talk, "Well, I like you too. Just, don't start charging me rent for living in your head." She pokes his forehead as she teases him.

Jess laughs, 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘴, at her words. "I'll let you live rent-free on one condition, be mine? God, that sounds gross and sappy." He groans at his words and how cliche he sounds.

Y/N let out a laugh, "Yes, I'll be yours." She smiles, "Bad boy Jess has gone soft."

Jess rolls his eyes but a smile tugs at his lips, "Shut up, I'm not soft....Okay maybe, but only for you and around you. And if you tell anyone..." He doesn't finish the threat, but they both know there isn't any actual heat behind it.

"Yeah, yeah." Y/N rolls her eyes, "Your secret is safe with me." She crosses her heart with a smile.

"Good," Jess hums with a small smile. "So, your mine now, huh?" He grabs her hand from across the counter, thumb rubbing across the back of her hand as their fingers interlock.

"Yeah," Y/N smiles softly, squeezing his hand. "All yours"

Jess's smile widens at her words, "That's right, all mine" He brings her hand up to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. "Mine to protect," he locks eyes with Y/N. "Mine to love, mine to cherish..." He leans in further over the counter, "Mine to hold, mine to care for..." His eyes sweep over her face, taking in every detail and memorizing them. "Mine to spoil," he reaches his free hand to cup her cheek, thumb running across her skin. "Mine to be with...and mine to love, forever." He closes the distance between the two, his lips meeting hers in a soft, tender kiss, expressing unspoken thoughts and emotions.

As he kisses her, he feels a sense of peace wash over him. He feels complete, whole. He's never been good at expressing his feelings, but right now, he knows deep in his heart that he means ever word he said.

He loves Y/N.

And he's never letting her go.

"That's the sappiest thing you've ever said."

[carmensbrain]

You asked and I am here. Cole Cassidy x Reader pretty please? 🙏

No specific criteria - write whatever you feel like :))

Ugh this man has infected my brain😵‍💫

Thank you humble anon for this blessing🎀

Contains- Cole Cassidy x Reader RAHHHHH

Rating- E for every brain!!

Warnings- mentions of mcree (i wanted to incorporate the name change I hate the real guy!)

Authors note- this is mostly self indulgent but I just got my phone back, cut me some slack✋🤚

Fic starts below cut!!

You had met Cole back in his deadlock days while working at your family’s diner, the Panorama. He was still a scruffy teen, toothpick between his lips as he entered the warm building. A girl your age followed in behind him, her long pale hair scruffed and messy.

“Damn you mcree!” She huffed, pushing him roughly before fixing her hair. You knew you’d seen him before, something about his face and the way he carried himself that seemed familiar, he and the girl were plastered all over wanted posters in the area with hefty prices attached.

You decided to give them the benefit of the doubt and let them take a seat at the bar as you took their order. The girl, who you would come to know as Ashe, ordered a grilled cheese and the boy ordered a burger while his gaze drifted to the apple pie in the case across the bar.

“And would either of you want some pie with that?” You ask, seeing the look on the girls face as she quietly reminds the boy of their financial situation.

“Oh no not tonight” the boy says setting his hat onto the bar, scruffy hair falling over his forehead messily.

“On the house, Mcree” you hum, placing a slice of pie in front of the two. The girl looks at you with a cocked eyebrow and stops the boy from eating or even touching the dish.

“It was gonna get thrown out anyway” you clarify with a warm smile and the girl seems to relax as the boy houses the food. They eat silently as you clean glasses and tune into whatever music was playing on the radio, feeling the boys gaze on you as you worked. As they pay their bill and the boy hands it to you he speaks up.

“The names Cole by the way, Cole Cassidy” His voice has a smooth southern tone to it, his cheeks having a noticeable dusting of pink as he speaks.

“Oh sorry… I’m f/n l/n”

Cole and Ashe leave for the night and as the weeks pass you start to notice the lootings and fights drift farther from the diner, bringing in more business during the day. Cole visits regularly “just for pie”, complementing you far too much for something he’s had so many times before but you didn’t mind, not in the slightest.

He treats you like an angel, ensuring that no one speaks to you even slightly rudely as he chats with you. The cooks quickly took notice and began teasing you for ‘straightening him out’, which you laugh at while denying it. Every once in a while he’d bring in flowers for the vase next to the register, hands clammy as he hands the flowers to you.

For about a year and half that’s how it was, until overwatch caught wind of deadlock. Rumors where all you had to piece together where he went, apparently being forced into overwatch in order to avoid arrest. You couldn’t help but miss him, watching as the rain withered the final wanted posters tacked up on the telephone poles. Inevitably you had to grow up, to take full control of the diner as the years pass and locals move in and out.

When overwatch disbanded you were coming up on your late thirties and you couldn’t defend your diner as well as you used to, criminals getting bold again with flashy weapons and body modifications. That’s when rumors of a certain cowboy rolling into town again began circulating through hushed whispers. A red beat up motor cycle came to a halt in front of the entrance of the diner,a cloud of dust pillowing beneath it as the bell above the door rings.

It was a slow morning so the only sounds were the sinks, grills, and the man’s boots and spurs hitting the tile floor. His gaze rose to you as he took his hat from his head and held it to his chest with a gentle smile.

“Ya miss me?”

[thelastofhyde]

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

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 15k

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

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

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

The mirror is not clean enough to see yourself.

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

It’s something new to fidget with.

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

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

If you do, you’ll blame him.

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

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

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

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

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

You were careful all night to never speak of him.

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

And then it happened.

You didn’t say his name, no.

Not aloud.

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

But it was enough to make you want to leave.

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

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

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

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

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

There were usually three of them.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t have an answer.

You didn’t get to give an answer.

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

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

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

Javier Peña was none of that.

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

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

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

It was like, nothing.

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

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

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

That was never part of the plan.

Neither was skipping dinner, though.

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

His hair, freshly cut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you stumble to the elevator.

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

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

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

“Déjame. (Let me.)”

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

He catches you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m glad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thud against the nightstand.

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

The undressing is gentle and so unlike his usual impatience.

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

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

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

He looks like he wants to.

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

Against your forehead, lips that linger.

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

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

Vermont, ‘98.

That’s where it all began.

Your dad, turning fifty.

Javi just hit forty.

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

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

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

Wrong.

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

Textbooks on the table, glasses on your face.

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

Peaceful and quaint, until it wasn’t.

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

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

You put your head down, breathed more subtly.

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

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

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

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

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

Inching towards the exit, footsteps light as a feather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not in the mood.”

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

“I have an early flight.”

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

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

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

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

“I ain’t done talkin’ to you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t remember which direction you turned.

“Quit running, you bitch!”

He was still following, how was he still following?

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

He was getting faster. Maybe you were getting slower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thumb swiped over your palm.

Your mouth winced, your arm pulled back.

He held you in place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was instinctual, no thought placed behind his action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took you back to his own cabin instead.

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

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

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

Late june brings nothing but gloom.

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

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

Tonight, you’re appeasing them.

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

Truth be told, you don’t want to go.

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

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

In the mirror, it’s still lopsided.

The clock sits at eight forty-seven.

They’re 2 minutes late.

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

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

Dive back in, search again.

An empty tube of lipbalm.

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

A broken earring.

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

Bile burns the back of your throat.

He opens on the fifth knock.

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

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

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

The air’s uncomfortably quiet.

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

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

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

The silence returns.

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

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

You notice his bedroom door is shut.

It’s never been shut before.

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

He blinks, slowly.

It’s hard to tell if it’s from guilt.

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

He doesn’t answer.

You keep talking.

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

“This needs to stop.”

You don’t have to question it.

You do, anyway.

“What?”

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

“I don’t underst-”

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

He’s stern.

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

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

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

Everything, you want to tell him.

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

“I just thought-”

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

I know, you mouth.

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

When he calls to make sure you got home safe.

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

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

Javier Peña is not your boyfriend.

So why does he act like it?

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

Kid.

That makes you angry.

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

“Don’t call me kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, the back-and-forth stops.

Silence.

You take the lead.

“So, what? That’s it just... over?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too late, you want to say.

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

“Corazón, I’m so sor-”

The car honks, again.

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

Another honk.

You never make it to the line dance.

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

Love’s a verb And not a bandage

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

A promise of casual, turned into something fragile.

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

All you remember is a pounding at your front door.

1 am. Too late to be causing ruckus.

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

Pause.

This could be anyone, anything.

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

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

You let him invade your senses.

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

You pull back. He follows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, you do trip over them.

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

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

The gold of his skin shines brighter.

The red on his skin appears darker.

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

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

Later with Javi never seems to come.

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

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

‘I’ll get these back to you later.’

He’d never made you that dinner.

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

You’d never gotten those panties back.

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

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

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

Distractions are not welcomed, your patient needs tending to.

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

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

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

It does the trick, unlocks his tongue.

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

He hisses.

You’re pressing too hard on his fragile lip.

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

A splotch of red stains your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

Javi sighs, gives in.

He always gives in, to you, eventually.

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

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

He doesn’t need to.

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

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

He’s rambling.

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

You listen closely, swallow up every morsel he offers.

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

He chokes.

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

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

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

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

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

He nods.

“Did you help her?”

Another nod.

“Did you get her someplace safe?”

This time, a reply.

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

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

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

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

“What more could you have done?”

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

You whine out his name.

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

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

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

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

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

The words catch in your throat.

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

But mostly because he kisses you.

Desperate, hungry. Groaning into your willing mouth.

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

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

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

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

When Javi fucks you, he fucks with purpose.

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

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

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

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

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

When did Javier Peña stop wanting you?

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

By July, things change.

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

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

Boredom leads to hobbies.

At first, you try pottery.

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

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

You hate it, running.

You sweat, you ache, you exhaust.

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

The heartache.

The headache.

The agent.

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

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

The pink shirt still lives on one of your hangers.

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

Not right now.

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

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

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

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

Today, however, it’s more challenging.

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

You have to come, kiddo.

The phone-call still echos through your thoughts.

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

You’d wanted a better explanation than that.

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

You had no plans.

Bring your friends then! The more the merrier!

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

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

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

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

He said it, like that would persuade you.

Keep asking about ya, the whole lot of them.

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

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

You’d hung up.

Immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

Until you come to a screeching halt.

Double over.

Place your hands on your knees.

Dry heave.

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

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

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

You’ll have to see him.

Spend time near him.

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

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

For not quitting the force.

For being your dad’s friend.

For not wanting you the same you wanted him.

Want him.

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

You’re usually more careful.

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

You pick your pace back up.

Manage only a handful-or-two steps.

Your feet fly out in front of you.

Land ass-first on the gravel below.

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

You groan and prepare to get back on your feet.

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

Big mistake.

The hand tugs you.

You glance up.

And meet the eyes of Javier Peña.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You come up empty handed.

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

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

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

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

Wedding attire, a post-party glow.

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

Had he smiled, then?

Had he even been there?

Or was he merely a product of martinis and negronnis-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I- What?” Confussion.

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

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

Adjusts your piercing, swipes his thumb over your cheek.

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

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

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

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

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

Or both.

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

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

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

Your father’s voice.

