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thelastofhyde · 11 months ago

Text

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.

#javier peña smut #pedro pascal smut #javier peña x reader #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña oneshot

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csuitebitches · 1 year ago

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Five Investments You Should Consider Making (Advanced)

These investments are only recommended to people who have been in their levelling up journey for a while and are hitting their targets. If you’ve been in your journey for a while but are not able to accomplish your goals, this list is not for you.

Some things here may be obvious but I feel like they’re best bought after you’ve made some progress so that it’s not an impulse purchase that goes to waste.

1. A really good quality blow dryer.

I hate to admit this, but I really do like the Dyson blow dryer. I have frizzyish, 2c type hair and if i don’t take care of it, i look like a wreck. This dryer is perfect because its gentle on my hair and it doesn’t fry it.

2. A steam iron for your clothes

This is fantastic. I love Phillip’s steam iron - its portable, works well, lasts a long time and comes with a glove so that you don’t burn yourself.

3. An at-home wax machine/ laser

I do my facial waxing at home because I don’t trust any of these salons. They always find a way to screw up my eyebrows so I prefer doing everything at home instead. I feel that doing my own waxing is also a lot less painful and the hair regrowth time is more.

Laser didn’t work for me, but its worked really well for one of my close friends.

4. A Fitbit/ Oura ring/ smart watch

Once you get into the habit of working out for your health and not just for your shape, then these make sense.

5. Any sort of body contouring if it’s been on your mind

With most body contouring methods, it doesn’t make sense nor can it be done unless you’re well within your desired range of weight, or you only have a few more pounds to lose. Remember - there are always potential side effects to every procedure, even if its non-invasive.

#c suite #powerful woman #strong women #ceo aesthetic #personal growth #that girl #q/a #productivity #getting your life together #balance #level up

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leiascully · 30 days ago

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X-Files OctoberFicFest Day 17: Musings of a Cigarette Smoking Man

TW: canon-typical gun violence

“Hey, Mulder, check this out.” Langly pushed a magazine into Mulder’s hands. “Roman à Clef has reached a new low.”

“Just when you thought it was safe to do some light reading,” Mulder said, flipping through the pages. “A Jack Colquitt adventure, huh?”

“They could hand it out at poison control as an emetic,” Frohike grumbled.

“Emetics are rarely recommended these days,” Scully said absently. She was reading a different magazine, some article Byers had found for her on cryptopathology that cited one of her own articles. “Poison control is more likely to suggest activated charcoal.”

“It’s like food poisoning on the page,” Frohike said, and pretended to gag.

Langly snorted. “I’m pretty sure Raul Bloodworth is a war criminal.”

“Based on the content of the story?” Mulder asked.

“Based on the quality of the writing,” Langly said. “I mean the story itself is a crime. The worst kind of cliché.”

“I’m sure the author was proud of his accomplishment,” Byers said.

“You don’t think a woman wrote this?” Mulder asked.

Byers looked ill at ease. “It seems very focused on presenting a specific view of masculinity that I don’t think most women embrace.”

“Listen,” Frohike said, “if a woman doesn’t have better things to do with her time than write that, she’s probably dating Langly.”

“Har har,” Langly said sarcastically. “Eat my shorts.”

“Real sophisticated, boys,” Mulder said. He tried to read a few paragraphs, winced, and put down the magazine.

Across the room, a window shattered. Everybody ducked. Mulder found he’d flinched toward Scully, covering her with the wide skirt of his coat as they sheltered under the high table. For a few minutes, nobody said anything. But there was no second shot. Maybe it had just been a rock or some other accidental projectile. Unlikely, but not outside of the realm of possibility.

“Someone must have taken issue with your latest periodical,” Scully said, and Mulder couldn’t help grinning as he helped her up. He cherished the moments she made jokes; they seemed to be fewer and farther between these days.

“The price we pay for being truth tellers,” Langly said, pushing his glasses up.

“Cardboard and duct tape,” Frohike said. “Ten bucks at the hardware store will fix us right up.”

“Maybe we should install some mesh behind the glass,” Byers suggested. “Something to reinforce it.”

“Nah,” Langly said. “Cuts into the paper budget.”

“I think we’ll be on our way,” Mulder said, putting his hand on Scully’s back.

“Byers, do you mind if I borrow this?” Scully asked. She brandished the journal she’d been reading, her finger still wedged between the pages.

“By all means,” Byers said.

“Maybe go out the back door,” Frohike said. “Just in case.”

“Three wise men,” Mulder joked.

They exited the building and made their way to Mulder’s car. Though the hair stood up on the back of his neck, nothing happened. There wasn’t so much as a flicker of a sniper’s laser sight. He drove home, Scully absorbed in her article. They’d order Chinese food and talk about cases. Maybe she’d make another joke.

He hoped the Gunmen tossed that issue of Roman à Clef into the furnace.

#xfiles octoberficfest #leiascully fic #my fic sort of

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alexanderwales · 6 months ago

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Roguelite LitRPG Theorycrafting

I had a great idea for a litRPG that takes its inspiration from roguelites rather than JRPGs or Skyrim.

I do not have the time to write such a novel, and will not have time to write it into the foreseeable future. But I do have time for some theorycrafting:

A classic roguelite of the current generation has variable powers and powerups drawn from a small pool that change the character of the run over time. Maps and enemies are boundedly random. When you die, you might have some meta progression, which is usually in the form of unlocks. Sometimes this makes the game easier, but often it just adds in variety. You go until you win or die, and then you go again, starting from nothing.

To start with, I think this has to be a time loop, because it fits that pattern too well. I wrote a blog post about time loops, and would include some ideas and variations from there.

The protagonist starts every loop as a total scrub, but gets to select from a few options at the loop start (or just after) and then at either intervals or with things accomplished. The pool of powers needs to be fairly small, but large enough that we don't see repeats all that often. We want a protagonist who is forced to make the best of a bad situation.

There are a few cool things about this, but the biggest is that we get to see the protagonist solve the same problems in different ways. One one loop, getting into the compound is easy, because he has flight and invisibility, but on another loop, it requires a firefight because he's got a laser belly and can absorb flesh to regenerate. The protagonist presumably has goals, so we also have some stakes built in: all runs are not built the same. When you're on a "hot" run where it seems like everything is going your way, you can't immediately grind your way back to that if you fail. Stakes are one of the things that are sometimes lacking in time loops, so we're solving that problem as a byproduct.

Similarly, a weird power build can take the story in different places. You're able to walk through stone, and all of the sudden you realize that you can penetrate the defenses of the mage academy. You strike while the iron is hot, and uncover things that would, in a normal run, be locked away from you.

There are problems here. The biggest is that I think a lot of audiences would cry about the author's thumb being on the scale, because audiences will always cry about that no matter what. Which powers get offered to the protagonist on any given run will be under scrutiny though, and even things that aren't forced will feel like they might have been. Readers don't like that, particularly litRPG readers, who sometimes come to the genre for a sense of "fair play". I'm not sure there's a way around that, though this is one of the rare cases I feel like an author rolling dice might actually make sense, so long as it was done in a way that would be difficult to fake. This might make for a worse story though, since the author would have less control of the plot.

One of the other things that interests me is ... what if the world changed in the same way it does in a roguelite? In a normal time loop story, the world is static and predictable, but wouldn't it be interesting to write a story in a time loop that acted more like Rogue Legacy, where there are certain "anchors" and patterns to the world, but much that is random and different? The protagonist wakes in the same apartment building every time, but sometimes he's next to a park and other times it's a train station. There's a corner store three blocks away that's always exactly identical down to the misalignment of the Mars bars, always with the same woman with a streak of blue hair behind the counter. Is this meaningful, that everything changes except the things that inexplicably don't? Almost definitely. It's another mystery to unravel with every new run and a new, diverse set of powers under your belt.

There's a chance I write this at some point. There's always a chance. But I think sometimes it's good for me to sit down and think about the possibilities, then resign myself to moving on without devoting the next month's word count to something that's captured my fancy.

#writing #litrpg #literature #lit #roguelite #roguelike

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em-prentiss · 5 months ago

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you put me on and said I was your favorite

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Word count: 3.2k

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Aaron is just about to raise his fist to knock on Garcia’s door when he hears his name.

“It’s still so weird to think about. Hotch is so…serious all the time.” Her voice carries through the wood. She doesn’t mean it in a cruel way; her tone is questioning, genuinely puzzled. “I just never thought Emily would fall for that. She’s fun and bright and he’s…”

Not.

They all know that; it’s hardly secret. He’s stoic where she’s smiling, her tone soothing where his is flat.

It’s not that they’re wrong—god, he wishes they were. But the truth is he’s rigid, sometimes even with her; all clipped sentences and long silences and monotone words.

Emily takes it in stride, lets the sharp edges of him dig into her skin as she wraps her arms around his neck and nuzzles her nose with his, her fingers sliding into his hair, lips skipping across his warm skin. She likes the bite of him, likes the sting when she digs in too deep and cuts herself, but she also likes pressing on a sharp point with a finger and feeling it grow blunt beneath her skin, softened under her influence.

It’s more rare when that happens, heightening her sense of victory whenever she rounds off a sharpened point.

He’s harsh, made of stone—an immovable mountain. That’s what they all say. But they don’t see him with her, behind closed doors, when the hard line of his brow softens, when she prods at his lips until they tilt into a smile and stay there. The curve of his dimples is something private, sacred, known to her and few others, and she likes it that way. That him like this is all hers, the fact that he trusts her with it a drug racing through her veins, lifting her feet off the ground in child-like giddy.

He’s serious, yes, and it makes her feel all the more accomplished at making him laugh, at bringing a light to his eyes with a simple one of her ridiculous jokes, a toss of her hair, a kiss to his deep dimples.

He’s all the intensity of a thousand burning suns, his attention intoxicating when given in full, his gaze as scorching as his hands when they glide in tune over her skin, dip over her scars and under her freckles, so laser-focused she thinks he sees past all the layers of skin and muscle and bone and right into her heart.

He doesn’t talk much, but his hands speak volumes. Palms smoothing reverently over her thighs, hitching them over his waist to bring her impossibly closer. Fingers combing through her hair, more delicate than either of them thought him capable of, his soothing nails against her scalp lulling her to sleep. Arms around her waist, around her shoulders, hands and fingers dipping beneath waistbands of her pants, hemlines of her blouses.

His touch is everywhere, substituting for words she speaks in his stead—in the quiet of night, in the brightness of early mornings. It’s a thing he’s learned from her, quickly adapting to draw comfort from the slip of her skin against his, the press of lips into cheeks, foreheads, soft palms of hands.

He’s a quiet lover, a passionate one; silent in all the ways she’s loud. His hums and murmurs and wordless gestures contrast her slow drawl, her thoughtful musings, her general nonsense that she breathes into the air between them.

He craves touch more than anything. The pads of her fingertips on his cheekbones, his palm engulfing the gentle dip of her waist, her soft lips on his jaw. Emily had lost count of the number of times they’d sit in complete silence, content to communicate simply by touch, be it her fingertips tracing gibberish on his skin or his palms squeezing her waist thrice.

When he does speak, she never wants him to stop.

His voice is honey smooth, the deep rumble of the ocean at night. Sometimes it drips with humor, teasing and bright. Other times it’s low, gliding over her skin, heating it with its warmth.

He calls her sweetheart, honey; murmured into her skin and whispered into her ear, pressed to the top of her head and the warm skin above her heart and the apex of her thighs. Sugar sweet against her lips and heart achingly sincere in the hollow of her jaw, against her pulse. Each time dripping with love, a chip of his heart in every moniker as he breathes it out in fondness, in question, in the more than frequent exasperation.

These affections are easy for him; she’s his sweetheart, the bright light in his darkness, the hurricane that ravaged its way through his life and put it back together better than he ever could have. She’s his honey; a balm against the world, dizzyingly sweet in his bleak, bitter life.

She’s his Emily, pure and simple. The second chance he never thought he’d get to have, the salvation that pulls him from the brink with knowing, patient hands. His mirror, his twin.

“Ems,” he calls her sometimes, the soft syllable nuzzled into her skin when he’s pliant in her arms. It slips when he’s tired, in the few times he was sick since they’d been together.