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

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

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

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

Maybe it’s sadness you see.

There’s definitely remorse.

Guilt, too.

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

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

But none of that matter, anymore.

You’re already walking away.

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

He calls out your name, loudly.

Attracts the nosy eyes of people around.

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

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

He reaches out for your hand.

And quickly gives up on the thought of holding it.

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

He knows the answer.

You still give him it, “yes.”

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

You feel his eyes on you.

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

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

You’re laughing but it’s mostly fake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not her fault. You know.

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

Your dad is.

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

Even from here, you can hear him bragging.

So then Peña’s on his ass.

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

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

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

He’s exaggerating.

The guy was barely going 5 miles an hour!

He stepped out the vehicle at his own will.

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

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

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

If you step inside the frame, it cracks.

Shatters.

And maybe he knows that.

Knew it all along.

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

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

The feeling lasts all but four seconds.

“Kiddo!”

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

It takes a moment, but you wave.

“Come over ‘ere!”

Not the response you were hoping for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not a sight you want to see.

It fills you with dread.

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

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

“London.”

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

All eyes snap to him.

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

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

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

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

That peaks your interest.

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

“Really?”

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

With Javi, friends could mean anything.

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

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

So it’s best you don’t inquire on it.

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

“Mr... Bond?”

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

You can practically hear it, in his voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His lips press against your hairline before speaking again.

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

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

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

It’s too late though.

You’re already snoring against his skin.

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

For a minute, it feels like she knows.

She knows why Javi knows.

You should be panicking.

Both of you should.

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

But you aren’t. Neither of you are.

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

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

Your dad gives an unceremonious oh.

Your mom rolls her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pulls her close, kisses her shoulder.

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

Open, celebrated, acknowledged.

Not secretive, dirty, scandalous.

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

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

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

Your heart drops.

Javi’s seems to do the same.

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

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

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

But I’m actually bloody Motherfucking batshit crazy

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

You’ve lived plenty of such moments.

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

And all because you heard his voice.

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

He’s facing a woman.

She’s pretty.

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

And a well-rounded belly.

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

You’ve never seen her before.

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

She’s a total stranger, to you.

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

A very pregnant, non-stranger.

“We gotta get this kid some better taste.”

His hand rests on her bump.

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

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

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

You won’t let it fester.

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

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

Was she the reason things between you and him ended?

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

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

Surely, he couldn’t have.

But, then, why couldn’t he have?

You were never exclusive.

You were never anything.

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

Your heart’s palpitating.

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

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

Because, how could he do this to you?

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

Love you so deeply and leave you so easily?

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

“He’s a real kicker, ain’t he?”

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

But, no, it’s too distant. Too far.

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

He’s handsome, in the typical sense.

Blonde haired, a nice smile.

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

“He?” It’s Javi who echoes.

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

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

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

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

The bile in your throat burns more than ever before.

The misplaced anger bleeds into sadness, shame, embarrassment.

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

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

Friends his own age.

Worlds apart, yet nothing but a shelf between you.

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

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

The little girl perks right up at that.

Eyes widened, head off her father’s shoulder.

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

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

“Quit lying to my kid, Peña.”

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

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

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

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

Your breathing stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flicker up to the shelf and-

He’s no longer standing on the other side.

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

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

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

You wake up early.

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

Making the most out of your time upon foreign land.

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

The truth lies in that you can not sleep.

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

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

A quarter past six.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your ringtone is the culprit.

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

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

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

“Corazón.”

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

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

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

Sadness that it sounds so broken down the line.

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

“I’m here,” it’s only a whisper.

It’s enough to shut him up.

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

“You’re in London,” he states.

“I am,” you affirm.

He hums, sips something.

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

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

“Yeah,” you spare him the details.

The truth.

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

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

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

You sure felt alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For answers, for clarity, for closure

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

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

Even then, it kills you to do so.

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

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

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

“What answer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The image doesn’t quite form.

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

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

Refuge he’s willing to share with you.

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

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

“Promise me you’ll go, corazón.”

Your reply is instant, “I promise.”

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

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

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

“How you feeling, kiddo?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of them have, really.

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

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

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

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

“You’re literally in my room!”

“Which is literally in my house!”

Downstairs, your mother yells something unintelligible.

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

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

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

Tupperware, clasped in his hand.

The contents are hard to decipher.

Luckily, your father spots you eyeing it.

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

Your stomach growls, hungry and unfed.

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

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

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

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

Immediately, you spot chicken.

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

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

Your father continues, practically talking to himself.

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

“Cazuela de ave.”

A change into warmer, drier clothes.

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

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

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

And that fact is partly what warms your insides.

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

Objectively, you think, he’s gorgeous.

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

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

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

The scent alone is enough to have you salivating. 

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

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

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

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

A real date.

Only, this isn’t even a fake date.

You guys don’t do that.

“It’s- It was my mom’s recipe.”

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

He’s never mentioned his mother.

Or much about his family, really.

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

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

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

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

Open.

His eyes, his mind, his heart.

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

“Was she a good cook?”

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

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

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

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

It’s disturbingly beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know what to say.

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

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

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

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

Both of you settle back in your seats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She would have liked you.”

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

They’re as open as before.

“Really?”

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

“Kiddo?”

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

“Hmm?” 

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

“I’m- Yeah, just tired, s’all.”

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

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

[tarareindeer]

Hello pookie.

Since you're taking requests, I'm gonna shoot my shot.

How about something with Vander, where the Reader came into The Last Drop, perhaps they are like a friend/acquaintance of Babette's that had a rough confrontation with a rude client of the brothel earlier. And the client like also appears in the bar and some kind of brawl happens? Gender neutral reader if possible, maybe they're also like low-key sassy and strong. This is totally self indulgent not gonna lie.

Off topic, I love the Vander part 1 fic you wrote! The concept is so AAAAAAA FIRE to me. I can't wait to see what's going to happen next. I have so many assumptions in my head about events that might take place further on.

Also you're so real for the writing in English when it's not your first language, I'm the same.

thank u pooks,I'll do more in future give sum time to come up with the story :)

The Last Drop was as rowdy as ever, the kind of chaos that felt like home if you squinted hard enough. You stepped in, shaking off the leftover annoyance from earlier. Babette had convinced you to help out at the brothel for the night a solid mistake in hindsight. You were expecting the usual: side-eyeing greasy clients, keeping an ear out for any trouble, maybe breaking up a spat or two. What you didn’t expect was some wannabe top dog mouthing off like he owned the place.

And of course, now here he was.

You clocked him the moment you stepped into Vander’s bar. The same slimy guy with his oversized ego and cheap cologne, leaning over a table like he thought he was in a K-drama.

“Oh, hell no.” You muttered, weaving through the crowd. Your face must’ve been giving away your internal commentary because Vander caught sight of you from behind the bar, raising a brow.

“You alright there?” he asked, sliding a pint to another patron.

“Peachy,” you shot back, but your eyes were already locked on the dude. “Just peachy. Except for him.”

Vander followed your gaze and let out a low chuckle. “Guessing there’s a story here?”

“More like a Yelp review: one star, do not recommend, would fight again,” you said, rolling up your sleeves.

But apparently, karma was playing the long game, because there he was, right smack in the middle of the bar, holding court like he owned the place. You stopped dead, your jaw clenching.

“Don’t do it,” you muttered to yourself. “Not worth it. Be the bigger person.”

Then he spotted you, and his face lit up with a grin so smug it should’ve been illegal. “Well, if it isn’t Babette’s little errand runner,” he called out, loud enough to make the whole bar turn your way.

Oh, it was on.You grinned, all teeth, and took a step closer. “And yet, here I am. Living rent-free in that hollow skull of yours.”

You squared your shoulders and marched toward the counter, locking eyes with Vander. “Vodka,”

The guy stood up, all swagger and no substance. “Still salty from earlier, huh?” he sneered. “Thought you’d learned your place.”

“Yeah, I did,” you shot back, stepping closer. “It’s somewhere above you.”

The crowd ooh-ed, and Vander sighed, wiping a glass as though he hadn’t seen this exact situation play out a hundred times before. “You break it, you buy it,” he muttered under his breath.

You smiled, slow and dangerous. “Alright, bet.”

And with that, chaos erupted. Tables flipped, drinks spilled, and the poor bartender who tried to intervene got a swift “Stay out of it, Huck” from you. Vander didn’t step in until the dude was flat on his back, groaning like a broken accordion.

“That’s enough,” he said, grabbing the guy by the scruff of his neck and hauling him toward the door. “Out.”

Once the guy was gone, Vander turned to you, his arms crossed. “Feel better?”

“Immensely,” you said, brushing your hands off. “Also, sorry about the mess,"

“Yeah, but I’m the fun kind,” you said, grabbing your drink off the counter like you hadn’t just caused a small riot.

And just like that, the bar settled back into its usual rhythm. Well, mostly because now everyone was watching you like you were some kind of folk hero.

“Round’s on me,” Vander finally said, chuckling to himself. “Least I can do for the entertainment.”

[his-lost-one]

should i be asleep? yes. am i? no. so anyway i was thinking about my misophonia and decided to write a pan x reader story where the reader has misophonia. it’s very self indulgent tbh but i needed that, for my soul.

ship: pan x gender neutral!reader

title: eating alone

warnings: none really, but ofc there’ll be talk of misophonia and there’s a happy ending :)

(there are two endings for this, just choose whichever you prefer!)

word count: 1295

(ao3 link)

(fic under the cut)

You had just arrived on Neverland earlier today. It had been maybe 4 hours by now? You couldn’t really be sure, since you had no way to tell the time. However, Felix- the second in command had just given you dreadful news.

Well, dreadful to you. He probably didn’t think much of it. He told you that it‘ll be dinner time in about half an hour.

You hadn’t told anyone on this island yet about your …condition. And you had frankly hoped you wouldn’t have to, but apparently everyone here eats dinner together. At the same time.

And probably not just dinner, but all meals- You just hadn’t been there yet for breakfast and lunch.

From time to time, you almost felt lucky that your trigger sounds were limited to things like eating, drinking, chewing, swallowing and other related sounds. You had heard stories of people with much more common triggers and it made yours seem bearable in comparison- But right now, that is not how you were feeling.

You knew why you were here on Neverland. The shadow brings people who feel lonely, lost or unloved - That’s what you‘d been told. And for you it was clear which one you fit into. Lost. And maybe lonely too.

How could you not feel that way? Misophonia was a cruel fate- A condition most people hadn’t even heard of and just seemingly could never understand no matter how often you tried to explain it. So much socializing happens while people are eating together, and missing out on all of that… how could anyone avoid feeling isolated? It wasn’t fair, but it was something you had to deal with.

You weren’t exactly feeling hopeful that it‘d be different here. At best, maybe you could finish your food fast and then just run away until everyone is done eating. But who knows; apparently Pan can be really strict. What if you’ll be forced to stay until everyone is done? Sounds like horror. Or torture. Maybe both.

You hadn’t met him yet, so you couldn’t be sure, but you really really hoped he would understand at least a little.