It always makes her melt, always makes her soften in return, her lungs swarming with butterflies as she cards her fingers through his hair and answers, “Yes, baby?”

The way his lips turn up against her neck, barely there, briefly makes her marvel at how both of them could be like this with each other; gentle, holding each other between cupped palms, offering a safe place to rest, to let go, to let the tenseness in ever tight shoulders finally loosen.

Sometimes she hates that she doesn’t have a nickname she calls him in turn. Their names are the same length, the same number of letters, but hers can be cut in the middle, shortened to a sweet syllable where his can’t.

Aaron thinks the way she says his name is enough.

The hard ‘A’ sound that travels from the back of her throat, the way she calls him Aaron and not a close iteration of Erin, her voice throaty and low when she seeks him out. He loves it, loves the way his brain fogged the first time she said it, how he kissed her and begged for more, more of his name spoken so carefully, intently, more of it wrapped up in love.

And sometimes, when he’s desperate for her (and her for him), she says the first syllable and trails off, his hands taking her breath away, nothing more than a soft, “Aar…” leaving her lips.

He’d smile into her neck, nuzzle his nose behind her mussed hair. “Say my name, sweetheart.”

The low murmur of his voice makes her breath hitch further. Often he’d get a breathless hum, a drag of her nails against his skin and a mumbled curse into his ears, the letters crashing into each other as he rendered her incoherent.

He used to think that was his favorite way of her saying his name; breathless, between bitten lips, as her lashes are fluttering closed against her cheeks. But he also loves hearing it when she’s excited, when she’s annoyed, when she’s sleep-warm and drowsy, his name heavy on her tongue, slipping out in a slurred, “’ron,” as she clutches at him and brings him back into their warm sheets.

Then she starts calling him honey, and it’s all he can do not to wilt into her arms.

It started after he’d been gone for a week and she was sulking at home, impatiently waiting for her gunshot wound to stitch itself back together. Aaron had walked through the door and she’d barreled into him, careless of her injury, only wanting the press of her skin against his.

“Em,” he’d admonished, wanting to keep the pressure off her abdomen as she nuzzled closer to him like a cat, tangling her fingers in his hair.

“I missed you, honey,” she breathed.

His mind had gone blank, his hands growing impossibly gentler as his body relaxed under her touch. Emily, like him, was never one for expressing her affections out loud, preferring the steady comfort of touch instead. But when the nickname slipped off her tongue, it felt like home.

It was after that she’d started being more generous with her nicknames for him, constantly calling him honey and the occasional mon coeur, biting her lip in delight when he ducks his head, his cheeks just ever so slightly pink.

He uses them more often than she does, already used to expressing his affection in small ways with Haley and Jack, and eventually Emily picks up the habit, murmuring endearments into his hair and pressing them into his cheeks.

She��d have never imagined they could be like this.

When Emily stayed up at night, her thoughts full of the one person she absolutely shouldn’t go after, she imagined messy, loveless trysts and dark bruises hidden under her clothes as she slipped out of his apartment while he slept. She imagined explosive cat fights and the rough scrape of his palm on her skin and the hard line of his mouth, unyielding even as it blooms red from her kisses.

She never would have imagined him soft.

It had taken a while for him to fully relax with her; only after months did the soft side of him bloom slowly, careful to unravel in her presence. Emily had been surprised at the way his stoic exterior crumbled, slowly revealing his playfulness and gentle manner, as if hesitant to share this part of himself with someone other than his son.

But he’s not simply one or the other. They blend into each other, these sides of him that she’s privy to.

He teases, he jokes, low in her ear, so soft no one believes her when she tells them. His smile is soft when he wakes her up in the mornings, in their own time, nothing rousing them out of bed but the persistent sunshine and the loud patter of feet against the floor, headed to their room.

He’s always gentle with her, always speaks in soft tones so unlike the harsh commands he has to bark out as Unit Chief. The raised voices and hard edges are gone; instead it’s soft murmurs and whispers and words pressed into her skin between kisses.

Even when he’s quiet, his actions aren’t. Love pours from him every time he hands her a mug of perfectly prepared coffee. When he tucks a blanket around her shoulders and presses his lips to her brow, she feels it like a soft glow emanating from him and holds him closer when he tries to go, wanting that heat from him even with the blanket warming her skin.

He’s always been a man of little words, but when he says, “I love you,” in his low rumble, voice as dark as the ocean at night and just as deep, the truth of those words sink into her skin, take root in her bones.

He’s never needed to say any more. The way he says the words, steady and intent, reassures her more than any flowery speech, any long professions of love. Aaron Hotchner doesn’t say anything lightly, and the first time he told her I love you, Emily didn’t stop to wonder how someone like him could; she just believed it.

———

Sometimes it takes a while for him to shed the armor. After long hours at work, it becomes habit, instinct, to keep the shield up.

Today, though, his head is full of Penelope’s words, his brows drawing together instead of apart as he replays them over and over.

He’s quiet as he slips off his suit and into more comfortable clothes, his hair getting mussed as he pokes his head through the neckline of his shirt. Emily notices his silence as he pads off to the kitchen to get started on dinner, briefly frowning after him as he leaves their room.

She leaves him be, unwinding with Jack in the living room and trying her best not to dwell on the way his silence felt heavier than usual on the drive home, an echo of his frown still on his face even as Emily placed her hand on top of his, linked their fingers together as they rested on the console.

She lasts admittedly less than she’d like before walking into the kitchen, finding him leaning against the counter, staring into nothing as a pot of pasta sauce simmers next to him. He looks up as she enters and Emily gives him a smile.

“Hey,” she wraps her arms around his neck, soaking in the comfort of the slow wrap of his palms around her waist.

“Hm,” Aaron hums, distracted as she lightly presses her lips to his jaw. His heart beats slow, familiar.

“You’ve been quiet,” Emily whispers, resting her palms on his broad shoulders, “something wrong?”

She’s used to the silence that comes after questions like these. The hesitance, the way he combs through his thoughts and carefully weighs his words before he bares them to her, if he does that at all.

This one stretches a little too long, so much so that she tilts her head back, a frown creasing her brows as her eyes meet his. “Honey—”

“Does it bother you that I’m too serious?” The question is blunt, quick, a band-aid he rips off as quickly as he can.

Instantly she knows what this is about. The girls had cornered her after Aaron and Emily admitted to their relationship, only a few days ago.

But isn’t he too serious for you? they’d asked, incredulous, disbelieving even in the face of her happiness. Too rough, too stoic? they didn’t say those words out loud, but Emily could see them on their faces.

She’d shrugged the words off, unbothered. But Aaron avoids her gaze now, his hands loosening around her waist, his shoulders slumping downward.

Fire races through her veins.

“No.” Her voice is so firm his head snaps up, his eyes meeting hers again. Emily’s heart aches at the apprehension in them. “Did someone say anything?” She asks through gritted teeth, her heart pounding in her ears.

Aaron shakes his head. “No, no one did,” he says quietly.

“Aaron—”

“Not to me, anyway.” He gives her a forced smile, too tight at the corners. “They’re right, though.”

“No they’re not.” She answers immediately.

Aaron shakes his head, “You don’t know what they said—”

“I don’t need to know what they said!” Emily practically yells. “They don’t know you like I do.” Her gaze is furious, her tone burning with heat.

“So what if you’re serious all the time? I love that about you.” She says fiercely. Aaron’s face crumples in something like relief, and it only makes the fire in her heart burn hotter. “I love that I have to work to make you laugh but it’s so easy to make you smile.” She closes the distance between them and takes his face in her palms. Aaron’s hands hesitantly grasp at her waist.

“I love that you’re serious and funny and silly with me and Jack.” Emily’s tone softens. Aaron fixes his gaze somewhere near her mouth, and she just wants him to look at her, to have those honey-like eyes meet hers. “That you make ridiculous dad jokes and get little wrinkles here when you’re thinking about something.” She presses a thumb to the space between his brows.

The corner of his mouth lifts imperceptibly, but with how close they are, it’s impossible to miss. “You’re not just one thing or the other, Aaron.”

He leans forward to gently press his forehead against hers. “Sometimes it feels that way.” He whispers.

Emily shakes her head, “No, honey. You’re a paradox,” she says softly, her touch tender as she swipes the pads of her fingers along his cheek, “one they don’t understand, because you gave that privilege to me. Me, Aaron.” She says, firm and a little awed, as if she can’t believe it even after all this time.

He smiles a little, lifting his shoulder in a shrug as if to say, who else if not you? Emily feels him gather her shirt between his fingers, twisting the material until it stretches against her skin.

“Do they know what you look like when you laugh? How you get little lines over here,” she brushes her fingers along the outer corner of his eye, and then the corner of his mouth, “and here.” Emily presses against the soft skin, tracing over the withered lines she knows in her sleep.

“Do they know what you sound like in the mornings?” She breathes against his lips, softly brushing them with her own, “When you’re whining for me to stay in bed with you? ‘Em, Em. Stay with me for a minute.’” She mimics, her eyes shining with so much love it makes his heart beat irrationally faster. “You sound like a child,” she murmurs, the way it drips off her tongue, drenched with love, telling him it’s in no way an insult.

“They don’t know that, because they don’t know you. They’ve only ever seen Hotch.” She brushes the hair away from his eyes, shiny with the emotion everyone is so adamant he doesn’t feel.

“I know Aaron. And I love every part of you, exactly as you are. All the times you’re serious and all the times you’re not.” Her voice breaks and Aaron leans forward to wrap his arms around her in a proper hug, his cheek pressed against hers.

“It’s okay, Em—”

“I love you,” she interrupts, not about to let him comfort her when it should be the other way around. “I don’t want you to ever doubt that.” Her arms band around his waist, holding him to her.

“I don’t,” Aaron says hoarsely, squeezing her tightly. He leans back and cups her face, pressing a kiss to her lips, “God, I don’t, Emily. I was just…wondering.” He shrugs.

“I love you,” Emily repeats, just to make sure it sticks. “And it never bothers me that you’re serious with me.” She takes his hands and wraps her fingers around his. There’s no such thing, she wants to scream, wants to shout it out to everyone who’s believed it.

“That’s good to know,” Aaron whispers, his lips turning up into a smile against hers. Emily stands up on her tiptoes and kisses him, slow and soft, full of reassurance as she squeezes his hands.

“I love you too.” He murmurs when she leans back. Her brows crease and he smiles. “You said it twice, I had to say it back at least once,” he shrugs.

Emily grins widely. “You’re a fucking sap.” She declares, not for the first time as she grabs his jaw and tilts his head down to kiss his forehead. She feels her heart swell and burst with love for him as he laughs.

It echoes off the kitchen walls; it’s her favorite sound in the world. Even if she has to work for it.

Taglist: @kllingdaddy

#emily prentiss #aaron hotchner #hotchniss #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss #hotchniss fanfiction #aaron x emily #criminal minds #hotchniss fics #hotchniss fanfic #criminal minds fic

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shibaincubus · 4 months ago

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Dissecting the glow up pyramid

This post features an approach to apply Pyramid 1 (and Pyramid 2 combined to use their maximal potential to guide you for glowing up)

Credits for Pyramid 1 @prettieinpink

and Pyramid 2

idk who created this Pyramid

combined to use their maximal potential to guide you for glowing up.

Categorising the two Pyramids:

Well begin with the second Pyramid

Pyramid 2:

As you can see this Pyramid has 5 levels

Basic Health: Diet, Fitness, Sleep, Hygiene, Environment

Basic Grooming: Skincare Make up Fashion Hairstyling Shaving/Waxing Nails Accessorizing & Teeth Whitening

Professional Grooming: Manis/Pedis, Airbrushing; Waxing, Laser Hair Removal, Lash extension/lifts, Microblading, Brow Threading, Cosmetic Tattooing, Facials, Tanning, Hairstyling/Extensions/Coloring

Non Invasive Treatment: Cosmetic Dentistry, Threading, Botox Injections Filler, Laser/Peels, Cool sculpting/ Body Contour

Plastic Surgery

This Pyramid features basic and advanced methods of archiving a glow up without going into details especially in the two basic tiers

Pyramid 1:

This Pyramid also has 5 Levels but these Levels focus more on the basics and not the advance stages.

The Levels:

Health: sleep, exercise, oral health, healthy eating

Style: hair care, skincare, lashes&eyebrows, body-care, lips

Fashion: outfits, hair-styling, make up

Personalities: body language, posture, eloquence

Mind: mindset, mental health

Overall the two Pyramids are focusing on two aspects/levels of glowing up without going in great details on the other aspect/level

Here is a Pyramid with both aspects combined

How to apply the Pyramid in your personal glow up journey

The ground principal is working yourself up. Also the Levels work together to archive your glow up, If you did everything in Level 4 well but did not do everything in Level 2 good the glow up isn't as strong as when you worked your way up.

The first Level - Basic Health

This is the foundation of your glow up. You should not slack off in this tier, because they don't give you fast results like a facial for example because if you e.g want to try cool sculpting and you don't have a good diet and a fitness plan and you may not even reached your weight goal if you are overweight so the benefits are 0 and you've thrown your money out of the window.

The first step is it to access every point on a scale from 1 to 10. Be real in the rating. Maybe you are a 10 in oral heath but just a 4 in your mindset and so on. From there I would create a priority list with the things you have to focus the most. If you have many holes in this are I would try to just focus on these ones specifically but not let the other points out of your mind and sight.

Personally I would start with cleaning and organising your environment. A clean environment uplifts your spirit and also motivates you to accomplished your tasks.

If you think that you master the first level you can go to the second level

I advise you to really level up if you get a score of 7/10 but in the first Level you can already incorporate things from Level two but I would use discernment and be realistic.

The second Level - Basic grooming

Like in the first Level I would access every point on a scale from 1 to 10 and create a priority list and use the strategy like in the first level

you have to experiment with your makeup and make a data collection about things that work for you in this tier. These could be skin type, hair type and make up techniques that work for you and everything related to the points in the second level.

Example:

Hair type - oily ( On my Hair so und so Practices work do not work)

Hair porosity - normal … explanation

skin type - (Things that work on my skin)

Shaving doesn't work on my skin

etc.

If you can archive a score of a minimum of 7/10 you can Level up.

Final Thoughts on the Basic Levels

The first two levels are the foundation of attractiveness

You've already levelled a lot if you are in 8/10 in the first two levels as a whole.

Not maintaining the first two levels can negatively impact your attractiveness

The third Tier Professional grooming

These actions are like the icing on a cake to elevate your appearance to the next level.

In this tier you should pick 2-3 things which you think can 100% bring to the next Level. For example manis and Lash-extension.

The actions in this Tier can help to lessen the burden in the lower levels.

For Example if you do a Laser Hair Removal you don't have to spend as much time with Shaving/Waxing anymore.

I would also data collect treatments that work facials that work for you.

Disclaimer

The thing you can do in this Level and higher have a lot to do with your income and time but you have to remember that the first two Level alone can glow up from a dishevelled 4 to a confident 7 and these are just the icing on the cake

The fourth Level Non Invasive Treatment (NRI)

The vibe of this Tier is: 'you look Incredible but I do not know what to do'

It's about subtle changes and no drastic ones

Do not use the methods in the fourth Tier if you have no good foundation in the first three tiers.

Example: You are overweight and you are dieting and trying to loose weight and decided to make your face slimmer with Botox and fillers. When you loose the weight you face automatically gets slimmer and the filler can potentially change your face in a way that you don't like so loose the Weight first and then decide if filler is needed

The fifth Level Plastic sugary

It's self explanatory. But use your discernment. And look at the tips in the Pyramid

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ghosts-bandwagon · 2 years ago

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Say When

A/n: I got a little carried away, but every time I’ve heard this song after getting into MW2, I couldn’t not think of Ghost. Tagging @flaneurpastel bc they asked to be tagged for Ghost content. Hope you like it! 👉🏻👈🏻

See you there

Don't know where you come from

Unaware the stare from someone

Don't appear to care that I saw you, and I want you too

When Ghost first saw you, it was from the back of the room. He watched as Laswell introduced you as the newest member of the team, strong, capable, reliable, efficient. Everything a soldier should be and more. He watched as your eyes coolly regarded everyone in the room, gaze flitting from one person to the next, mentally appraising them. He watched the gears turn in your head as your eyes finally landed on his peering at you through his balaclava.

What's your name? Because I have to know it

You let me in and begin to show it

We're terrified, because we're heading straight for it, might get it

Everything in him itched to approach you after the meeting, he didn’t care about your accomplishments as a soldier, he didn’t care that you were a lethal force all on your own, all he knew was that he wanted to know you. The impulse terrified him, and yet it thrilled him all the same. The lick of humanity that shot up his spine. Ghost settled for just watching your interactions with the team, your airy laugh when Soap said something ridiculous, your warm smile when Gaz started talking to you, your attentive eyes when Price commanded the room’s attention for a moment. And when the moment passed your eyes landed on him, and they held nothing but inquiry, understanding, respect, and knowledge. The knowledge that you were a goner as soon as you saw him.

Your favorite song plays on the background

All alone but you turn it up now

And everyone is rising to meet you, to greet you

You have yet to utter a word to him directly and suddenly he’s clinging off of every sound that passes your lips, every chuckle, every answer, every question, he wants to hear it all. As the meeting ends, everyone is standing to approach you. Price clapped your shoulder with a strong hand which you amazingly didn’t move an inch for, Gaz gently bumped your shoulder with his fist, Soap tucked you under his arm and ruffled your hair. And then they were gone. And it was just you and Ghost.

Turn around and you're walking toward me

I'm breaking down and you're breathing slowly

Say the word and I will be your man, your man

You look at him expectantly. Air full of waiting. And then you take it upon yourself to move. Your legs carry you right in front him, willing your lungs to remain even as your heart pounded in your throat. Ghost was no better. And he hated it. But, still, he loved the humanity of it. The humanness of his hands going clammy in his gloves, his throat going dry, and his mask becoming a touch too warm. And yet, he hated it. It left room for pain. Room for vulnerability. Worse yet, you reached across the chasm between you, arm outstretched, hand inviting his, and he took it. It was warm or maybe it was just him and you smiled at him, warm and radiant,

“I’m looking forward to working with you, sir.” The words poured from your mouth and it was like Aloe Vera on a sunburn, it soothed the scorch in his throat and raised the hackles of his heart all the same.

“Likewise.”

He’s worse than fucked. But if the widening of your eyes as soon as he spoke said anything, then you know that you were just as screwed as he was.

Say when

And my own two hands will comfort you

Tonight, tonight

Say when

And my own two arms will carry you

Tonight, tonight

Come close and even closer

We bring it in, but we go no further

We separate two ghosts in one mirror, no mirror

It’s been months since you were first introduced. So far you’ve gone on multiple missions together, and it was seamless. You really are as good as Laswell claimed. Laser focus and flexible. You mold around him so well, your awareness of him and his movements, planned or not, were nothing short of simply being his shadow. You fought together, trained together, and as time went on, you ate together, decompressed together, and suddenly where one went, the other would follow. It was unspoken, your understanding of one another.

When one needed space, the other would oblige. But occasionally, it was easy to tell when that requested space was a farce. A defense mechanism. And he’d barrel through it, not unlike the doors he’s kicked down with your eyes watching his six. He’d find you in your room, brim of your eyes red, your hues glossy with tears not yet spilled. You’re fretting about your room, documents in your hands as you insist on keeping yourself occupied. He knows you work through your anxiety by busting yourself, whether it’s cleaning, organizing, typing, working out, training, anything to focus that energy elsewhere.

“I told you I was fine, Ghost.” Your tone was exasperated, the tears dancing on your lashes threatening to fall out of sheer frustration,

“‘Course you are.” He shrugged, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed,

“Then?” You threw your arms in the air,

“Then, let’s grab a bite.” His words were casual and seemingly uncaring to an outsider, but he knew you haven’t eaten since you got back. He knew you haven’t been taking care of yourself the way you ought to. And he was calling you out. If you denied his request, he’d know you really weren’t alright, and the line of questioning would begin. And you really weren’t in the mood to play 20 questions, so you sighed. You relented and tossed the folder onto your desk and walked away with him.

Later on, if it turns to chaos

Hurricanes coming all around us

See the crack, pull it back

From the window, you stay low

Then the worst happened. Your stubborn ass decided to play by your own rules and now you were in enemy hands. Ghost was kicking himself harder than he ever had. It was stupid. He should’ve forced you out of there. It should’ve been him. You were at his six, as you always have been, your back against his with your gun pointed in front of you. You glanced to your left as you both walked down the empty hall, you caught the slightest glimpse of a red dot on his shoulder and your body moved before your mind could register the intent. With all your might, you shoved back against your lieutenant forcing him to stumble forward. He turned as quickly as he could, watching in abject horror as a bullet pierced your arm and you were tackled to the ground by the very men you were tasked to kill. You managed to wriggle free, with Ghost’s help. Help, being nearly ripping the men in half with his bare hands. He grabbed you by the straps of your vest and started running,

“Stay with me, Sergeant.”

“I’ve got their focus, Ghost, just go. Get the intel to the RV point and I’ll meet you there.”

“Negative.” You fucking idiot.

The one time he desperately needed you to listen, and you didn’t. You waited until he was through the doorway before you shoved him again, ignoring the white hot pain that seared your arm, and closed and locked the door behind him. It sent him into a rage. The synapses in his head going into overdrive, Ghost was telling him that you had a point and he needed to finish the mission but Simon wanted to rip the door off its hinges and bring you with him.

He cursed as he started running. Shouting into comms that you were on your own and about to be overrun. That was the last he’d see of you for a while. It made him nauseous to think about your smile, to recall your laughter that rang in his ears. That didn’t matter. The only thing that he cared about was bringing you home.

Say when

And my own two hands will comfort you

Tonight, tonight

Say when

And my own two arms will carry you

Tonight, tonight

Come across, you're lost and broken

You're coming to, you're slow and waking

You start to shake

Still haven't spoken, what happened?

He has you in his arms. Smaller than he’s ever seen you. He’s holding on so tight and so gently at the same time, willing the strength in his arms to be just enough to keep you against his chest without causing you further pain. Your small fist is curled against his heart, your head tucked into his chest, your breathing labored and your eyes never leaving his.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice was so quiet, throat hoarse from crying, screaming, god he didn’t want to think about it.

“Stop it.” His grip tightened ever so slightly, new rage forcing bile to rise in his throat,

“Ghost, please, I-”

“That’ll do, sergeant.” He was short. His words clipped and cold. But you knew he was anything but.

I'm coming back and you just don't know when

You want to cry but there's nothing coming

They're gonna push until you give in, say when

Even now, sitting in the infirmary beside your bed, every bone in his body, every fiber of his being was telling him to run. To get the fuck out of here. He refused. He sat by your bed, watching your chest rise and fall steadily, eyes never leaving your closed ones. Watching to make sure the nightmares that would eventually plague you, wouldn’t do so on his watch. You seemed peaceful. He only got to watch you sleep a handful of times, usually only when he was taking the first watch. But even then, it was never a deep sleep. It was always light enough to be roused at a moment's notice. But now? Nothing could wake you. He was relieved in a sense but it didn’t help the lump in his throat when he’d hear you stir. The quietest whimpers, the lightest twitch of your fingers, the heavy breaths that’d leave your nose, it kicked him into overdrive. He crossed the distance in two steps and gently shook you, his heart breaking as you woke up with a flinch, hand flying to the one gently shaking your shoulder, eyes wide with fear and survival.

“‘S just me, sweetheart.” His voice was soft, sad, and unfamiliar in tone. Not like you didn’t look like a stranger to him either.

“I’m s-”

“You apologize one more time, and I’ll knock you out.” There was a light, tentative, humor in his voice, one that you desperately cling to,

“Right. Habit.” You chuckled weakly, the smile nowhere near touching your eyes, but you tried. And you’d keep trying for him.

“I know.”

The silence hung in the room as your heartbeat settled back to normal, your hand still on his as it rested on your shoulder. His touch was an anchor and a catalyst all the same, suddenly the tears sprung to your eyes, the knot in your throat tightening and bringing a bitter taste to your mouth. Your shoulders started to shake as you bit hard on your quivering lower lip,

“Ghost…” You choked on his name as the single syllable passed through your lips,

“I know.”