You felt a pit in your stomach just at the thought of having to endure dinner, surrounded by countless loud Lost Boys. You trued to suppress a shudder and made your decision in this moment; you couldn’t want until dinnertime actually arrived, you had to find Pan and talk to him now.

Felix seemed to look up to him like some savior; Devin seemed almost afraid of him. You could only hope that Felix was the correct one here.

You walked to the tree with Pan’s treehouse. There was no ladder, since he can apparently just teleport up there and doesn’t need one. Probably useful to keep out unwanted visitors. But your situation was urgent, so you attempted something you’d never done before. You tried to climb up the tree.

You had managed to get up maybe a meter above the ground when a branch broke and you fell down right on your behind. You groaned in annoyance and were about to stand up and try again, when someone, probably Pan, appeared out of thin air in front of you.

“What in the world are you doing?” He looked down at you with a confused expression and one eyebrow raised.

“Pan..?” You asked, just in case he’s not the only one with teleportation powers.

“The one and only. Now, answer the question.”

“Right, right. I needed to talk to you. About dinner.” Your voice was shaky already- This had never been an easy topic to address.

He picked up on the nervousness and laughed as he completely unknowingly misinterpreted it. “Does the cute Lost One want to sit next to me?”

You visibly cringed at that and he immediately looked surprised at that reaction. Most people probably would not have reacted so negatively to the thought of sitting next to him at dinner.

“I have a problem actually.”

“Oh. And what would that be? Don’t tell me you don’t like the food, because that’s not a problem, that can be changed.”

“Oh, you’d be willing to change the food for me?” This had nothing to do with the actual topic, but you were still surprised.

He rolled his eyes before nodding. “Not the food, but your food. I’m a quite skilled magic user, so there are practically no limitations.”

You giggled, you weren’t sure why, but this hint of a willingness to accommodate already made you feel better. “Well, that’s cool, but not what I wanted to talk about. Uhm… Can I maybe eat separately from everyone else?”

He tilted his head to the side a little. “Why would you want that? You’re new here, don’t you want to get to know the others? Socialize?”

“I do, I do actually- But uh… I have misophonia.” You said the last word in a really quiet voice, but he seemed to have understood you anyway.

“Oh. Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” He seemed so nonchalant and he seemed to… know what you’re talking about? How had a guy living on an isolated magical island heard of this when most people around you in your old life hadn’t?

“I don’t know, I didn’t expect you to… understand?” You avoided his gaze nervously.

“Why would I not? I mean, you are the first Lost One with this condition, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t heard of it.”

“So… you’ll allow me to eat alone?” You look up at him, hope in your eyes.

Ending One:

He grinned as he held out a hand to help you up off the ground, where you were still sitting. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll enchant you, so you’ll never be bothered by any sounds again.”

You took his hand almost absentmindedly and looked at him in awe and admiration as he pulled you to your feet in front of him again. “You- you can do that?”

“Didn’t I just tell you? There are almost no limitations to my power, and a spell like that wouldn’t exactly even be difficult. Do you want it?”

You nodded furiously immediately. He smirked again and waved his hand, which was emanating a gentle green glow and for a moment you felt like nothing happened until a sudden, serene feeling of calm washed all over you. And only in this moment had you realized that all of the ambient sounds that hadn’t even been irritating enough to be called trigger were suddenly all neutral and not even a minor annoyance- Hell, some even sounded pleasant now. Like the wind or the birds chirping.

He looked quite smug as he saw the changes in your facial expression. “I take it you like the change?”

Instead of answering you just hugged him. You had never been this grateful for anything in your life- this was the biggest burden you’d ever had, lifted off your shoulders, just like that.

“So about that sitting next to you later, is that still an option?”

He rolled his eyes and nodded softly as he smiled at you. You didn’t notice the slight flush that appeared on his cheeks the moment you hugged him, but you did notice your own cheeks getting a bit warmer as he hugged you back.

Ending Two:

“Of course. Why would I not? I have no use for you being needlessly miserable. I’ll enchant your tent to make it soundproof, that way you’ll really have an escape whenever you need it.

You basically jumped up off the floor and hugged him, gratefully. “Thank you!! Thank you so much! I didn’t think you’d understand!!” The joy and relief in your voice was enough to make even Pan smile as he hesitantly hugged you back.

[goldlockets-and-redwine]

You're The Worst | Chapter 1

Pairing: Touya Todoroki x Reader

Word Count: 875 words

Summary: Paw's and Claw's has a fun staff. However, the nosy bad boy, Touya, loves to pick on you. What will happen when he notices the array of bruises hidden under your sweatshirts? Maybe he isn't so bad after all.

Author's Note: So, this fic idea has been in my mind for a while. I hope everyone likes it. This will be a multi-chapter fic as I don't have a ton of time to write. Oof. Please be patient with me. Also, I inserted my cat Thomas because it's almost been a year since he passed, and I think of him every day. I know. So self-indulgent.

TW: Domestic Violence (Not from Touya), Fem!Reader, Violence in general (There will be a fight, not in this chapter though.), drinking, smoking, cursing. Let me know if I missed anything!

“That looks like shit.”

Good god, I wish he would just shut up. This is the third time today he’s butted into my work.

“No, it looks great Touya. You’re just an ass with shit handwriting. Jealous much?” We looked over my work. The sign looked great honestly. I really outdid myself this time. In delicate script it read “Tom” adorned with little hearts around the name. I put up the sign on Tom’s’ kennel, a large grey and white cat sitting at the farthest possible corner of the kennel away from the door. “Do you have his bio?”

“Of course, what am I? Incompetent?” He made quick work of putting up his bio underneath the name card I made. He typed his up like normal. I gazed sadly at the big tom cat sitting in the cage. “Hey doll, he’ll get adopted. You always get too attached.”

I grimaced at the pet name. He always looks for a way under my skin. However, he took it upon himself to never call me by name. I need to come up with my own for him. Maybe he’ll leave me alone if I come up with something heinous.

“Some of us have hearts, jackass.” Wait, that one fits. Still not original enough. I glanced at him to see him already staring at me. If looks could kill. You would think working in a shelter there would be nice coworkers here. Everyone else was nice. Not this guy. His intimidating look didn’t help his case. Tattoos were everywhere but the one on his face gets the most frowns from potential adopters. The row of flames over his left brow. Wait is that… “Touya, did you redye your hair? You should do a better job of not getting that shit on your skin. You look insane.”

“Why you lookin’ at me so hard? Like what you see?” My face was already showing my irritation before, but now I could feel it twist in disgust.

“No. The hair dye stains are really not doing it for me.” I do a swift 180 degrees and make my way out of the cat room and into the lobby once more. “Hey Toga! Any new applications come in?” Her face lit up as she looked up at me. Her sharp canines stuck out as she smiled.

“(Y/N)! We had one come in for Mochi!” She was practically jumping out of her chair. “Dabi! Come and look at the place!” Touya leaned over the counter and looked down above the monitor as I walked around the desk. It was a beautiful house in suburbia with a huge fenced in back yard. “Mochi will love it, don’t ya think?”

“He’ll love it little vamp.” I said. My eyes hovered over the screen to notice the time. “You should head out. It’s 5:30! You know the boss won’t be happy about you staying over too much.”

Toga pouted, but I was right. Tomura gets so pressed when she stays over. It must be that big brother dynamic. She got up to gather her things for the evening and shut down the computer. “He’ll be fine, but I’ll tell him you guys said hi!” With that she gave me a big hug and skipped towards the door and out to the parking lot. Touya turned and stared at me as soon as he had locked the door. Without saying a word I got to work cleaning the lobby. Working with animals was messy and there was a mix of dog and cat hair being swept up. I heard Touya’s heavy boots moving towards the hallway leading to the dog kennels. I instantly relaxed and continued my chores, completely blocking out my thoughts.

-

“Doll,” My body was on autopilot as I put away the cleaning supplies. “Don’t ignore me doll. It’s time to bail.” I quickly finished putting things up and grabbed my bag. Both our footsteps synced as we made our way to the door. Touya held the door open. “Ladies first.” I could hear the cockiness in his voice. He wasn’t going to get a reaction out of me so late in the day. My car’s taillights blinked as I unlocked it. Today was a hot one. The evening sun was shining on me. I pushed up the sleeves to my sweater and was nearly to my car when I heard Touya’s deep voice closer to me than expected. “That’s a nasty bruise.”

The sweaters I wore for the last 6 months were to avoid these questions. It was no secret Kai, my boyfriend, wasn’t the best guy. His record was a mile long. No one would know he mistreated me, however. Kai made a good show of being a loving boyfriend while also being a piece of shit in every other aspect of his life. He won me over with gifts and treated me like a princess. He said I was his perfect girl. Do men treat perfect girls like this?

“Mind your business.”

Touya’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not a dumbass, (y/n).” With that he got in his black 5.0 mustang and pulled out of the parking lot leaving me standing next to my car.

[jojolymes]

𝐒𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐀; preface

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 ¡!

next: I. 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 | table of contents

𑁍

get lost and then get found, or

˗ˏˋ SWALLOWED IN THE SEA'ˎ˗

one piece

❝I DON'T THINK I'VE EVER HAD A DREAM OF MY OWN.❞

┊ ✧. being a marine was supposed to be your  dream since you were a child. it was what you were born to be— until the straw hats pull the sheet back from over your eyes.

PLAYLIST .ೃ࿐

swallowed in the sea; coldplay

❝and i could write it down or spread it all around, get lost and then get found,

and you'll come back to me, not swallowed in the sea.❞

kiss from a rose; seal

❝there used to be a greying tower alone on the sea,

and you became the light on the dark side of me.❞

caribbean blue; enya

❝so the world goes round and round with all you ever knew,

they say the sky high above is caribbean blue?❞

make your own kind of music; cass elliot

❝nobody can tell you there's only one song worth singing,

they may try and sell you 'cause it hangs them up to see someone like you.❞

sinking boat; infinity song

❝no safety in the riches, the glory, or the castle guard, 

the sunset cast a shadow over the boulevard...❞

the anchor song; bjork

❝underneath is all currents and drop my anchor,

and this is where i'm staying; this is my home.❞

sunny; boney m.

❝sunny, thank you for the smile upon your face—

sunny, thank you for the gleam that shows its grace.❞

corner of the earth; jamiroquai

❝so inspired of that, there's nothing left to do or say...

think i'll dream 'til the stars shine.❞

life & soul; the sundays

❝here on the shore, we're going to be,

here I go, it's all my sea, all my blue...❞

FOREWORD .ೃ࿐

˚ · . warnings¡!

HEAVY LANGUAGE USE

CAN WE GET MUCH HIGHER?

CANON-TYPICAL VIOLENCE & INJURIES

˚ · . notes¡!

SANJI X FEM!READER X ZORO FRANKY X ROBIN NAMI X VIVI

┊ ✧. mc is 19 pre-time-skip and 21 post-time-skip; all characters are their canon ages

✧. this fic will cover all of the one piece arcs! yes, all of them!!! however, it will be more of a  collection of scenarios than a fic with a continuous plot line!!