Now we're here and it turns to chaos

Hurricanes coming all around us

Another crack throws you back from the window

You stay low

All began with the man of country

Another plan sends another century

Around again another nation, fallen

He was furious when you volunteered yourself for a mission so soon after being cleared. Everything he swallowed down for your sake, every acidic thought that eroded his mind, came to life. And it made him sick. For fuck’s sake there’s no way you were this reckless.

“Ghost, I’m fine!” You argued throwing your things to the ground. You’d finally reached the safe house and you were both sore, exhausted, and run down. And it seemed like now he was finally ready to rip into you, you were trying to keep your voice level. Forcing every ounce of understanding to come forward, remembering every look he’s given you up to this point. He was blaming himself and he didn’t know how to tell you. He didn’t know how to deal with the festering acid that had been bubbling for weeks since he brought you back. Since you first took that bullet for him.

“Why couldn’t you have listened?” He threw his own things down to the floor, eyes furious and searching yours,

“I was doing my fucking job, Ghost.” You were never afraid to push back, it’s what he admired most about you. Even if it brought you to trouble,

“Don’t give me that shit.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” One of your hands ran over your hair, the anxious energy bubbling,

“You shut-”

“Don’t fucking ask me to stand by and watch you get shot.” Your eyes narrowed to slits as your chest touched his,

“Watch your tone, sergeant.” His voice was low, a warning growl, his chest was rising and falling as the anger pulsed in his veins, forcing his fists to clench and unclench at his sides. You caught the movement in the corner of your eye and straightened your shoulders,

“Whether you like it or not, whether you allow me to or not, I’ll always have your back. For that, I will never apologize.”

The rage went from a smoldering fire to a stream of ice going down his spine.

Don’t say that. Please, god, don’t fucking say that.

He raised his hand and gently placed it on your arm, his thumb gently stroking the area of the wound through the fabric of your shirt. The action seemed to smooth your edges as much as it did for him.

“I know.”

Any guy can be on both sides of a coin

Never understood why

Some of us never get a shoulder, shoulder

Some of this we kept with us

All of us will go out there

'Cause it never stops until we give in, give in

To give in, give in

After the mission was completed, he never left your side. He didn’t before but he especially didn’t now. He became your shadow as much as you were his. You’d find his eyes in the corner of the room, focused on you, he’d nod his head at you when you’d land a punch on a rookie during training, he’d back you up during briefings when you struggled to find your voice. He was your quiet support. Giving you the extra push to fully bring you back into the fold.

But that wouldn’t change the nightmares. It wouldn’t change the fact that you laid awake in bed until morning call, it wouldn’t change the fact that you’d prefer the comfort of the treadmill to that of your bed when you’d get bored of just laying there. He’d find you there. Eyes focused forward, chest heaving, as you sprinted with everything you had. He wanted to say something but he couldn’t. He’d be a hypocrite if he did. Still, he couldn’t stand to see you like this either. Dark circles under your eyes, skin pale, deep crescent moons in your hands where your nails met the skin of your palms.

You became aware of his presence and gracefully, albeit shakily, stepped off the treadmill once it slowed to a stop. He didn’t have to say anything, just jerk his head and he knew you’d follow after him. You did. Without question, you always would.

Say when

And my own two hands will comfort you

Tonight, tonight

Say when

And my own two arms will carry you

Tonight, tonight

Say when

And my own two hands will comfort you

Tonight, tonight.

You were in his room, sat on his bed with him sitting beside you, facing you. He waited, waited for you to find the words he knew you needed to say, waited for you to turn and face him. And you did. Like a compass, you’d always find a way to face him. Once again, his hands found your arms, and slowly they made their way up until they slotted perfectly at the crook of your neck. His massive hands cradling your head, gently bringing you closer until your foreheads touched. You could feel the heat of his breath through his mask,

“Ghost-” Your voice shook, your hands trembling as they came up to rest on the same spots on his neck. Tears welling in your eyes as looked into his, seeing only the softest part of him,

“Simon.”

Your eyes widened and the new knowledge seemed to encourage the tears to stream down your cheeks. You tested his name, once, twice, until it was a broken sob and you threw your arms around him, burying your face into his neck, clutching the fabric of his sweater in a white knuckle grip. His arms curled around you, bringing you in closer, his eyes closing as he committed to memory every dip and curve of you under his hands.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod x reader #mw2 x reader #cod one shot

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flintox · 7 months ago

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"Madame President! A few questions?"

The president halted in front of the camera and put on her most presentable smile. "Of course!" She adjusted her hair, already self-conscious about it knowing she was being filmed.

"The galactic federation has just passed over one hundred member planets. How do you feel about this monumental milestone?"

"Aha~" The lioness giggled. "Well, I doubt anyone is as happy as I am. It is an accomplishment several decades in the making and I couldn't be more proud of my fellow member planets in all their hard work in making it a reality."

The flash of a camera blinded her for a moment but her expression remained stalwart and regal. "A new microphone was thrust towards her face by a shorter alpaca species. "Madame President--what do you have to say about the allegations of the federation isolating aggressive non member planets using dangerous experimental technology?"

There was always one of these types at every press conference. She'd been hoping the security here would be a bit more stringent and not let these sorts of inflammatory reporters in. She sighed and maintained her smile. "You're referring to the recent disappearance of the Human threat, I assume?" She flashed the reporter a smile. "The federation only makes use of tested weaponry that is compliant with the federation code of conduct--which was written in co-operation with other species, both aligned with us and non aligned. The disappearance of the human planet was likely the cause of their own experimentation and is as much of a mystery to us as it is to you. Despite the aggressive stance the humans took against us, the loss of life is nonetheless tragic." The lioness leaned in closer to the reporter, looming over the short alpaca. "Lets not spoil the ceremony with such frivolous conspiracies, alright?"

More cameras flashed and the choir of reporters devolved into a gaggle of questions, too chaotic for her to follow. The lioness put her hands up. "That's all the time I have for questions for now. Please, enjoy the celebration. Let's hope one hundred planets is just the start!"

She quickly made her way through the crowd of reporters and into the grand hall, eager to celebrate the monumental victory of adding the 100th planet to the federation she presided over. A milestone that had come with quite some cost.

It was true, that the federation had some enemies. Had, as in past tense. Convincing one hundred planets to ally with you was a difficult task when you had powerful enemies to chip away at your projection of safety, and if you simply eradicated them it would make you look like the aggressor. So it was most convenient when your enemies simply...vanished on their own.

That was the official story, at least. In truth the federation couldn't sit idly by while some upstart species made threats. Of course they had to act. Erasing a species was a bit too far gone, so other...more experimental measures had to be taken.

She stroked her hair behind her ear, feeling the smooth dome of one of the isolated planets jingle against her fingers as it hung from an earring. A beautiful red planet with endless dunes. It was a shame the species there believed themselves to be ordained by their god to erase all life from the world that wasn't them.

The rattling of another planet sounded from her golden wristband. A quaint little world inhabited by a very war obsessed species. Their idea of diplomacy was firing laser from a distance. Perhaps with a few years of hands on experience around other species they might be more willing to talk, until now their planet complimented her wrist perfectly.

Then there was the planet hanging around her neck. The little blue rock had originally wanted to join the federation but as it turned out their intentions were less than sincere. At least now they could see all the inner workings of the federation first hand...assuming the president didn't wear anything too tight.

Simply destroying these planets had been far too harsh and would send the wrong impression of the federation. So, they would be isolated and contained and kept by the most qualified person available...the president herself. If she could manage an organization with a hundred planets in it, she could look after a few marble sized planets. Besides, who could say no to her?

Of course, they didn't have the tech to manage the planets yet. It was still a few decades away before they could help the planets adjust and hopefully allow them to return to their old size again. Or perhaps not their old size, perhaps it was best to keep a few dozen feet back just to keep them compliant?

She shook the thought away. Restoration of these isolated planets was still a distant pipe dream. Especially for the humans. With a smirk, the president wiggled her hips, feeling the final planet on her person rattle at the base of her tail. The humans had been quite difficult to deal with. An annoying supremacist government, xenophobia, the works. While it didn't mesh with the ideals of the federation, the president couldn't help but enjoy lording over the minuscule human planet dangling right above her rear, rattled by every sway of her hips. It made for a fantastic confidence boost, something a federation president needed in droves.

It was harsh, yes. But some planets needed to learn that either you learn to play well with others. They needed to learn to treat others as equals. This way, they could learn how it feels to be utterly pathetic compared someone else. It was hard to argue that your species was superior to all others in the galaxy when your entire planet is routinely jolted by the cheeks of an 'inferior' species.

The president giggled. In a way, she almost hoped the humans could never be redeemed. Their little planet went so well with her outfit. Perhaps she could argue they were beyond saving and required constant isolation--a verdict she would be happy to enforce personally~

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avaritia-apotheosis · 11 months ago

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Nomen Nescio | chapter 1

Out of all of his names, he’s always felt the most comfortable with Danny Fenton. -- Nomen nescio - used to signify an anonymous or unnamed person. Translated from lating, it means "I do not know the name." 5th Installment of the Hey Brother AU

A DPxDC crossover // Read on [AO3]

MASERLIST // Next Chapter → Out of all of his names, he’s always felt the most comfortable with Danny Fenton. It was his identity, who he was and how he viewed himself for a good few centuries. Regardless of how much he’s changed, he’d always believe himself to be Danny Fenton at his core. That the Fentons don’t exist in this universe also means that it’s a handy pseudonym for whenever he wants to remain under radar. Jack Fenton, Mattie Fenton, Jasmin Fenton; all identities he’s assumed in one way or another. Sometimes he’d even parade around as Sam Manson or Tucker Foley.

(He contemplated going by Vlad Masters for a solid ten seconds before shuddering at the idea. He wanted to remain anonymous, not picked out for having such an obvious villain name.)

After Danny Fenton, he felt most at home with the name al Ghul. It was the name he was given in this life, lovingly chosen by his mother. If it were not for that single fact, he might have discarded himself of the name entirely.

Danyal al Ghul was everything Danny Fenton was not. The prodigal son. The Demon’s Heir. Pride of the League. An accomplished assassin, a proficient killer, the unseen shadow. The name alone cultivated a reputation of fear even without his interference (he blamed Ra’s for that). But it was a name that he’d grown up with. A name his mother chose. A name that gave him a brother. So even if he did not love the name, he still saw some part of himself in it. It was a version of himself he chose to be in this life, for better or for worse.

Wayne was the name that sat heavy and uncertain on his tongue. A name that he did not think of as his own, even when it was offered freely. The name evoked a legacy. Of pioneers, of architects, of doctors, of the forefathers of Gotham in all its smog and glory. Of hope, of justice, of the weak becoming strong to protect those who cannot do so themselves. It was the name of heroes.

And Danny—whether Fenton or al Ghul—was not a hero in this life. In the grand scheme of things, he was barely a hero in the last.

He could be a hero if he wanted to. He had the suit, the powers, and even the backstory. And he was certain worse people than him had turned over a new leaf and decided to pursue the path of righteousness. But the fact of the matter is that Danny didn’t want to.

He’s had that life already. And heroism just didn’t hold the same appeal it once did when he was fourteen and living in a different universe.

But just because he wasn’t a hero in this life, doesn’t mean he’d sit idly by when innocent people are in trouble in front of him.

Shades lowered, scarf firmly wrapped over his nose, and hood up, Danny ripped the emergency doors off the back of a school bus and ushered all the kids out. Just minutes later, a huge chunk of falling debris smashed onto the now empty bus.

Ah, Metropolis. Why did he wanna come here again?

Superman crashed onto the road, leaving a boulder-sized crater into the asphalt. He burst from the rubble unharmed, firing off his laser vision at the giant robot looming in the distance.

Right. It’s because he wanted to see aliens.

Danny helped the bus driver usher the kids into some nearby safe zone, mostly by making sure there were no stragglers. He kept watch over the battle at the corner of his eye, but paid no mind after Superman bounded into the air, probably leading the robot away from them.

One of the little kids—maybe a few years younger than Damian—tugged at his sweater. “You were so strong, mister! You just ripped the door right off!”

Danny couldn’t help the grin on his face. He ruffled the kid’s hair. “That’s cuz I eat all my vegetables.”

“Nuh uh! You’ve definitely got super powers or something. Ooh, or you’re an alien like Superman!”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, kid. I’m not an alien or anything.”

Danny scampers off before the rest of the kids start getting ideas.

He follows the fight as best he could in between aiding in civilian duty, and taking advantage of the chaos to switch up his disguises. It was rare for him to cross paths with a hero when he worked for the League of Shadows, so he was curious at how effective they were in a fight. He’d sifted through the League’s databases when he was younger so he had a basic idea of who the current big names were and their power sets, but it was nothing like watching them battle in real life.

Superman, surprisingly, kept his distance during the fight. He used his heat vision, cryo-breath, and even resorted to just chucking massive pieces of debris at the robot to keep his distance. Wonderwoman and Green Lantern seem to be doing a lot of the heavy hitting up close, and he thinks he’d seen the Flash zipping around somewhere.

The robot probably had a heavy stock of kryptonite on it, which means Lex Luthor.

Damn rich people.

The robot fired off two large shells of its weapon. The projectiles flew at high-speeds towards Superman— before suddenly changing course and homing towards…Danny?

Oh Lex Luthor that bitch.

Before Danny could even raise his own shields, Superman comes barreling in front of Danny and zipped him away as the shell impacted the earth. Superman let out a low whistle. “Well, that was a close one.”

The rounded shell suddenly popped open, releasing a cloud of green gas. Seconds later, more canisters lodged themselves in the ground around them, covering the intersection in a thick cloud of green smoke. And as if fate didn’t hate Danny enough, a strong wind blew the gas over towards them.

Superman toppled to the ground, doubled-over as he breathed in the gas. Aerosolized kryptonite? How fun.

A couple streets over, Danny starts seeing a bunch of smaller robots roaming around and causing chaos in the streets, further dividing the heroes’ attention.

Danny sighed. “You just had to jinx it, didn’t you?”

Superman looked at him like he just grew a second head— which hadn’t happened in centuries mind you. Learning how to clone yourself is hard no matter how easy Vlad makes it look. “You need to get out of here,” he shouted between coughs. “It’s dangerous!”

That he actually contemplates leaving Superman here as a hoard of giant spider-robots was enough of a reason to make Danny stay. Those thoughts were the devil talking. And by the devil, he meant Ra’s. “Trust me when I say that you’re probably at the safest place you can be.” Danny slams his palm onto the ground. “By the way, you don’t need air to breathe, right?

“I— well, no, but what are you—?”

A single purposeful tug at his ghostly energy creates a dome of bright green light around them. Those years of solitude gave him enough time to experiment the extent of his powers, both in his ghost form and outside it. One of the very cool things he learned with shields is that he could manipulate the energy and permeability of the ectoplasm in such a way that he could create his very own little vacuum chamber inside. Which meant that he could suck all of the airborne kryptonite out of Superman’s radius.

There would still be some kryptonite in his system, but at least he won’t be inhaling more of it.

The only downside of all of this is that Danny did have to fortify his own human lungs to be able to keep breathing. He was still technically walking around as a human right now.

“What in the—”

“Oh! Looks like back-up is coming.”

In the distance, the distinct shape of the batwing soars overhead, sending rounds and rounds of ammunition at Luthor’s robot. There’s an explosion at its front, sending off a chain reaction as both of the machine’s arms are blown off.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and dials a series of numbers right out of his head. (His phones had a tendency to break, so saving numbers just became too much of a hassle every time he had to get a new one.)

The call picks up on the second ring.

“Hey Bats! Your little superfriend over here got gassed with some kryptonite.” At the corner of his eye, Danny just sees Superman mouth what in the world under his breath. No swearing? Really? Huh, must be the boy scout in him. “He’s safe, but I’d rather you take him off my hand before he starts asking questions.”

(His sharp hearing picks up Superman’s mumbled “I don’t even know what questions to start asking.”)

There’s a brief moment of silence on the other line, before he eventually hears a strangled sigh and a raspy “Copy that, just stay there. Don’t move.”

Danny hangs up and pockets his phone. “Welp, better hang tight Supes, because your knight in shining…kevlar? (I think it’s kevlar) is coming to pick you up soon.” He steps out of the dome he’d created, picking up a fallen metal baseball bat from the ground.

“Wait— ok, putting aside the fact that you somehow have the Batman’s phone number, I am 100% sure he told you to stay put.”

“Yeah, well…” He twirls the bat in his hand, thinking back to that one mobile game he’s been enjoying. “Rules are made to be broken.”

He takes a swing at the nearest spider robot, hard enough to dent the titanium skull.

***

Ten minutes and thirty-something smashed robots later, Danny flagged down the Justice League to pick up their wayward companion.

Superman—who begrudgingly stayed put inside the ecto-shield because a) he couldn’t leave, b) even if he could the kryptonite gas just refused to disperse, and c) the League looked like they were wrapping things up soon anyway—breathed a sigh of relief as Flash created a vortex that cleared the air.

“Thanks, Flash.” And then turning to Danny, he flashed those pretty pearly whites and put out his hand to shake. “And thank you, too, for all your help. Though I don’t think I managed to catch your name there, son.”

Son, son, son. There was a time when Danny was newly born into this world where he flinched at the word, too unused to being called anyone’s son after his parents passed away.

(At the ripe old age of 92, passing within seconds of the other because Jack and Maddie had been attached at the hip ever since they fell in love. Much to Danny’s surprise, a whole symposium of scientists came to attend his parents’ funeral. He’d always pictured his parents as the weird and kooky scientists no one outside of Amity took seriously. Sure, they revolutionized the entire world’s view of science and the afterlife and essentially found a way to make interdimensional travel possible, but they were his parents.)

(Jack: his dad who drove recklessly but always somehow avoided getting his license revoked, who made a fudge so delicious it could be classified as a sin, and who never failed to be there for Danny whenever he was down.)

(Maddie: his mom who knew a thousand ways to break someone’s bones with just a paperclip, but couldn't cook a single unburned or irradiated meal to save her life, who nurtured Danny’s love of space and helped him build his first flight module.)

(He loves Talia, he really does. She’s his mother, but Maddie and Jack were his mom and dad. Like he was first and foremost Danny Fenton, he has, and always will be, their son.)

Danny doesn’t flinch at the word now.

It’s one word, and it’ll hold about as much meaning as he lets it.

He kicks the head of his bat off the ground and swings it to rest at his shoulder. “It’s no problem,” he says, completely ignoring Superman’s angling for his own name. “I was getting bored of sightseeing anyway.”

“Sightseeing?” Flash let out a laugh. “You must be fun at parties if your solution to getting bored is smashing robots into bits. Seriously, though, I don’t think I’ve seen you before. New meta?”

Danny tilted his head to the side and shrugged, letting them interpret that answer however they wanted to. It was always fun seeing what people came up with to explain, well, him.

“So this is your first time in Metropolis, then?” Superman asked, eyes narrowed. Not that Danny was thinking about it, wasn’t Superman’s day job a reporter or something? He could see the gears turning in the other’s mind, pulling out that proverbial red string on the corkboard to piece all his information together. “It’s…not exactly the best first impression of the city, but I’d like to welcome you anyway.”

Danny shook his hand firmly, but didn’t tap into his well of superhuman strength to make a point. “Well, might not be the best but it sure is the most exciting first impression I’ve had. It’s the first superhero fight I’ve seen this close, you know!” He didn’t know how much,if any, Superman already knew about him. And if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t really know whether he cared if Superman investigated him or not.

It could go either way. Dany wasn’t a threat to Superman, and there really isn’t anything that Superman has that Danny would go to great lengths to fight for. Bruce had already given his permission to see Damian whenever he wanted. And with Danny’s own…let’s say semi-calculated heart-to-heart, Bruce was unlikely to change his mind about Danny anytime soon.

He’s learned a lot about public personas since his debut days as Phantom. Bruce was a sentimental person to the core. The paradigm of Danny being some lost, wayward child that was hesitant, but willing, to someday join the family was a hope too alluring to discard so easily.

(Danny didn’t lie when he told Bruce he was bad at planning in advance. But just because Danny’s bad at long-term plans, it doesn’t mean that he can’t capitalize and build on an advantage when he sees one. Call it the al Ghul in him. The Wayne in him, even.)

“Really?” Superman pressed. “I would’ve thought you’d seen plenty in Gotham.” “A Gothamite?” Flash perked, face suddenly inches away from Danny’s to get a closer look. Danny barely resists the urge to pat his face to check if his disguise was still on. “So he’s one of B’s kids? Strange, I don’t recognize this one. Unless he got a new one— which, y’know, is kinda par for the course here. But really where does he keep finding all of these kids?”

“I don’t find them. They find me.”

Flash nearly jumps ten feet in the air at the sound of Batman’s voice coming from behind him. “Jesus christ, Bats! Where did you come from?”

Danny raised an eyebrow and pointed to the Batwing that’s been hovering above the skyline a little ways away from them. “You seriously didn’t see the giant fighter jet over there?”

“Well clearly not!”

Batman turns to Superman, business as usual. “Are you alright? Any lingering effects?”

“Oh just some weakness but it’ll be gone in a jiff. I got a lot of help from your…friend? Friend, over here.”

Batman grunts, looking Danny up and down for any injuries. There were none, of course. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

Danny set the bat down on the ground, leaning his weight against it. “Got bored. Got curious. You know how I am when I’m curious.”

“Does your mother know that you’re here?”

Danny’s eyes widened. “She told you?”

Talia specifically requested that Danny not be sent on any missions in or near cities claimed by heroes. Specifically heroes with a strong connection to the Justice League. More than likely it was to deter Batman from finding out their connection to each other until the time was right, but when it comes to Talia, one could hardly say.

Batman raised a brow. “So does she?”

“Of course she does. She always knows where I am even when I don’t tell her. Probably had me microchipped or something, I don’t know.”

Superman and Flash sent very concerned looks towards them. Danny waved off their concerns with a laugh. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. She doesn’t do that.”

At least, Danny hoped Talia didn’t do that. There was an unnervingly high likelihood that Talia would have placed a tracker on him at some point, but Danny would rather not think about the possibility. Ignorance is its own form of bliss after all.

Flash cups a hand to the side of his mouth and whispers to Superman. “I really feel like we’re missing out on something over here.”

Batman grunts again. He inclines his head at Danny. “Would you care to introduce yourself?”

Which brings Danny back to the dilemma he’s had since his rebirth: what name to go by. That’s the problem with having too many names; they can be attached to various distinct and overlapping identities that it’s difficult to choose which one is the best to go by.

It’s nice to know that Batman wouldn’t dispute him if Danny decided to give a fake name.

Wayne was an immediate no go. He could already see it now: the shock, the surprise, the curiosity, and next thing you know within twenty-four hours the whole Justice League is knocking at his door to learn more about Batman’s new kid. Even if the sound of Danny Wayne didn’t make him uneasy, he still wouldn’t go for it. Yeah, no thanks.

Al Ghul would probably be closer to the truth, but it was a dangerous option to make. The League of Shadows were still a formidable group with a lot of enemies from both sides of the moral spectrum, and Danyal al Ghul had a reputation that would mark him as an enemy on sight, Bat or no Bat.

Which left Fenton as the safest option. It was an unknown name with no added complications. Hell, he didn’t even have to go by Danny if he still wanted some anonymity.

But…

It was one thing to use the name with strangers he’d never see again. Giving that name to people that were connected to him to some degree felt…exposing. He’s never even shared that name with Damian, and he’s closest to Damian out of anyone.

Which left one option.

Just fucking with them.

Danny gives an exaggerated bow. “The name’s Nathaniel Edward Mortimer Olysseus, at your service.” He winks. “Well, not for much longer now, anyway.”

And then he drops a smoke bomb, leaving behind a confused Flash, and an equally amused Batman and Superman.

***

OMAKE:

It’s later on when The Flash is recounting the story to Wonder Woman—and by the small chuckle she gave at the name—did Flash realize the mystery man’s trick.

“Olysseus is one of the many variations of the Greek hero Odysseus,” Diana explained.

Nathaniel Edward Mortimer Olysseus.

N.E.M.O.

Nobody.

Flash buried his face in his hands. “Can’t believe I fell for that. Should’ve known he wouldn’t say his actual name.”

Superman shrugged. “What can you expect? He’s a Bat.”