✧. this is a sanji x reader x zoro fic but its VERY slow burning! its more of an extra element bc i am in love with both of them #throuple

✧. any other ships are the ones i ship so i don't give a fuck if you don't because at the end of the day, this fic is a HUGE passion piece that is very self-indulgent

✧. mc's fighting style and weapon choice are based off the peruvian/incan fighting style rumi maki and incan weapon boleadoras bc i am a proud peruvian :9

started: 10.06.2024

ended: n.a.

for an easy reading experience, follow # swallowedintheseaop

[lemon-russ]

I am all weird and feverish and migraine-y and its like 1am, so please enjoy this small aside I have written to segway the next arc of this tropey silly self indulgent fic <3

Also on phone so formatting is off

--------------- 💀 ------------------

(We have dividers at home/ dividers at home:)

7.5 / ???

1 :: 2 :: 3 :: 4 :: 5 :: 6 :: 7 :: 7.5 :: 8 :: 9 :: 10

Cato Sicarius x F!reader

(But not right now this ain't about him)

CW: description of a panic attack

Summary: Ambassador does not want to take a break from work. And is NOT the family pet mortal. Maybe.

Word count: 955

Warning, very minimal editing and I'm dyslexic, like actually literally, so there may be more mistakes than usual. Apologies.

You resume much of your normal work again after the disaster of your last meeting. Thankfully the few meetings you have for the next couple of days are just diplomats and officials you work with regularly.

Most you don't need any sort of guarding, either they come to you or are Astartes from other chapters. In the time you aren't meeting people, you are in your little office connected to Guilliman's, doing paperwork. You're not supposed to be, of course, but you sneak it. He really worries too much.

You're writing out come contracts and supply logistics when there's a knock on your door. “Open.” You say automatically. Guilliman opens the door and steps in, frowning at your paper pile. You keeo writing, glance up, glance back down, then snap your head up and drop your pen, covering the papers with your arms and smiling sheepishly up at the primarch.

“Ah, My Lord, what a surprise!” You chuckle out nervously. He frowns and rolls his eyes, pulling up a much too small chair and sitting across from your desk. “Ambassador, are you alergic to relaxing?” He asks tiredly. “This is the 3rd time in 2 days I've found you sneaking work. This is usually the opposite of how these things go- most people sre sneaking not working, you know.” He says, laying his hands in his lap and sitting up straight and polite. It's a comical sight, he looks like the chair is for children when he uses it.

You grimace at him. “Sir, please, these are already overdue, and I don't want to take time if it just piles up my work for later-” you plead. He chuckles a little, then stands and reaches over your desk. In one motion he sweeps all of your work into his other hand. You gasp. “Sir- please- there's an order to those-” you panic, running to his side and trying to take the papers back.

He chuckles more, holding them far above your reaching hands. “Ambassador, I will be taking over your duties for a couple days. And because I can't trust you not to sneak around and work, I am forced to assign you a babysitter.”

You look up at him, horrified, “my lord, theres a delicate ecosystem to my filing system- wait, did you really call them a babysitter?” You squeak indignantly. He grins, “yes, not a guard, a babysitter, because you are behaving like a disobedient child.” He turns on his heel and strides to the door. “And I'm sure I can manage your delicate ecosystem of paperwork for 3 days.”

You think you're having a panic attack. Your stomach lurches, your head is fuzzy, you can't catch your breath- “three days? Please, my lord- i have so many meetings, I'm going to be so behind, my filing system is based on vibes and very specific-”

He smiles a little softer. “This right here- this is why. Look at you. You're spiraling because I'm offering to take work off of you. You need a vacation, Ambassador.” He walks back and rubs your back soothingly, not unfamiliar with your reactions like this. “It's going to be fine. Fun, even. I'm sending you somewhere nice.”

You take deep breaths, counting forward and back to 10 in your mind- did he say send? “you're making me go somewhere too?” You whimper. He sighs and chuckles. “It's a nice place, a safe, pretty planet, lots of hotsprings and dancing, beautiful weather. Please, ambassador. Think of it like an assignment if it helps. I'm giving you a mission to go to this lovely, calm place for a few days with Commander Titus and a couple others, so that you don't just up and die on me too early.” He chided softly.

Five things you can see, four things you can hear, three things you can smell-

Guilliman sighs. “Okay, okay, I'll give you the rest of the day to work and set things up in a way that you can leave to me easier. Would that help?”

You frown, scrunching your brow. You could label some folders, put dates on them, Guilliman was of course very good at organizing and following instructions, it wouldn't be too bad if you were very clear with the labels…. You let out a long, defeated sigh. “Fine…” you submit. “I'll…. Take a vacation…” you mumble.

The primarch grins at you, patting your back. “Excellent. I'll inform the commander and have thing prepared for this evening.” He stands, handing back your papers. You take them and trudge back to your desk, pouting. He chuckles. “There there, ambassador. Why don't I make you your favorite tea, hm?” He offered.

You purse your lips a bit, trying to stay grumpy. You have a thought that this feels a lot like being treated like a pet, but shake it off. You don't have time to unpack how an immortal demigod superhuman might see a particularly favored mortal. You're not a pet though. You're pretty sure.

“Hmm, what if I got those lottle cakes you like to go with them?” He offered, smiling fondly at you.

You cracked a smile, and a few minutes later, sat at your desk sipping tea and eating cakes happily. You sit up and frown a bit. Wait an warp damned minute, you’re a pet!

You frown at your snacks a long moment. Then sigh and keep eating. Could be worse, really. Best to just never ever think about it again, you decide, happily kicking your feet and doing your work.

[the-travelling-witch]

Hello ^-^, I really love the way you write Jade.

I just read your "You light up my World" fic (I just love fics with the twin in their merform in general) and it reminded me of a fanfic idea I once had. I read that you don’t take requests but that we can send you ideas. So I thought that as a fellow Jade lover maybe you would like this scenario as well. And if you're a fan of angst/comfort ;)

"Jade going swimming with his human s/o in the coral sea or visiting his hometown, a beach etc. Then at some point s/o gets attacked by a shark (preferable without any bitten off body parts) and Jade protects them."

[re: you light up my world]

ahhhh thank you so much!! you may have heard of the saying that the way to a man’s heart is through the stomach, but the way to my heart is through telling me you enjoy the way i write characters >///<

speaking of my heart, these slimy tweels have wormed their way in there and i can’t see them getting out anytime soon (not that i’d want them too ofc)

and thank you so much for reading and respecting my rules!! it sounds like such a normal thing but you’d be surprised, so thanks!! ^^;

also yes i am your resident angst enjoyer and have killed both the character and the reader-insert on more than one occasion, so maybe the body part thing is a good thing to tell me; i unfortunately don’t have much time to write in general atm, so i’ll just give my first impressions and thoughts on the scenario you provided

needless to say, i’ve made up soooo many self-ship scenarios where i get to visit the twin’s home, we needed a coral sea hometown event like yesterday

to say that jade would be ecstatic to show you his home would be an understatement, though of course it is as always masked behind a carefully calm demeanour.

he’d love showing you around the place he grew up in, from his room, to his “house”, to abandoned shipwrecks he used to play in and his old school where the twins met azul.

all the while, he’s grinning as he pulls you along, even more subject to going along with his whims now that you’re reliant on him to get around. not that he minds, of course, no the notion that you’re helpless without him… would admitting that it excites him make him a bad person? fufufu, most people seem to think of him as such already, so he might as well indulge, right?

actually, it’s kind of unthinkable that jade would leave you alone for long enough in an area where you could be attacked and he has more foresight and strength than to let something like the current rip you away from him.

but the fact is, it did happen and figuring out who or what to blame for the situation is the last thing on either of your minds as the dark grey body looms above you.

so far you’ve very narrowly avoided the predator, only grazing your arm on its sharp teeth but the pain and the bone-chilling crunch of its jaw snapping something else in half send waves of adrenaline through your body. you have to calm down, you know that, or you scared mind will make reckless decisions but that thought just panics you more to the point where you heart feels like it’ll jump out your chest.

in a morbid stroke of luck, however, there’s someone who knows the smell of your blood far better than any common shark could and he latches on with frightening precision. sure, jade might not be able to deter the shark on size alone but he is fast and uses its fixation on you to drag his sharp claws over the side of the shark’s face, darkening the waters with more blood before the shark swims off with its injured eye.

to you the resolution feels too quick, the threat too fast gone for the feeling of imminent death that ensnared your heart seconds ago. jade, who is used to the violence of his home, very carefully loops around you in the familiar way he always does, giving you something to ground yourself on as he stirs you away from the incident site.

by the time you arrive at his home and your wounds are dressed, you’ve calmed down enough to actually process what had happened and you tear up in residual fear. despite your environment, jaded notices and curls around you protectively, holding you and stroking his webbed hands down your trembling back.

it’s only when you start apologising for not being careful enough, that you endangered him too when you scarped your hand on an old nail that he gently shushes you. instead, he offers his own apologies for not being there to protect you in the first place and how the responsibility naturally falls to him considering you are way outside of your element.

for the rest of your stay, jade is even more careful with you, opting to show you around the shallower parts of the coral sea. not only are the bright waters around the atlantica museum a very pretty sight or stargazing from the ocean shore a lovely date idea, there are also far less dangers around and most creatures are way more scared of jade up here.

the moray is also even more attached to your side now than before (you didn’t think it was possible but here you are). determined not to let your stay in the coral sea be tainted by this incident, he’ll do all the safe activities with you to calm down; be it hand making jewellery from shells and pearls you’ve collected or looking at the bright and colourful plants and schools of fish around.

yes, jade is used to the violence of the deep sea. and yes, normally, it always thrilled him. however, he managed to find something so precious none of the treasures sunken to the sandy ocean floor can compare and he’s determined to keep you by his side.

[shadowriel]

2024 Fic Writer End of Year Roundup

Answer and then tag three or more creators to keep the game going!

Thanks to everyone who tagged me! I've been a bit out of touch with the fandom this year, but I always love this community we've made ourselves. If you see this or are mentioned below, consider yourself tagged!

1. How many words did you publish on AO3 in 2024?

Almost 22k

2. How many fics did you complete this year?

Just 1 (but it was a banger!)

3. How many in progress or ongoing fics did you start this year?

I've started 3 new fics, adding to my ever growing list of WIPs

4. What was your favorite thing you wrote?

Whiskey Over Wine (aka the country Feysand AU I didn't know I needed). It's completely self-indulgent but also incredibly descriptive and well-written?? I'm currently drafting the Nessian instalment, and it's reminding me how much I love the setting.

5. What piece was your most experimental or different from your usual style?

Probably Until Sunrise, which was my gift exchange fic for @witchlingsandwyverns. I am normally a modern AU girlie, but I really thought the perfect gift would stray from that and incorporate the kind of emotions/dynamics that work better in a different setting. I'm so so happy with how it's turning out so far - I think it's a great combination of my typical banter with an added level of yearning!

6. Did any fics surprise you - either while writing or their reception?

is this what home feels like? which is the recent Feysand nanny/single dad AU I started. I've had this idea at the back of my mind for forever, and it really surprised me when all the bubbling thoughts finally clicked into place.

7. Do you have a fic you wrote and loved that went under the radar? (This is your sign to reblog/repost it!)

Maybe is this what home feels like? ... I was too anxious to make a Tumblr post about it, so it was a bit under the radar in terms of me talking about it

8. Who is an artist that inspired you?

So, so many! @witchlingsandwyverns and @velidewrites come to mind, but I have a million pieces of fanart that live in my head rent-free. I don't know if they have Tumblr but @/flavie5dub on IG has me in the best kind of chokehold.

9. Who is an author that inspired you?

Can I just tag everyone for this??

@howlingcaptaincommando (@talons-and-teeth) directly helped contributed to the brain rot that is masked!Az in from the ghost of your lips (to the haunting of mine). I genuinely heard @tunaababee shrieking about Cowboy!Rhys as I wrote Whiskey Over Wine, so that was incredibly motivating.

And these people inspired me in so so many ways: @yourstarsmyscars @thesistersarcheron @foundress0fnothing @damedechance @wilde-knight @separatist-apologist @the-lonelybarricade @reverie-tales @bearbluebooks @witch-and-her-witcher @thelovelymadone @foreverinelysian (and genuinely everyone in UBC)

10. Who is a new author you discovered?

I'm pretty sure this is the first year I read a fic by @bibliophiliaxvignette , and I was lucky enough to have her as my secret Santa for the gift exchange! Our vibes match so well, so her writing has been an amazing discovery.

And @the-new-ribbon! Their gwynriel makes me such a giggling mess, and I love it!

11. Did you do any collaborations? How did it start?

None this year!

12. What accomplishments are you proudest of?

My proudest accomplishment is that I actually found joy in writing! 2024 was an incredibly challenging year for me and, for most of it, writing felt impossible, but I'm glad there were times that it provided a much needed escape.

13. What did you learn about writing or creating this year?

It's an ongoing lesson, but I've been realizing more about how to make writing more sustainable for me. Like in many aspects of my life, I push myself too hard and that often leads to burnout. That's definitely something I'm working on.

14. Any advice you’d like to share with new or aspiring writers?

Above all else, have fun! Write the kind of fics you want to write, and try not to get lost in the struggles of writing "better" or producing more content.

15. What are your creative goals for 2025?

To not put too much pressure on myself!

I'd also really like to reprioritize all my old WIPs and give myself permission to abandon some (even if I feel myself attached to them). Beyond that, I've been dying to do a full re-write for the STEMinist fics (but that may be something for 2026)

[arcielee]

Interview With a Writer

It is that blessed time when the wonderful and talented Miss Maggie, @inthedayswhenlandswerefew, gives us some behind-the-scenes insight to her latest brilliant narration. [Feel free to check out the Spotify playlist of all the songs mentioned and let me know if I forgot one!]

Here is masterlist to my Interview With a Writer series and the other talented individuals who allow me to continue this self-indulgent series! 💜 Picture(s) source.

Name: inthedayswhenlandswerefew

Story: 1968

Paring: modern Aemond Targaryen x female!reader, modern Aegon Targaryen x female!reader

Warnings: 18+ mature themes. Be mindful of chapter warnings.

Where did the idea for 1968 come from?

I am a high school social studies teacher by trade, and my absolute favorite class to teach is American History. The 1960s and 70s were actually one of my weak spots when I got my first teaching job back in 2020, so I ended up researching a lot about that period of time and got absolutely obsessed with it. In my American History class, I spend a whole lesson on JUST 1968, because so many important events happened in that year that are emblematic of broader trends and tensions.

One day I was re-reading one of my favorite books, The Other Mrs. Kennedy by Jerry Oppenheimer, which is specifically about Bobby Kennedy’s wife Ethel, but also gives a lot of insight into the Kennedy family generally and what it was like to live through that era. The idea of using this setting as a fic AU occurred to me, and I ruminated on it for a few weeks while finishing up Napoleonville.

Eventually, I had a revelation of the ending of 1968 (true to my usual pattern), and then knew I’d have to write the fic! I was actually really worried about all the political and historical details being too boring and/or confusing (especially for non-U.S. readers), so I was relieved that so many people gave it a chance. 🥰

Honestly, it was brilliant with the similarities to the Kennedys and Targaryens in the story. Were there any historical cameos in 1968 that you enjoyed channeling? Or perhaps struggled with?

I find LBJ super fascinating, and I feel that because of the Vietnam War he really doesn’t get a fair assessment when people look back on his presidency. His work for civil rights and the Great Society (SNAP, Medicaid, Head Start, Job Corps, PBS, etc.) was truly revolutionary, and as someone who grew up in poverty and benefitted from a lot of those programs, I don’t think LBJ’s contributions get the recognition and praise they deserve. I perceive him as a haunted sort of figure, and I really enjoyed his cameos. (To be clear, he was also super problematic and bizarre personally, and I don’t mean to excuse any of that 😂).

As for someone who was difficult to write about…honestly, the George Wallace research I did was super depressing, so while he was necessary to include, I didn’t really enjoy working on those parts!

Was there anything in specific that inspired your Reader portrayal?

Io is a bit of a composite sketch. Ethel Kennedy was known as doggedly committed to her husband’s career above all else (despite eventually being the mother of 11 children!!), and I think that inspired Io’s single-minded determination to help Aemond win the election in the first few chapters. Ethel was traditional in the sense that her husband was the center of her world and made all the important decisions, as was expected of women of her social class in that time period. But Io is also a manifestation of the counterculture of the late-60s. She is young, educated, genuinely progressive politically, and likes to party. She tries to reconcile the expectations of her family/time period and her actual personality by intentionally choosing a husband with whom she can have an equal partnership making the world a better place. And…we all know how that worked out.

[Photo Ethel and Bobby Kennedy, m. 1950]

Can you explain your interpretation of Aegon? How does he compare and contrast to Aemond? What drives them? Why are they the way that they are?

In 1968, Aegon is 40 years old, and so his role in the Targaryen political dynasty is very well-established: once his family realized he couldn’t be weaponized for their purposes, he was largely disposed of, and lives this aimless, uninspired, self-loathing sort of existence. He does have some genuine love for his family—missing Daeron and feeling guilt over him being sent to Vietnam, a vague sort of fondness for Mimi and the kids, distress when Aemond is shot in Palm Beach, an apology of sorts to Alicent by performing “Mama Tried” at her birthday party—but Aegon exists on the periphery, and he knows this, and while he doesn’t want to be a politician the rejection still stings.

At first, he perceives Io as yet another person who makes him feel inadequate and unloved; and in fairness, she is cruel to him, in fact more so than Aegon is to Io in return. It is noteworthy that in Chapter 1, she viciously criticizes Aegon in front of everyone in the waiting room (“if someone had to get killed tonight it should have been you”), but he doesn’t return fire until they are alone (the infamous cow comment), and even then he seems to regret it immediately.

Aegon, fundamentally, is more sad than mean. When in Chapters 2 and 3 Io abruptly reveals herself to be someone who is vulnerable, wounded, abandoned, and kind of a hippie lowkey, Aegon begins to perceive her differently, and she becomes an opportunity for him to be truly understood, protected, and loved for the first time in his life.

I think we would all describe Aemond as ambitious and ruthless, determined to prove that he is the best to compensate for deep, lifelong insecurities. He is a progressive politically because he sees a path to build a winning coalition, and perhaps in small part because of the whole Greeks-being-despised immigrants thing. But in 1968 there is a sense that you never fully understand who he is as a person. This is intentional! 1968 is Io’s story, and she never gets to see the whole Aemond. She sees parts of the picture, but never the full image. As awful as he is to Io, there is also a side of Aemond that truly (even if in an…unorthodox way 😂) loves Alys and their child, and there are clues that Alys understands him like no one else can (that Ouija board message… 👀). He’s by no means a good guy, but he is multifaceted. I think the stress of the presidency, and his long separation from Alys, ends up softening Aemond a bit, hence him defending Io’s reputation and ultimately letting her go.

Did anything inspire your other OCs? Specifically "The Ones Who Married In" club?

I didn’t sit down and plan what sorts of characters would be in the “The Ones Who Married In” club. I was possessed by these random visions of them: a perpetually drunk Mimi, a perhaps not too bright but very sweet Fosco, and Malibu Barbie but make her Polish Ludwika, and I was thinking: “These people are ridiculous, this will never work!” But then when I thought about it more, I realized that Mimi, Fosco, Ludwika, and Io all serve strategic roles to help advance Aemond’s career, and so it would make sense that Otto and Aemond cobbled them together and shoved them into the family portraits. I ended up really loving them, but they weren’t a big part of my original outline for 1968. 🙂

How would Io rate them based on her friendship with each of them?

Fosco is definitely #1; they connect on an emotional level that is deep but also largely unspoken. Ludwika is a close #2; she’s Io’s shopping buddy but also witty, supportive, and very feminist in her own way. And then Mimi is a distant #3. Io pities Mimi and feels loyalty to her as a fellow Targaryen, and goes out of her way to try to protect Mimi from her own self-destructive tendencies. But Io, as a collected and self-reliant person, also has difficulty understanding and dealing with someone as messy as Mimi. And of course, once Io realizes she is super into Aegon, that creates some one-sided resentment of Mimi!

Do you have a feeling of what happened after chapter 12? What is the ending you vaguely see with Aegon and Io? What about Aemond and Alys?

Where I end a fic is really the last clear image I see of the characters, so I sadly don’t have a lot of specifics to offer. What I do feel is that Io and Aegon have children of their own (like, several children, maybe even 5+ children) and Aegon is present for their early years in a way he wasn’t able to be for his kids with Mimi. Io is a stepmom to Aegon’s OG kids and has a good relationship with them, but she’s only really close with Cosmo.

I also sense that Aemond has basically no contact with Io or Aegon, which makes sense considering his abuse of Io and the lifelong fury Aegon would therefore have towards him. Aemond is happy with Alys and their son (as happy as someone like him is capable of being); he does the ex-president thing and settles into a largely ceremonial role and advises Democratic politicians, although he is not very friendly with President Reagan.

And then my wild theory is that a Daeron/John McCain ticket ends up winning the 2000 election and the War On Terror plays out completely differently!

And finally... 1968 seemed to pour from you like a fever dream. Does this mean something else might be coming to continue the Maggie's Suffering Sunday tradition?

1968 did seem to fly by, despite it being a longer fic at 12 chapters! I do have something planned for this Sunday... 😉 All I can say for now is that it is very weird, totally unexpected, and tonally a mashup of Comet Donati and When The World Is Crashing Down.

Does that seem impossible?? Think again 😏 I will be reblogging hints until Sunday! I hope you enjoy this new journey 🥰🐍

[veliseraptor]

Fic Authors Self Rec

I was tagged by @kasasagi-eye to self-rec five fics which is always. a fun challenge in a few different ways. but good practice I think! and I did go through and make an Author's Favorites series for myself a while ago, which made this easier!

tried to do a bit of a spread of fandoms/time for funsies

Elegy, or Twelve Scenes About One Thing (The Silmarillion).

An old one! But I'm still pretty pleased with it. It's a style I don't write in as much anymore as I used to, but rereading it reminded me why I liked writing it to begin with. Just an impressionistic set of vignettes about Finrod and Curufin in Nargothrond; good old-fashioned cousin incest for a pairing I haven't written in a long time but am still deeply fond of.