#dpxdc #hey brother au

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cyberdragoninfinity · 11 months ago

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have been putting together Iliaster Pokemon Teams off and on fooooor the last couple months or so... I always like to put way too much thought into teams so under the cut I have all my reasonings for these choices. I like Pokemon and I like these characters a Perfectly Normal Amount <3

BRUNO/ANTINOMY:

Lucario: feels just very much like a good partner Pokemon for him...same shade of blue, very noble and loyal, EXTREME SPEED!! something something Lucario's innate aura reading and ability to sense emotions and thoughts vs. Bruno's complicated quest to figure out who he is. I think they would be friends!!! It gets amnesia too in whatever funny Pokemon AU Bruno's situation happens in

Skitty: obligatory Bruno kitty cat pokemon <3

Armarouge: T.G. Halberd Cannon/Blade Blaster type vibes, its pauldrons literally turn into a cannon, fire type echoing the sun in the Antinomy/Yusei duel, also a very loyal Pokemon. Plus bonus counterpart to Primo's Ceruledge >:3c

Rotom: silly little guy who likes motors and electronics and machinery!! Also Bruno having a ghost type and being. yknow. a robotic copy of a dead man. I think it suits him.

Yanmega: T.G. Recipro Dragonfly, it literally has eyes covered with a red visor, it's super fast and its design echoes a vehicle (aircraft rather than motorcycle, but still.)

Registeel/Regieleki: in Tag Force 6 Bruno uses and seems to really like Machina Fortress, so I wanted to give him a big 'ol bulky Steel Type. Antinomy gets Regieleki as a counterpart because it's literally The Fastest Pokemon, probably great for Delta Accel Synchro <3 Also Modern Age/electricity/android type invocations...

Porygon/Porygon2: Bruno needs a boxy little computer friend!! Antinomy gettin the evolved form since a big part of Porygon2's lore is that it was made for space travel...thinkin bout that duel again. The Porygon line, Porygon2 especially, also has a really similar color palette to Bruno's various forms!

Miraidon: ok ive seen people give Jack Miraidon and i get it, it's his color palette, BUT LIKE. THIS IS ONE OF THE MOST BRUNO POKEMON EVER. literal robot motorcycle from the future who washes up on the beach with limited memories!!! it has a silly goofy friendly form and a badass powered up fighter form!!! it can be the perfect counterpart to Yusei having a Koraidon!!! LISTEN.

LESTER:

Skarmory: Meklord Emperor Skiel of course!!! Violent metal bird moment!!

Wingull: in the Tag Force games Lester really likes the Stuffed Seagull Plush item and I think that's just so cute

Zorua: Little red-haired mischief-maker that can create illusions and false appearances?? IT'S PERFECT FOR HIM.

Klang: From the episode when he infiltrated the twins' school, he used Gear Golem the Moving Fortress....gotta give him some gears.

Durant: Skiel Guard! Little weird metal bugaboo :]

Iron Bundle: challenging myself to give all the Iliaster members (aside from Z-one) Future Paradox Pokemon...Lester of course gets the Bird one. It even shoots a laser like Skiel does!!

PRIMO:

Bisharp: god his whole team is just Mean Blade Guys but like. Look at Him. That's Primo. the way Bisharp commands an army of Pawniard the way Primo commands the Diablo also relevant.

Ceruledge: This is kind of the Primo Pokemon of All Time For Me--haunted grudge-powered knight that "cuts its enemies to pieces without mercy" with sword arms infused with "the lingering resentment of a sword wielder who fell before accomplishing their goal"--like... COME ON. DUDE.

Mega Beedrill: gotta shout out the iconic bee commentary of course, and also it's Another Violent Pokemon With Sharp Dangerous Blade-like Arms.

Melmetal: MEKLORD EMPEROR WISEL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Scizor: Metal-clad evolution of a blade-armed beast, also violent and merciless. And it does the thing where it uses its pincers to look like it has three heads--funny for one of Aporia's components~

Iron Valiant: ANOTHER PRIMO POKEMON OF ALL TIME FROM GEN 9. LIKE!!! White robot with a big dangerous sword, created by a mad science supposedly, "said to be cruel enough to take its brilliantly shining blade and cut down anyone confronting it without hesitation"... THEY CANT KEEP GETTING AWAY WITH IT

JAKOB:

Mega Aggron: Granel <3 Big fuckoff metal monster. I also thought it would be fun to try and give the Three Nobles each a pure Steel type Pokemon for the Robot Funsies.

Barraskewda: For Granel's bizarrely fish-like canons and components--Barraskewda also being based on a projectile weapon a bonus, too.

Skeledirge: GOTTA give one of the Nobles something that ties into their sub opera singer namesakes, plus Skeledirge's Spanish influence is perfect for Jakob/Jose. And its an aquatic-based animal like all of Granel's components, too :^)

Alolan Golem: For Jakob's big old beard and eyebrow, PLUS it's a grumpy stubborn beast that launches electric rock blasts. Just suits him imo.

Ursaring: gave myself the added challenge of giving The Three Nobles each an unevolved Pokemon that Aporia has the fully evolved form of.... Jakob gets Ursaring for their matching surly expression and eye(s) plus the Guts ability boosting Attack when inflicted with a status effect is perfect for the Gaining Power Through Suffering motif of these guys <3

Iron Hands: Freakishly powerful big bulky electric robot monster!!! Yellow color motif like Granel!!! probably one of the most Meklord-y Paradox Pokemon, to me.

PARADOX sidenote it's so fucked up he just doesnt have a tag force sprite. sad!

Origin Dialga: Since his whole deal in BBT is having a deck of stolen Legendary Iconic Dragon Cards, i GOTTA indulge and give Paradox a bunch of Legendary Dragon Pokemon!!! Origin Dialga is for the time travel and also it's just a bizarre creature that feels on par with Malefic Paradox and Truth Dragon tbh. Plus it was created by Arceus, and Pdox was created by Z-one <3

Zekrom: GEE PARADOX WHY DOES YOUR MOM LET YOU HAVE TWO UNOVA DRAGONS... he's got that whole black and white color motif with his mask/the Malefic dragon armor. And Zekrom's got an engine...like a motorcycle...

Reshiram: Beautiful long haired bishie of a dragon plus the aforementioned black and white motifs. Also the concept of wanting to make a true AND ideal new future is really fun and kind of Very at play with Paradox~

Espathra: A.) im a Psychic Duelist Paradox truther, I rly wanted to give him a Psychic type, B.) Espathra is a violent weirdo that literally has his hair color palette/style. In my mind's eye this was his partner Pokemon originally ....Paradox with a Flittle is so funny to me.

Roaring Moon: if anyone deserves an Ancient AND Future Paradox Pokemon it's... WELL. THIS GUY. Malefics are almost all Dark Dragons so give him the freakish vicious Dragon/Dark that's like a twisted version of an existing monster (much like how Malefics are twisted versions of existing cards ;])

Iron Treads: Successfully continuing to give all the Iliaster guys Future pdox 'mons...Iron Treads is a big robot tire effectively which works great for a guy who motorcycles through time!!!

SHERRY:

Lunala: For that freaky Soul Binding Gate skeleton door, also a Pokemon that is brought under Necrozma's (Z-one's) power. Sherry having Lunala and Aporia having Solgaleo also just makes me a little insane.

Florges: FRENCH. FLOWER LADY. EASY PICK.

Rapidash: For Horse of the Floral Knights/Sherry's horse shaped duel runner...i love that she's a horse girl 🥴

Teddiursa: For that TEDDY BEAR!!! And also, again, her having a Pokemon from the same line as Pokemon Aporia has is just a fun detail for me.

Tsareena: 100% female. Floral Knights/Chevalier le Fleur. Kicks and fights triumphantly.

Iron Leaves: in general Virizion is already a perfect Sherry 'mon (grass horse, based on French literature, etc.) and I imagine she originally had one before it somehow Became an Iron Leaves when she joined Iliaster :^)

APORIA:

Solgaleo: i mean. He Just Looks Exactly Like One!!!! Also Steel/Psychic is a really good type for this big miserable monster lion angel robot. Plus it can be controlled by Necrozma.

Kingambit: Evolved form of Primo's Bisharp, a powerful and intense leader that fights primarily with brute strength. It's also got an ability that boosts its power the more of its allies fall (die <3) Power through suffering!!!

Silvally: Synthetic chimera of mishmashed fused parts created in a lab :) Can only evolve and reach its true potential through friendship :))) also giving him Silvally and Z-one Arceus just to make myself a little sick in the head.

Klingklang: Evolved form of Lester's Klang, mechanical 'mon that echoes the Ark Cradle's Sun Gear(s) that Aporia protects

Ursaluna: Evolve form of Jakob's Ursaring, hulking powerful bear with big claws and a back sail that looks exactly like Aporia's big metal halo.

Iron Jugulis: MEKLORD ASTRO DRAGON TRISKELION!!!! also a hydra like Aporia's duel runner >:D

Z-ONE:

Necrozma: first of all it kind of looks like Z-one's freaky life support+huge claws contraption second of all something something Infinite Light vs. Necrozma being a light consuming monster third of all the way it can dominate and lord over Solgaleo and Lunala. pounds my fists on the pavement.

Celebi: HE'S THE BIG BAD HE GETS AS MANY LEGENDARIES AS HE WANTS and he needs Celebi of course. Time Angel :)

Omastar: Freaky ancient Pokemon that resembles the nautilus shape of Z-one's contraption...also there's something about fossils being kept alive in there somewhere I'm sure.

Mimikyu: this is like. perfect for him tbh HDHGSDFG Wears the guise of another Pokemon and pretends to be it (and I would definitely give Yusei a Pikachu,) reacts with violence and panic when pushed into a corner, Fairy type (like all the Timelords are), competitively can fill the niche of being Difficult and full of underhanded status effects and tactics and I think that's just lovely for Z-one <3 In my mind's eye I like to think this was his partner Pokemon from even before The Yusei Factkinning Event.

Bloodmoon Ursaluna: Well it's literally got the odd 'device' clamped over one of its (weird glowing) eyes and also. For Aporia <3 That's Aporia <33 Z-one's giant time-displaced apex predator with a big weird circle on its forehead <3333

Arceus: THAT'S GOD BABEYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

#yugioh 5ds #iliaster #ygo posting #WHEEEEE POKEMON AU MACHINE GO BANANAS WHEEEEEE #i would like to make t5ds teams too but its been hard to figure them out so far...will ponder further....#iliasterliker9000 #come on and get your pokemon

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disintegratedfingers · 6 months ago

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Quirk: Unknown Warnings for this chapter: Small mention of blood, a student being trapped. Otherwise we're all good :) (Proofread ✅)

Chapter 1, Pt. 2 - Tryout

Each faux villian robot held a certain amount of points;

Easy Villians - 1 point

Medium Villians - 2 points

Hard Villians - 3 points

Arena Traps - 0 points

And if immobilized, points would be rewarded to the examinee who took it down. There were only 10 minutes for this practical.

You stood in the mob of examinees, hands clasped behind your back, forcing your posture to straighten. Energy flowed within the group, tickling your skin. Kids muttered to one another. Others boasted that they would earn enough points to pass at the top.

What would become of you? With such little control with your quirk...

"And... begin!" A shout was heard from somewhere up high, and everyone swiveled their heads to the sound. You looked up, confused.

"What's wrong? The test's started! Run! Run!!" Present Mic pumped his fists. "The die is cast!"

Immediately, the students fled and dispersed in a frenzy. You, frozen in the moment, stood on shaky legs. Sweat trickled down your neck, but a new confidence rose when you saw the skinny, green-haired boy trembling in his spot. You wouldn't be last, atleast.

A selfish mindset was appropriate for this exam, you thought.

Turning away with a huff, you sprinted into the mock-city streets. Explosions and clashes of metal could be heard. You wobbled slightly, but quickly popped in some earbuds to block out the sounds.

A girl with streaked, blue hair shot water from her hands at one of the faux villians, seemingly having some trouble when it shot fiery beams back. So, from behind, you snuck up on the robot and stared intently at it's back. Willing it to crumble, you watched as the iron and steel creased together and cracked.

It crashed to the ground with sparks flicking from torn wires. You smiled; the warmth of accomplishment filled your chest. "That's two points..." Even when the water quirk girl gave you a frustrated look, you gazed around for another opponent.