Curufin’s hands had a smith’s calluses. It was the strangest thing, to feel how they caught on smooth skin, or on scars as Curufin passed his hands over Finrod’s bare chest. As though he were a piece of metal or gemstone to be coaxed into revealing its secrets. Finrod wondered what he found. “You fascinate me,” Curufin said, suddenly. Finrod blinked at what might have been an echo of his own thoughts. “Beg pardon?” “You fascinate me,” Curufin repeated. “You are…a rare thing.” His fingers paused, and tapped just above Finrod’s navel. “For all I watch you, I am unable to guess your mind.” “I am no great mystery,” said Finrod. Curufin shook his head. “Ah,” he said, “But perhaps that, there, is your mystery.” He smiled, eyes almost glittering, and lowered his head to drag his teeth along the curve of Finrod’s shoulder. “Still waters, they say.” Ran deep, Finrod thought, and untroubled. He did not feel untroubled. If he was still water, then there was a turbulence in his depths. A whirlpool spiraling toward the surface.

post war blues (Wheel of Time)

This is one of my favorite fics even though it's written for an audience of maybe five if I'm generous. I had a lot of fun with it. Min/Elan post-canon, sort of, with a background side of Rand/Elan and Rand/Elan/Min in the future if I kept writing this AU.

“You promised me higher praise,” Elan said, something arch in his voice. Min laughed. “All right,” she said. “I like you. When you’re not thinking about it, you’re a fairly decent person, at least now. You’re smart; I like smart people. And you have good cheekbones.” Elan stared at her, and she shrugged. “A girl can’t help but notice.” “Cheekbones,” Elan said, sounding incredulous. “That’s what you’re stuck on?” Min said. “I thought the ‘decent person’ would get to you more.”

gather frankincense (Lymond Chronicles)

Had to put this one on here mostly because I was proud of myself for writing Lymond fic complete with a satisfying number of references in it, but also because I love this fucked up pairing (Lymond/Gabriel) so much.

“Am I meant to ask what desires I need to concern myself with?” Lymond asked, voice still light; not precisely indifferent, but not much affected either. “The rest,” Gabriel said, and gestured at Lymond’s untouched glass. “Drink, be merry. You’ve already ruined yourself with opium. Surely a glass of wine is not too much an indulgence.” “I am not in the mood for indulgence. Is there a purpose to this pageantry, o my Pasha?” “Save that it is my pleasure?” Gabriel regarded him with a touch of amusement. “You would rather I tied you to a whipping post and had you flogged?” “You would gain marks for consistency,” Lymond said.

like a trigger (get me ready to shoot) (Kinnporsche)

This is, like, an embarrassingly personal fic in some ways which is probably also why it's important to me. I have strong feelings about Vegas and sadism and it was fun to explore them here and write a bit of a character study through that lens.

He stopped trying to make it last. There was always work, where he could hurt people so much worse and it didn’t matter, there was no reason to hold back and nobody who looked at him like some kind of monster, except for the people he wanted to. His dad gave him a man and said punish him and Vegas could, would, did. It was never quite enough. Somehow he was always coming up short when it mattered. A step below, a step behind. His father’s impatience and anger and frustration, always quick to remind Vegas of his inadequacies. At least when it was just him and his tools and a body meant to suffer, he knew what he was doing. He knew how to get what he wanted, and did. He liked to hurt people. He was good at hurting people. There might be something wrong with him but at least he was in the right line of work for it.

That Unwanted Animal (The Untamed/MDZS)

A fic for this fandom I don't talk about so much, written for an exchange a few years ago. Modern AU, which is a funny thing that I don't usually write except in a few very special cases, and this is a modern AU that I'm actually pretty proud of the execution on, mostly because the messiness of it and the construction of the relationships is one that I remain happy with even on reread (far from a guarantee). The side Jin Guangyao and Xue Yang dynamic is one of my favorite things about this one, funnily enough.

So the thing was that Xue Yang knew that this shit was too good to last. It was like some kind of fairytale, wasn’t it? Cinderella, or something. Go to a ball, meet a handsome prince, get swept off your feet. Plucked out of your shitty life and dropped into someone else’s. If Cinderella was a psychotic headcase and the prince was two stupidly handsome men who apparently had a thing for that, one too nice for his own good and the other one too head over heels for the first one to tell him no.

I tag @curiosity-killed, @lu-sn, @ameliarating, @brawlite, and @highladyluck.

[mysticalsoot]

mission sims and missing cues

a continuation of my self-indulgent boarding school au

A/N; i am so in love with this au.. I've got like two other fics for this ay in the works. lmk if yall want more of this-- totally did not expect this to be this long but I mean that's okay. also thanks to lilly and elliot for just being motivation to finish this-- and thank YOU for all the love on my writing cause holy fucking mother of gOD there's 110 of you now?? what??

summary; reader and wilbur are close friends and classmates but both have feelings for each other without the other knowing! they're thrown into a mission simulation together as commander and pilot and slight flirting ensues.

tw// swearing, maybe a smidge of suggestive flirting, definitely thoughts

words; 6.3k

pairings; cc!wilbur x gn!reader

pronouns; they/them and use of y/n!

masterlist

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You loved every part of your school, you loved the classes, the teachers, and the activities but you couldn't help but favor the Mission Simulations above all else.

They were the most laid-back part of your academics, and it was a hands on experience that you could have any part in. You had the opportunity to do anything and everything with positions and experience and outcome. 

Although you were truly partial to being commander, you didn't mind any other position you found yourself in. Missions usually spanned around a week but in sessions. First two sessions would be training, and test runs, the third session would start the first half of the mission running about three hours and then the second half would be in the fourth session. You absolutely adored how they did this and found you got the most out of it, a real feeling for the position and role you'd be in and you could make a decision on if you liked it or not—and if you wanted to try the same position on a different mission another time.

Today's session was the first half, a three-hour run of the school's Mars Mission Sim and you had gotten the commander position. Your pilot being Wilbur. He was rather ecstatic about his role, only been put in mission specialist or station roles before—he was excited to be front and center in the mission, though it didn't really matter, he was just excited for a change of pace.

"So, have you come up with a 'first human on Mars' speech or do you need me to come up with it?" Wilbur is snarky in a playful way in the tone he uses, tossing a hash brown into his mouth as he watches you from the other side of the cafeteria table. You roll your eyes at him and fold your arms over your chest.

"Well, no-" He cuts you off.

"Good! I've come up with one!" He starts by standing up in a grandiose manner, not paying mind to any of the students on other teams staring at him.

"One step for humankind, one great step for alien kind!" He makes exaggerated steps, only a few before your crew trainer, Andy, looks over at Wilbur with this gaze of 'please sit down or I'm telling Evan' and he's quick to find his seat back in front of you.

"You're one of my favorites Wilbur, but you should be in drama school," Andy scoffs, looking down at his tray before standing and walking away to take care of it. Your gaze follows him before landing back on Wilbur in front of you. His elbow rested on the table and his eyes look past you.

You hum, "He's right, you should've applied to drama school instead," Then you shrug, chuckling to yourself as Wilbur's gaze lands onto you, turned into a playful glare.

"And miss out on the opportunity to steal my brother's best friend away from him? Never." His eyes shine with a playfulness to them, and he smirks. 

"So I'm just a pawn?" You put your hand over your heart in mock offense, a smirk of your own curling on your lips.

"Oh yes, just a pawn," 

Andy finds his way back to his spot, and he opens his teacher's binder to check the schedule, "I don't want to know what you two are talking about, do I?" He doesn't look up as he adjusts his glasses and sifts through the different pages.

"Wilbur says I'm just a pawn," You tell him and Wilbur gawks at you, offended at how quickly you told on him.

Andy looks up and ahead and then at you and then back at Wilbur, eyebrows knitted together and concern glazing over his irises, "Pawn in what?"

"My master plan to steal them away from Tech," Wilbur speaks nonchalantly, his glare dissipating and turning into a look of pride.

Andy hums, looks over at Wilbur and says, "Good luck with that." His attention is brought back to his binder before checking the time on his phone. He begins ushering the team to finish up with their meal, take care of their trays and stand in front of the glass wall just a few feet behind you when they're done.

"First one to the wall gets to say the first words on Mars," Wilbur smiles at you, eyes glinting with mischief and you can tell by his body language, he's ready to sprint.

"Okay, fine," You shrug and let him get a head start, subtly speed-walking over to clean up his meal, and take care of his tray. Although, subtly isn't the most accurate descriptor, his legs are long enough all he has to do is take longer strides and he can beat you almost immediately. You take your time, walking normally and then speeding up for a second, but you're still behind. Wilbur looks behind him at you and frowns.

"Why are you walking?" He tilts his head at you, stopping in his tracks.

"I don't want to win," You shrug at him, taking a few steps forward and follow behind him in line.

"Why not?" He's still facing you, his back towards the front of the line and you both put the tray's on the counter, taking care of the dishes and trash and putting them in their respective spots. Plastics, paper, plates, utensils, etc.

"Everyone will hear me and only a drama queen like yourself should get to say it," You smile lightly at your own comment, and you're out of line a moment later. You both stand by the exit of the short hall, the glass wall a few feet away from you both.

"You're such a pussy," He smiles and shakes his head as he runs off over to the glass wall, and you follow, yelling after him.

"Wilbur!" You grumble as you follow him, hot on his heels and of course, he's the first at the wall, his hand pressed against the glass and he sticks his tongue out at you, "You can't say that!"

He smirks, leaning down closer to your face teasingly and your breath hitches in your throat, "And why not?" 

You huff, moving to stand against the wall next to him instead of in front of him. You fold your arms over your chest and tilt your head up to meet his eyes, an annoyed glare filling your own, "You could get us both in trouble with that language, mister."

He leans down again, "Doesn't sound like a horrible idea, at least we'll be in trouble together," He smirks slightly, attempting to avert your attention from how pink his cheeks are, and how nervous his breath is.

"Wilbur," You warn, poking his chest and he giggles, leaning against the glass wall with you as you both wait for the rest of your team to meet you.

The rest of the kids take their time with meeting everyone else at the glass wall, both you and Wilbur growing anxious at how long it was taking. You tilt your head forward to look down the line for Tommy, making sure he isn't causing any mayhem too great for Andy. And then you lean back when you see he's just talking with his friends.

It seems that both you and Wilbur found yourselves at the front of the line, the rest of your classmates assumingly lining behind you both as a buffer between them and their crew trainer. To keep Andy from hearing the things they say, probably. He's heard it all from you and Wilbur, so he's far from bothered by whatever stupid thing one of you may say next.

It's a few moments and then he's at the front of the line, leading the hoard of kids down the ramp and around the corner in front of the training room. As per usual, only you and Wilbur are the ones in a proper line and it doesn't surprise anyone. Everyone else could care less and it didn't bother you or Will to speak to each other without facing one another. Plus, if anyone got in trouble for taking up too much space, at least it wouldn't be you or him.

Andy stops the group at the fence blocking off the training room and he tells everyone to stay put as he leaves to go into the back and talk to the trainers running today's mission. You and Wilbur decide to take a spot by the wall, and sit on the floor. You're squeezed up against him slightly, the rest of the group causing you both to get a bit squished. You do your best to hide the red that begins to crawl up your cheeks, looking away from him in hopes he won't notice. He does the same, without you knowing. Both of you are desperately trying to hide any inkling at the feelings you both harbor for one another. Letting that truth through creates vulnerability and being jokingly flirtatious is easy. It can be brushed off as a playful platonic joke. So why not be flirty and break your own hearts at the thought of unrequited feelings?

"You think they trained us enough?" Wilbur breaks the deafening silence with a playful question, mouth quirking up into a half smile, half smirk. His eyes glint with something you can't quite place.

You huff a laugh, "Do you think you paid attention enough?" You turn your head to face him, smile soft but mischievous. You lean against the wall, trying to subtly slink yourself a bit away from him. You don't really want to be away from him and his touch, but it makes you nervous and you don't want to make him uncomfortable. But you don't move, you can't make it obvious. He doesn't mind the touch either, but he too fears the possibility of making you uncomfortable.

"Hm, I think I have a decent grasp on the concept. It's just button pressing and reading lines, right?" Wilbur nudges your shoulder with his, a soft laugh of his own rolling off his lips, ones held in a smirk.

"Oh, you think it's that simple, pretty boy?" You try your best to hide the pink of your cheeks, plotting a response if he asks. For a brief moment he simply looks at you, mouth slightly agape before he shuts it, bringing back his previous smirk.

"Well, that's what it seemed to be, so I'd say it's pretty simple," He brushes past the use of the pet name and he looks away, a nervous smile replacing the smirk as he looks down at his lap. Oh, he's infatuated and dear god—he wanted nothing more than to fall out of love, out of the feelings he felt. They weren't reciprocated, and any point he may have thought they were, could easily be shut down by the excuse of playful jokes.

"Well, we'll see about that," You push up to stand, catching your eye on Andy and another trainer walking over to the team. He makes the motion to move along and follow him with his hand and so you jump to stand behind him, Wilbur following suit.

The group is led around the corner and into the mission control room. Everyone's instructed to put their backpacks and whatnot on the table far behind the rows of desks. Both you and Wil put yours down on the far end, next to each other's and your shoulders brush together when the rest of the group pushes towards you both. You try to shuffle backwards, but hit the wall that separates the rest of the room to the trainer's desk. Wilbur puts his hand on the small of your back, and guides you to stand in front of him when you get startled by the wall. He rests his hands on either side of your upper arms. You know you're blushing, you know it's obvious but you just hope he doesn't see or doesn't care or doesn't notice and—

"Alright, Andromeda, everyone split into your groups of who goes where and a space ghost will lead you out to your positions, alright?" Andy speaks over the loud conversations of everyone in the group, his hands cupping around his mouth to somehow assist in making his voice louder and heard.

You and Wilbur stay in your place, Tommy, Ash, Niki and James join you both in your corner. Tommy starts chattering about his position and Wilbur is quick to shush his younger brother, and Tommy grumbles in response, crossing his arms and huffing.

The six of you are silent as you await instructions, and another trainer comes over to your group, muttering something about following her and so you do, you first, Wilbur behind and then the rest in a clump behind him. It's barely a few feet around the corner to the capsule. The trainer walking in first, ducking in through the doorway. She stands over to the corner, letting the rest of you walk in and find your seats. Wilbur attempts to duck down but still manages to bump his head, holding back a few obscenities that would definitely get him in trouble.

You chuckle at the sight and he keeps his head ducked down as he finds his spot at his seat. He buckles in the best he can, and then the trainer tells him off, reminds him he has to put his suit on first. He grumbles to himself, and turns around out of his chair and joins the rest of you as you put on the white painters jumpsuits over your normal clothes. Light costume astronaut boots being put on your feet and velcroed in.

You look over at Wilbur and catch your eye on him as he struggles, trying to get his sleeves to pull down all the way, same with his pants legs. You huff a laugh at the sight, "Don't worry about it," You shake your head at him and adjust his collar, hands lingering on his chest before pulling them away to rest at your sides.

His eyes go wide in a playful way, lips curling into a slight smirk, trying to hold some semblance of a fearful gaze, "I could die, y/n!" 

You huff a laugh, turning away from him and sitting in your commander's seat, him following and sitting in the seat opposite you, "You, die? Yeah you're too stubborn for that," You open the small binder you were given and review it as you wait for the signal to start, a clarification from every position that they too are ready.

Wilbur follows suit and you swear you see him gaze at you from the corner of your eye. You smile softly and pretend you don't notice, "Wilbur?"

He hums, looking up from his book for a moment and he looks to you, a quizzical look on his features, "Yes?"

You nod your head towards the comms, "Joe asked for confirmation from you, pilot,"

"Oh!" Wilbur rushes to put his headset on, and presses the speak button, "Roger that SOCOM," He rests his head back against the headrest, sighing.

"Alright, I'll leave you guys to it. Remember the call buttons if you need anything at all, okay?" The crew trainer assigned to the Orion capsule then leaves out the door, being sure to get a verbal confirmation or a thumbs up from each of you.

"You'll do fine, Wilbur," You reassure him, going about various procedures, buttons and switches being turned on or off. Codes being entered and lines of numbers and codes being typed out on the screen.

"You think so?" His voice shakes, unsure of himself as he flips switches along with you, referencing his binder every few seconds.

You nod, "I know so," It's all you need to say as you press the last few buttons before the computer switches the simulation to launch. Voices muffled in your ear as you focus intently on what's needed to do next, when you get into Altair.

It's a few minutes of launch and then the program switches to a screen showing the stars and planets passing by. More switches need flipping and more buttons need pressing. You glance over to your right at Wilbur, his eyebrows knitted in concentration and anxiety. His finger skims the lines of words and instructions in his binder.

"You alright there, Wil?" You put down your book, keeping your eyes locked on him.

"Uh, yeah, fine, fine," He keeps his gaze locked on the pages before him. 

You revert your gaze back to your own work, still checking on him in the corner of your eye every once and a while. Everyone in the capsule was ahead of schedule, all buttons pressed and switches flipped so all you had to do now was respond to Mission Control and wait for docking. Wilbur's leg had started to bounce by this point and he was biting his tongue. His hands kept running through his hair and he seemed oddly stressed for a simple simulation. If you could stand up and walk over to him, you would. But you're buckled in (more like strapped in since there were no buckles and both you and Wilbur were insistent that you were secure in your seats), you couldn't unbuckle yourself and walk over to him, risking an unnecessary anomaly.

So, you reached your hand over to his shoulder, having to lean to your side to even reach him in the first place. His head shot up to look at you, eyebrows creased in a wrinkling worry and mouth drawn in a thin line. 

"Are you okay?" It was merely a whisper, only meant to be heard by you and him. It was intimate and private and your eyes were soft as they looked into his. He didn't know what to do with himself, the amount of care you showed him was overwhelming. His heart racing with anxiety and nervousness.

His face flushed pink, "Yes-"

You cut him off, tapping his leg that bounces and hits the console a few times with how lanky he is, "Your leg says otherwise," You smile softly to him, the softness matching your gaze.

"I'm okay," He tries looking away, up at the screen and he watches the digital stars. The white dots scattered on black in the monitor before him.

You rub his shoulder gently, "Can't help if you don't tell me what's wrong."

He sits there, fidgeting with his hands in his lap, eyes closing shut and a deep breath being taken, and then his head turns to face you, "What if I mess it all up?"

You smile, shaking your head, "That's not possible, I promise you won't," You pat his shoulder gently, soft and assuring smile held on your lips.

"What if I press the wrong button? Or don't get secured well enough? Or what if I mess up the O2 transfer, or--"

You cut him off, squeezing his shoulder gently. Mission Control is sure to be watching this all, but most are probably running around chasing someone so the thought isn't bothersome to you or Wilbur. The camera can't catch the light pink tinted on either of your cheeks anyways.

"I'll be right there to help, you're not alone. It's a job for both of us, if one of us goes down we both do. Triumphantly," Your thumb rubs over his shoulder, back and forth in a manner of comfort and consolation.

"They need their commander more-" 

You shake your head, "They need their pilot too," When the closeness is overwhelming, you back up, ruffling up his hair and finding your spot back in your seat, "Now, relax and ask MOCR if they're like, dead yet."

Wilbur smiles, wider now and he shakes his head with a light chuckle.

"Part of me hopes they're dead."

"Wilbur!" You scold him, smiling wide. The rest of the Orion crew is in their own world, not paying mind to you and Wilbur's bickering.

"Okay, not Joe, the rest though--" He cuts himself off with a giggle and presses the speak button on his coms box, "Mission Control, how is it over there?"

There's a crackle in your headphones and Joe speaks over the mic, "What do you think, Wilbur?"

"Ey, it's Pilot to you," Wilbur, while speaking with a stern tone, is smiling wide. Joe huffs and a scream is heard muffled behind him, "How bad?"

"Zombies, Wil, zombies," Joe sounds tired, exasperated and he leaves his mic on accidentally and there's a shuffle heard and more yelling.

"ZOMBIES??" Tommy yells and the entire capsule bursts out laughing, you, Ash, Wilbur, James, Niki-- Tommy just stands there oblivious as you all listen to the chaos in Mission Control.

"I didn't know there were zombies," Niki speaks up, giggling and sifting through her own guide book.

"I hope at least Mark survives," James then pipes up, and shrugs.

"What about the rest?" You ask him, turning in your chair to look back at him.

"Eh, they can get eaten alive," Everyone's heads spin to look at him and James simply shrugs.

"James!" You scold him, "You are both children," You look between both James and Wil as you speak and then you turn back to face the screen in front of you.

The speaker crackles again, "Docking is in five minutes, Orion," Joe sounds out of breath as he speaks, "You're on your own for now, half of my crew is dying,"

"Thank God," James mutters and Ash smacks his shoulder.

"James! Your mic is on!" Ash glares at his friend, huffing.

"Yeah, that's the point,"

Joe grumbles and his mic cuts off, now no longer any inkling as to what's happening in Mission Control, the six of you sit in silence, waiting for docking to complete.

"I don't want to jinx it--" Tommy begins speaking but he's then cut off by the rest of you yelling;

"NO!" in unison.

And then he draws his mouth in a thin line and crosses his arms, puffing his chest.

Silence blankets the air, and then a clicking is heard through the loudspeakers.

"Docked!" Ash calls out and Wilbur instructs everyone to unbuckle and follow you through to Altair. You crawl through the 'airlock' door between yours and Wil's stations and slip into the Altair capsule. Wilbur follows you, bumping his head on both sides of the airlock and then again when he stands. You giggle at him as you shuffle to find all the mic boxes and helmets and set them aside for landing.

"I'm not sure how you passed the first Astronaut evaluation-- You're much too tall for this job," You playfully poke at Wilbur and he rolls his eyes, finding his spot at the front of the room, by another control board. He puts on his headset, gesturing for you to do the same and then the rest of your crew all files into the capsule.