"DIE!!" You heard a muffled roar from above, seeing a huge explosion and a boy swinging his arm in midair. Instinctively you cowered as shards of metal and glass fell. Your arms were cut and bleeding, but your determination did not waver.

"Where..." a larger robot - a 3 pointer - appeared from around the block, glowering down at your smaller frame. It rotated its arm to face you with a laser. Sucking in some air, you just barely dodged the blast, recovering quickly and standing back up.

The bot aimed again, but this time you were ready. You glared daggers into its arm. "Break, break, break-" you clenched your fists, eyes squinted as you worked your mind.

SHEU-

The fire came and you hissed through gritted teeth, but apon opening your eyes, a long dart of fizzing light floated in front of your face. You jumped out of the way as it dissolved in mid air. Letting go of your breath, it fell to the ground, and so did the robot.

"Five points!" You recalled enthusiastically, although it surely wasn't much, nor nearly enough compared to others. Your head throbbed with the effort.

"Move it!" Someone shoved past you, scraping against your shoulder. Turning, you saw a boy with spiky, blonde hair stomping away, hands clenched. A rigid ardor radiated off him.

"Really...?" You growled under your breath at the gesture, forcing yourself to focus. Other students were battling robots around you... what could be done now?

'Maybe if I finish off a villian that somebody has already beaten up... it's whoever completes the job, right?' Plus, it was easier for you to control something of littler strength.

Your eyes darted around, entertained and mislead by all the action. Finally, you took notice to the guy with the glasses, watching as he ran full speed towards an opponent and delivered a powerful kick to the side. It crashed into the building you were leaning against, brick crumbling as dust sweeped in.

You skidded out into the open, eyes shining as you saw that the robot still had some potential, creaking as it tried to move. Before the other student could reach it, you came forward and slapped a hand onto the metal, closing your eyes and straining your mind.

Holding your breath... fingertips tingling... eventually you felt the metal split and grow hot as the electricity leaked out. It whirred and buzzed until it lay in motionless pieces. The villian was done.

"Surely that's cheating!" Your eyes snapped open to a strict voice beside you.

"The goal is to-" You started, annoyance surging through your veins. The examinee with the glasses was staring at you in dissapointment but also in thought.

"Well, I assume that whichever student completely immobilizes the faux villian gains the point," he sliced the air with his hand, eyebrows furrowed.

"Yeah I figured," you sigh shakily.

"I'll allow this advantage to you, but no more," he gave a swift bow and sprinted off towards another attacker. You shook your head. This was a slow and unpromising journey.

"4 minutes, two seconds remaining!" Present Mic's voice reverberated throughout the grounds, slightly muffled over your earbuds.

CRASH!

"Watch out!!" A whirl of bodies flew past you and spilled into the streets as a huge Arena Trap bot slammed its arm into the road. The gush of force ran up your legs and stabbed your body, making you falter. Charred brick met your shoulder, stabilizing you, atleast for the moment.

Through the dusty debris, the skinny, green-haired boy could be made out, just a few yards away. He ran forward and jumped with such force that he flew many paces upward. Pure determination reeked from his body as he sent a fist to the bot's dented exterior.

It slammed backward, bright explosions illuminating the ground below. The student began to fall...

"What...?" You grew concerned, but scoffed at the stupidity. "He jumps that high and can't land again?"

You also spotted a limp figure below the scene; a girl with her lower half crushed under rock. She seemed to notice the boy, too, squeezing her eyes shut as she pressed her fingers together

"Oh crud-" you could pick up faint pain, watching her cringe in a struggle to escape. This was a selfish game... but also a blood battle.

Pure fear swallowed you whole, forcing you to stand still. Who would die first?

The green-haired boy was still free falling, limbs waving limply at his sides. Your arms raised, prepared to shield your eyes. However... the boy suddenly stopped descending, mere inches from the ground. Silence sweeped over the space.

"And... release," the girl sperated her fingers and sighed, eyes drooping closed as she swallowed hard.

You rocketed forward, straight to her side.

"Don't move too much- you could rip a muscle or something," you frantically looked over her, searching for a way to pull her out. She groaned, eyes watering as sweat dripped down her face.

You swiftly hooked your arm across her torso, pushing off of your leg. Inch by inch she was tugged out. Eventually, you had her standing on shaky legs. She looked exhausted.

"Can you walk?" You took a step back, reaching a hand out when the girl wobbled slightly.

"I'm alright, thanks," she laughed nervously, looking over at the limp body of the student she saved... who saved her. If he hadn't defended her, the robot would have crushed her.

He groaned in agony, face buried in the dust as he gripped his bloody arm. You sighed, nerves agitated from the adrenaline.

"It's all over!!!" Present Mic's voice boomed throughout the field.

A small crowd gathered around the limp boy, as you wobbled away a bit. The thick emotion and exhaustion was worsening your state.

"Make way, make way!" A little, old lady hobbled through the huddle, waddling over to the curly-haired boy.

"Ah, well, son," she gruffed. "so your own beloved quirk did this to you? Almost looks as though your body's not used to it..." the crowd stood in small mumblings as they watched the lady approach him.

"...she's the backbone of U.A.," you picked up whispers. Sharply, her lips shot out and kissed the boy's head. Students' eye's widened in shock and realization, and so did yours.

"Thanks to her, such ferocious exams can be held at U.A...." You reflected under your breath, amazed at how the examinee's arm turned completely back to normal.

"This one'll be fine," she looked around. "Any other hurt kids?"

_______

First action packed scenes >:D

What's your quirk??? Why do you have so little control over it? Why does it hurt? Stick around :°

#bnha #bnha fanfic #bnha fanfiction #bnha fic #mha #mha fanfic #mha headcanons #Mha #Bnha #bnha spoilers #bnha x reader #Mha x reader #my hero academia x reader #mha imagines #mha fluff

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buffshipper8490 · 1 year ago

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Rated Mature

Chapter Summary

The Knights of Ren visit the Kuat Drive Yards; young Dade navigates the decrepit streets of Coruscant under the First Order’s oppressive rule; Chancellor Hux and the Supreme Council meet with the Warlord Cabal...

Excerpt

From his cushy office in the Capitol, Chancellor Armitage Hux watched with some satisfaction as the crowds below dispersed. It would be a quiet few days thanks to their swift action on Kuat. An execution always the best means of control, for a fearful populace was a compliant populace-- something his father both knew and appreciated. If only Brendol Hux could see him now. Armitage had accomplished more in his life at just thirty-six years of age than his father ever did during his accursed lifetime. Hux caught a glimpse of himself in the transparisteel and scowled. Premature grey streaked his once flaming red hair at the temples, giving him a resemblance to his father that was both uncanny and unwelcome. Still, he refused to dye it and he even smoothed it back, making sure it was presentable. He considered himself the true leader of the First Order, and a good leader led by example. The pit of Hux’s stomach churned with hate for Kylo Ren. Ren’s hair was the furthest thing from regulation. A small detail, to be sure, but details mattered, and this one represented everything Hux hated about Ren. He was the exception to everything. Outside the rules. Disordered. While Ren and his mongrel Knights gallivanted across the galaxy in search of the Jedi and their assorted kin of conjurers and soothesayers-- wasting the First Order’s time and resources-- Hux remained on Coruscant, keeping order and administrating. Their rebirth as an Empire had been achieved according to his design, not that overgrown man-child with a laser sword! When Hux finally took his rightful place as Supreme Leader, the first thing he’d do was make Ren cut off his hair. Or simply remove his head with the hair still attached. Boot heels clicking against the polished floor alerted him that he was no longer alone. “Chancellor? The Cabal requests a word with the Supreme Council," came the voice of his second in military command, General Enric Pryde. Hux’s face crumpled in distaste. Still, he followed the general down the hall to the War Room. "I trust the mission to Mustafar went smoothly, General Pryde?" asked Hux with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Pryde's lip curled. The older man had arrogant blue eyes and a high hairline that seemed immune to perspiration. "Yes, Chancellor. Leader Ren had opted to take the last leg of the journey to Exegol alone, however." Hux scoffed. “He’s gone mad,” the Chancellor said, the contempt in his voice obvious even to his own ears. “Flames of rebellion burn across the galaxy, and Ren chases a ghost.”

Likes ❤️ and Reblogs 🔁 are much appreciated!

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imnotevenusin · 1 year ago

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The Astrology of : Donald J. Trump

Arguably the most hated man in America, Donald Trump was born on June 14th, 1946 in Queens, New York. He got his start by working for his Father—Fred Trump—and later, inherited some money from the Family business. Over time, he was seen as a wealthy public figure, even making cameos in Movies and dabbling in TV shows, the most notable one being his starring role on The Celebrity Apprentice. Trump infamously began his Presidential Campaign in 2015 and won the 2016 Election—which is when he became Public Enemy #1.

Surprisingly, I found a picture of his birth certificate online, so we finally have a definite chart.

🦁Trump is a Leo Rising 29°, which makes the Sun his Chart Ruler. Leo Risings are known to express themselves in a “big” way. This can also explain the amount of pride he has. The rising sign can also show us what we look like physically, so I think its funny that he’s known for having Orange skin and Blonde hair, as it kind of resembles a Lion—and Lions are the symbols for Leo.

☀️Chart Ruler in the 10H : The Sun is what we are interested in and what we like to revolve our personalities around, and the 10H is our achievements and career milestones. He likes to take pride in everything he’s done and accomplished.

💵Midheaven in Taurus : The Midheaven is the highest point in our charts, and it represents what role we play on a public scale, so what sign its under shows us the characteristics we’ll have publicly. Taurus is the sign/energy of values, wealth, sensual pleasures, and physical rewards. Trump is known for what he has and how wealthy he is.

🤬MC square Mars : Mars is the action, defense, and anger we have; it can show our competitive side. So, when it squares the Midheaven, we see somebody who is overly competitive. In both 2016 and 2020 elections, he would call other candidates nicknames : Sleepy Joe, Little Marco, Crooked Hillary, etc. I also think this adds to his bad reputation in the public.

👊Mars in 12H conjunct the ASC : The afflicted Mars conjuncts his Ascendant, so he expresses himself with a lot of passion; something about his energy is too competitive, which adds to the overall public dislike.

☄️Sun sextile Mars : This placement indicates pure confidence and charisma.

Pluto in the 12H : The 12H is what separates us from the collective, so I think powerful 12H placements could indicate royalty or extreme fame.

😶‍🌫️Neptune in the 2nd house : Neptune can indicate delusions, creativity, physical detachment, etc. The 2nd House is what we equip ourselves with and what we value (so it mainly rules money). Obviously, Trump likes to brag about his riches, yet the Trump Organization was fined $1.6 Billion for criminal tax fraud.

👨‍⚖️Saturn sextile MC : Saturn cuts out what is unnecessary and also indicates where we have responsibility, so you can expect people to be laser-focused on their goals. His MC is supported by Saturn, so in the public he has a somewhat serious role (being the President). Especially since Saturns sits in the 11th, we have someone who can offer something serious to society. This aspect is generally good for anybody who wants to be a public official.

📈📉Uranus in the 10H : Uranus represents sudden changes, shocking events, and “breakthroughs”, if you will. An individual with this placements will go through many ups and downs in his career, and we can see this with Trump : to becoming president, to being impeached, and to becoming the first president to be indicted.

#astro observations #astrology #donald trump #trump mugshot #celebrity birth chart #astro community #astro placements #astrology observations #astro notes #zodiac #zodiac side of tumblr #birth chart #natal chart #zodic signs #gemini

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androidcharles · 1 year ago

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Learning The Truth Chapter 3

Rupert's dived into the deep end now and with Charles still trying to find him, will he be successful? Or will he run into another problem?

TW for some robo violence, but that's about it.

Charles was heading down Juniper Street as he saw a couple of police cars around a jewelry store. He ducked down behind an alleyway, using his enhanced hearing to listen to the situation.

“Only one thing was stolen, but it was well worth over one hundred thousand notes,” a police officer said. Charles immediately recognized Johnny’s voice.

“Can you tell us anything else that might help us with this case?” he heard someone else say.

“It’s the dardenst thing! I got a good look at the guy, spiky black hair, his eyes were glowing, kinda, but once they cleared up, I think they were kinda blue greenish.” Charles covered his mouth, his eyes wide and his skin crawling.