"They needed someone decently charismatic," He smirks smugly, looking through his guidebook again, landing on the page for Altair arrival and he begins the usual routine of button presses and switches.

"You? Charismatic? Yeah, no, they just felt bad for you," You chuckle to yourself, and he drops his hands from the control board in front of him, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall next to him, his eyes locked on you.

"You are so mean to me," He shakes his head, eyes still on you and your cheeks dusted pink. You averted your gaze from him, down at the control board.

"All in a day's work," You shuffle through your own book, pressing buttons and entering codes.

"Stop flirting, you two," James chirps up, rolling his eyes and messing with the screen in the far back.

You both turn bright red, focusing your gazes heavily on the control board in front of you, doing your best to ignore the words from your friends mouth. Tommy, Ash and Niki, find their own spots on the floor against the wall--James is too stubborn to join them and determined to stand as long as he needs to before landing.

"James, just sit," Niki is stern and pats the spot next to her. James looks over, watching her and shaking his head.

"I'm fine up here, Niki," He looks through his own guidebook now, nothing new for him to do.

"Alright, well, suit yourself," Niki shrugs, looking across at Tommy and Ash and striking conversation with them both.

You continue glancing over at Wilbur, his eyes intently focused on screens and buttons and words typed on a page. His face contorted into a focused gaze and it's endearing. Watching him so focused, working in a way. He's in his element--while you can't deny he's meant for music, something about him being in this STEM environment fits. A leadership role. If you weren't so bad at communication and speaking clearly, you would've immediately opted for Pilot--Commander was simply made for him. But then again, so was the position of speaking and commanding and communicating--and wow, he's so pretty. 

A few stray curls fall onto his forehead as his head tilts down to get a closer look at a separate screen, finger running over the words next to the O2 symbol. He's rolled up the sleeves on his jumpsuit, and he's stuffed a pen he grabbed, in his hair on top of his ear. 

You catch yourself staring and look away before he can notice, and when you look back at your crew, they all look away as if they were staring too. Probably at you, and most likely going to gossip later. You huff and squeeze through to the back, grabbing helmets and mic sets, handing one by one to each person. James first, since he's closest to you, then Niki, then Ash and lastly Tommy. He huffs, mumbling something about how he's obviously your least favorite. Which isn't true by any means, but the child insists.

And then you hand Wilbur his, and he nods to you, a curt smile on his lips in thanks. Your stomach flips and your cheeks burn but you shake it away.

A few more moments and Mission Control comes through the coms again, Joe sounding stressed and out of breath, "Landing procedure will begin shortly, please put your helmets on and secure your suits. Thank you," And then his voice cuts out again and Wilbur shrugs before pressing his coms button, responding with a short 'roger that'.

All of you begin readjusting your suits and hooking up your comms. Wilbur rolls his sleeves back down and to you that's slightly disappointing--but it's better than him 'dying' so you suck it up for the sake of the mission. James struggles with his helmet, grumbling and Niki giggles, helping him slide it on and secure it around his collar. He mutters something about it being stupidly difficult but you can't entirely hear. Your focus is on the boy in front of you, stumbling with his comms box as he clips it onto his belt and then he puts on his own helmet. Yours has already been put on and is perfectly adjusted. You'd be a liar if you said your suit was too small--it was much too long. So you had to roll the sleeves and pants legs to make it so you didn't trip. 

Wilbur struggles with the collar, fidgeting with it to get it to sit right, over the lip of his helmet. You hum, walking over to him, "Need any help?"

He nods, "Dear god, yes."

You smile softly and help flatten his collar and pull it up over the lip of his helmet. You fasten it in the back after ushering him to turn around and kneel a bit so you can reach. He turns around after you pat his back, facing you and smiling softly. Your hands linger on his chest for a moment, fingers messing with the edges of his collar to put it in its final place.

Wilbur speaks up, "Thank you," He smiles softly and you pull your hands away, eyes looking away and face turning a light pink.

"Anytime there, Wilbur," You turn to face the control panel, flipping the final switches before you all get the okay to step out.

Wilbur steps out first, freezes and mumbles "Mars, a new frontier," and the entire crew bursts into fits of giggles--Wilbur included.

You walk up to him, pat him on the shoulder and look up at him, smirk pulling at the corner of your mouth, "You regret making that deal, yet?"

He looks back to you, eyes wide with anxiety, "Perhaps," and he ushers you to the dome base just a few steps aside. You step through, the rest of your crew following like a line of ducklings. You all get settled in at your stations, familiarizing yourself with where things are and what things do what. 

It's calm and quiet, just waiting on further instructions from Mission Control when you and Wilbur decide waiting is for the weak. You both head out the door, over to Altair and begin oxygen transfer.

The plan is simple: connect the hoses to the oxygen tanks, begin the transfer at the computer and move it over to the base and repeat. It's a two person job, one manning the computer and the other with the tanks. There's a computer inside the base for transferring the O2 onto the base from Altair.

"So, I'll go on computer?" Wilbur asks as you both stop outside the doors to the dome, you look up at him. Eyes soft and you nod.

"That was our plan, right?" You smile smugly and Wilbur rolls his eyes, walking off and into Altair. You get the hoses connected and then Wilbur yells out;

"Ready?"

"Ready!" Your reply is loud, enough for him to hear but to not bother anyone else in the simulation room.

There's a simulated sound of hissing and the O2 transfers, a few moments pass and then you switch to the base and repeat everything you just did but in reverse, to empty it into the base's reservoir.

As you wait for the O2 to empty out, your mind begins to run off on its own accord. Wondering about Wilbur, if he's noticed any of your nervous glances, or the way your cheeks turn pink or red when he smiles--how you stared at him at his first volleyball game a few weeks back. Your dad told you off with a laugh--but it was hard to look anywhere but him. Anywhere but his ar-

You cut your thoughts short, bringing yourself back to reality when the O2 shuts off, and then you drug it back over to Altair. You looked around and noticed Wilbur wasn't in sight, nowhere near the base or by the computer--maybe he was inside of Altair, at the computer, waiting for you. You dropped the key to the O2 tanks and walked around the corner, sneaking into the door of Altair. No sign of the lanky nerd called Wilbur--you groaned in annoyance, hitting your head on the air lock opening when you stepped into the lander.

You shuffled yourself over to the computer, pressing a few buttons to get the transfer ready and you went back out; connected the tanks and went back in to press the final button for this transfer.

It was merely a waiting game as you patiently awaited the transfer to complete--if you were honest it was more impatient than anything, but no one needs to know that. You got bored, and partly frustrated and so you walked off while the tank filled and you went into the base.

"Okay, has anyone seen my Pilot? He's went missing and it's really difficult to transfer these," You wave your hands in frustration, "these, tanks!"

Tommy scoffs, Niki giggles and Ash closes the plexiglass door to the solitary bed James is laying in.

"Haven't seen him, sorry," Niki is the first to speak, going about her business grabbing medications and other things and handing them off to Ash.

"Not even an inkling?" 

"Nope," They all answer you at once, shaking their heads or shrugging. James' nope is muffled behind the plexiglass.

You groan and turn on your heels, dramatically exiting out the double doors. You drag yourself back into Altair, shutting off the transfer and continuing your previous routine, desperately looking for Wil as you do so.

"Y/n! I found it!" The familiar accent breaks through and you turn around to face him, a wide smile plastered on his lips and a small Mars Rover in his arms. He holds it up, smile still wide and warm.

"So that's where you disappeared off to?" You smile back, so soft and partially teasing. You fold your arms over your chest.

He nods wildly, "Yup! I'm gonna go fix it, I'll be right back out to help, okay?" Wilbur begins walking off and into the base, you chuckle to yourself shaking your head.

"You better, Wil!" You call back, desperately trying to hide the fluttering in your chest and the pink on your cheeks. There's no evident reason for your reaction other than just…him.

A few moments later and he's back out of the base, letting it loose on the floor and walking over to you. He pats your shoulder and slips into the lander, his legs sticking out for a few moments before he pulls himself all the way in. An ouch is heard along with a bang and you giggle.

"I'm okay!" He yells out, and you shake your head.

"It's already done, Wilbur!" You call out, the four words having been delayed by you until he got into the lander--just to mess with him.

You hear him huff and then slink out of the lander airlock. He takes a few steps down the ladder and walks over to you, "I dislike you right now," He holds a fake frown on his features, but his eyes are soft.

"Dislike is a strong word there, Gold," You smirk, arms folding over your chest again and eyes looking up, locking on his.

"Hm, it fits," He shrugs and turns on his heel, walking over to the satellite board, he stops and looks back at you, "Can you get the box underneath the medical bed? We need the pieces to fix this," If you didn't know better, you would've sworn he heard your thoughts back in Orion--maybe he did.

"I don't remember your role being commander?" You walk over to him, leaning against the board, a wave of confidence shooting through you.

"Might as well be," His lips curling into a smirk as he speaks, soft and quiet, "I'm better at taking lead, aren't I?"

This fucker-- You scoff, smirking to yourself and walking off into the base. You rub your hands on your face in an attempt to rid your cheeks of its burning redness and James looks over to you--

"Did you not notice how miserable I am? Or are you too busy with-" Ash yells at him, smacking the plexiglass before James could finish his remark.

"No-- sorry, both our mics are broken so we're pretty out of the loop," You mumble and kneel down to grab the box into your hands, "you dying or something?" 

"Yes!! I am!" James' tone is sharp and everyone giggles at his words, "Hey! Come on guys! That's what the Space Ghost told me!" 

Ash shakes his head, "No! They said you're having a severe allergic reaction, not dying."

James groans, throwing himself back on the bed flat, "I wish I was dying!" 

You laugh, shaking your head, "Alright, well don't treat him, Niki," and you walk out, box in hand.

You walk over to Wilbur, dropping the box in front of him and then putting your hands on your hips, "There you go, Commander, happy now?" 

He smirks, "Why yes I am, thank you," He leans down to open it and take out a few pieces, handing a good half of them to you and you huff, rolling your eyes.

"This power is getting to your head-- You're not even Commander," You start to place the pieces one by one in the way the instructions sheet requires-- it's not detailed instructions by any means. It's more or less an example of what it should look like which is plenty for you and Wilbur to go off of.

"Well, I might as well be. I thought you liked this?" His face never falls from the cocky smirk he holds, some sort of confidence of his own surging through his body. He looks over at you briefly, eyes locked down onto yours. "Me being in charge and all?"

Your eyes went wide and you hoped you were hallucinating-- or maybe daydreaming-- or maybe this was a dream. But you figured with how real it felt, your senses being in tact--that this was real. You felt your cheeks burn bright red and you simply stared, hand going limp and the piece of this big puzzle in your hand, falling and crashing into the box.

"I saw you staring, that's all," He smirks and shakes his head, moving along with his part of the puzzle and you swore you could see him blush too--

The thought is cut short when a Space Ghost comes out of the Mission Control room, ushering everyone to stop their roles for a moment and that we'll pick up where we left off next session. You silently thank the gods for this interruption-- keeping Wilbur from getting too cocky and you catch him wink at you as he follows the rest of the group into Mission Control.

Next session will be the death of you.

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