Rupert, you didn’t…

“Welp, he’s gone off the deep end. We’ll have no choice but to report this to his commanding officer,” Johnny said, “Once everything’s in place, we can put out a proper warrant for his arrest.”

“Oh no…” Charles whispered, standing up and running off. He had to find him. He had to warn him!

But where could he go? He was out of ideas and there was no way he could track him down. He ran and ran until he found himself at an abandoned train station, shaking and shivering as his vision grew static-y.

“RUPERT!!!” Charles screamed at the top of his lungs, feeling himself growing faint. He had been running for a while now and he hadn’t heard from Henry since he went to the opposite end of Hatcher Street. He knelt down, trying to keep himself calm as he suddenly heard something move.

“Rupert?” Charles said hopefully, standing up.

“No.” Charles gritted his teeth as his eyes turned red, a young woman stepping out from behind an abandoned train as Charles got into a fighting stance.

“Another one of those androids,” Charles hissed, “What the hell do you want?”

“You seem troubled. You don’t just scream someone’s name into the heavens without a good reason,” Beatrice said.

“What does it matter to you? Just get lost already! Unless the beating I gave you back then wasn’t enough!” Charles shouted.

“I can’t help but be concerned for a fellow android. After all, if you would just listen to us-” Suddenly Beatrice quickly dodged a laser blast as Charles fired another few shots at her. She landed a few feet away before she transformed her arms as well.

“Looks like we’ll do this the hard way then…” Beatrice said softly. She sped towards him as Charles transformed his hands into mega boxing gloves, throwing a few punches as she dodged them expertly.

Immediately, she tried to fire a few blasts into him as he dodged, running towards her and grabbing her arm and trying to fling her across the train yard. She flew about twenty feet before stopping herself, firing a couple more blasts at Charles as he raced across, ignoring them in favor of punching her in the face.

Her pink eyes turned purple as she punched him as well. He transformed his arm into a laser sword, charging right at her as she jumped back. She decided to transform her arms into laser swords as well, swinging at him as Charles expertly blocked every move before he finally managed to catch her off guard, slicing at her wrist, which sparked from the heat of the sword.

She gritted her teeth as she grabbed his arm and flipped him over, static filling his vision as he hit the ground, feeling a sharp pain his chest as she stomped down on him. He shook as he tried to fight back only to get a face full of blaster.

“I don’t understand why you’re fighting us. We’re in the same situation as you, you know. We were abandoned by society and deemed dangerous all because of some moral code. Do you really think you’ll accomplish anything by doing any of this?” Beatrice shouted. Charles felt sick to his stomach as he felt her practically shove the blaster in his face.

“Answer me!” Beatrice shouted.

“How much have they told you?” Charles said softly. Beatrice’s expression softened a bit as she blinked.

“Amelia… she told me everything. She told me that Project SAI was meant to sell us like we were junk. We were created from the souls of innocent people for the sole purpose of serving humanity. I want to serve humanity, but not in the way they want to.

“I want to live among humans, serve them in that way. To help bring smiles, to save lives. That why I enlisted back then. Because I wanted to make a difference. And that hasn’t changed. From the time I enlisted till the time I got kicked out,” Charles said, “They’ve probably fed you lies, told you this was for the best, but in the end… is this what you really want? Do you really want to be treated like a tool your whole life?”

“I…” Beatrice said.

“You don’t know… what’s it’s like. To have holes in your memories. To not know what you were like back then. To lose so much of yourself all because of some stupid corporation…” Charles said, “I don’t think they wanted to erase my memories to keep the CCC’s secrets safe… I’m pretty sure they wanted to erase my memories to keep their secrets safe as well.”

“You… you don’t know what you’re talking about!” Beatrice shouted, “Just shut up already!”

“Why should I?” Charles said, “You’re gonna kill me anyway.”

“If I killed you, I would get in trouble,” Beatrice said.

“I’d rather you just kill me. My boyfriend is missing, I don’t know where anyone else is. I’d rather die here then-” Suddenly Beatrice was lifted into the air as Charles gasped, trying to pull himself up as he saw a pink energy field glowing around her. Charles watched as Rupert stepped forward, his eyes glowing as Beatrice tried to struggle against the energy.

Rupert clenched his fist and immediately, Beatrice’s arm and leg were ripped cleaned off. She screamed as sparks flew out of her wounds, collapsing to the ground before executing an emergency shut down. Charles’ mouth was agape in horror as Rupert stepped forward, his eyes shining.

“Hi Charlie…” Rupert said softly.

“Charles!” Henry suddenly came up from behind, his eyes wide as Charles struggled to get up.

“It kinda hurts…” Charles said softly.

“Geez, and you just got that chest too… it’s a shame to see it destroyed,” Rupert said softly.

“C’mon, let’s go over here,” Henry said as he led Charles over to the building. Rupert picked up the pieces of Beatrice as he followed them both. Charles sat down, wincing in pain as he did as Rupert sat next to him, letting out a small sigh.

“What are we gonna do with her?” Charles asked.

PROBABLY KEEP HER PRISONER. AT LEAST UNTIL SHE TALKS… Henry said.

“You’re not talking a jail cell or a black box or-”

NO, WE’LL JUST KEEP HER AT HOME AND MAKE HER DO CHORES, Henry said, giggling a bit as he signed.

“You just want someone else to do your chores,” Charles teased as Henry rolled his eyes. Then Charles turned towards Rupert. He looked like a mess, and he now had one pink colored eye instead of two aquamarine ones.

“Are you… OK?” Charles asked.

“I’m fine now. I think I’ve finally realized what I want,” Rupert said, “I kept trying to be a good person because I wanted to push the bad kid out of me. I thought that being a police officer and eventually a government soldier would do that for me. But I realized I was wrong. I kept running away from who I truly was. And while I still want to be a detective, I wanna be a detective on my own terms.”

“So you’re going to be a PI?” Charles said.

“No… I’m going to be a Toppat,” Rupert said. Charles and Henry sat there in silence as Rupert cleared his throat.

“There’s so much I still don’t know about my uncle and I’d like to know that,” Rupert said, “And I think becoming a Toppat would be a great start.”

“Well, maybe we can talk to the general and-” Charles began to say as Rupert shook his head.

“Charles, after everything I’ve done, I don’t think there’s any going back,” Rupert said, “I stole this of my own free will.” Rupert showed him the bracelet he stole as Charles let out a small sigh.

“Before you get all up in arms about me doing something I’ll regret, remember that you were sneaking behind everyone’s back and talking to Toppats,” Rupert said as he pocketed the trinket.

DIDN’T THINK YOU HAD IT IN YOU, PRICE, Henry said, HONESTLY I’M SHOCKED. IMPRESSED, BUT SHOCKED.

“I’m not gonna say you shouldn’t do it, but… have you at least thought about this? I mean, once you’re there… what if you hate it?” Charles said.

“Why didn’t you become a Toppat, Charlie?” Rupert asked, “You’re always talking to them and going over there. Hell, you started a band with that Amelia girl. What gives?”

“Hm… maybe a big part of me wants to believe I can find some hope in them becoming good guys,” Charles said, “I know it’s a stretch and there’s hundreds of people in that clan, but even among the most villainous ones, there’s Toppats that are so kind and caring. Some that are a bit stingy, but I can tell they’re wonderful under all that. And Mr. Copperbottom… well I can tell why Amelia calls her dad. Because under all that awkwardness, he’s actually a really nice guy.” Charles smiled fondly as Rupert listened carefully to him.

“But I don’t think I’d be comfortable with hurting others just to get what I want. I’m happy knowing that I’m friends with them. Having connections like that can sometimes help, you know?” Charles said.

DO YOU STILL WANT TO BE A TOPPAT? Henry said, EVEN AFTER HEARING ALL THAT?

Rupert thought about it for a second before he let out a small sigh.

“I never cared when I was hurting others as a police officer. I don’t see how now is any different. So sure. There’s so much more I want to learn about my uncle. Because despite everything… I feel like I only saw part of him back then…” Rupert stood up, gazing out over the station.

“I’m going to be a Toppat and no one can stop me!” Rupert shouted, almost to the world as Charles clapped his hands and Henry gave a fond smile.

- - - - -

GlitterToppatGirl: I just got in contact with Burt. Officers have been coming and going to Ms. Price’s house. If you can, it’d be better if you just dropped him off with us for the time being. At least until they stop bugging her.

xXBold_Action_ManXx: I can’t exactly do anything right now. I got injured during my fight with Beatrice, so I’ll have to stay put for another few hours. Henry’s scooter is reliable, but it’s also rickety. I highly doubt it would make it to the Toppat Manor.

GlitterToppatGirl: Well, just stay put until you can. What are you going to do with Beatrice?

xXBold_Action_ManXx: We’ll have her repaired and then we’ll see if she talks.

GlitterToppatGirl: What if she doesn’t? Then it’s the scrap yard for her?

xXBold_Action_ManXx: No, we’ll just keep her safe. I don’t know what kind of lies they fed her there, but I highly doubt it’s anything good… It would be better if she stayed with us. Having her holed up in a government facility just doesn’t feel right.

GlitterToppatGirl: She could stay with us! We’ll make sure she’s safe!

xXBold_Action_ManXx: I think she’ll be fine with us.

GlitterToppatGirl: Well, whatever.

xXBold_Action_ManXx: I’m more worried about where we are now. Dr. V isn’t exactly in a remote area…

GlitterToppatGirl: Dr. V won’t rat on ya, even if it is in her best interest. I trust her and you can too.

xXBold_Action_ManXx: It might benefit her, but whatever. If you trust her, then I will as well.

GlitterToppatGirl: Those cops will have to sleep eventually. When that happens, you can meet up with us at a designated area. My dad will get in contact to let you know more.

xXBold_Action_ManXx: Alright, I’ll let Rupert know. Charles leaned back in his digital space once again as he approached the screen and tapped on the glass.

“RooRoo,” Charles said softly. Rupert put down his magazine and headed over to Charles, a small smile on his face.

“Hi, Charlie. Sorry about all this… I wonder if Dr. V will sell me out though…” Rupert said, glancing worriedly over his shoulder.

“I saw Henry slip her an extra ten thousand notes with the payment to repair me and Beatrice. I think she’s been watching the news. And considering how lit up my messages are from my dad… I think he has as well…” Charles said, glancing worriedly at the near thirty five unread messages from General Galeforce himself.

“How long do I have to squat here?” Rupert asked.

“Amelia said it would probably be best to wait until late into the night. Even cops have to sleep. And if they’re out there, there’ll be very few on patrol…” Charles said.

“You’ve really dove into the deep end of the criminal underworld. Than again, I can’t say I’m any better,” Rupert said.

“Rupert… are you really sure you wanna do this?” Charles said, “I can talk to General Galeforce and… EGH maybe not. Going on about how I shouldn’t let empathy take over. I knew there would be a bomb in these messages…” Charles sighed as he lay down on his stomach, practically loafing up as Rupert giggled.

“I’ll miss them a lot, but I don’t think I really had any friends there besides the twins. I think they’ll make greater captains then me. They’re much more motivated,” Rupert said, “But I guess the thing I won’t miss is the routine. Maybe the Toppats are a lot more laid back when it comes to that kind of thing.”

“Maybe…” Charles said softly, “You’re not scared though, are you?”

“I’d like to at least talk to my mom again… but I don’t want to get her into any trouble, so I’ll just wait until things settle down a bit…” Rupert got a sad look on his face as he said this, almost a little forlorn. Charles smiled as he pressed his hand against the screen, wishing he could reach out and comfort him.

“I’m sorry. Don’t worry, you’ll talk to your mom soon. And… even if this isn’t the path that you want to take, maybe in a way she’ll be proud of you. She didn’t seem to mind me, so I don’t think she’ll mind the path you’re taking,” Charles said.

“That’s true. She did love my uncle and I can imagine that was despite what he did,” Rupert said, “I still wanna talk to her anyway. So I can apologize at least…”

“That’s true…” Charles said.

“Mr. Calvin.” The two of them looked up to see Dr. Vinschpinsilstien standing at the doorway.

“Mr. Calvin, your body has been repaired. Your little friend will be done soon as well. This is the second time this month and you still have to do your regular check up,” Dr. Vinschpinsilstien said, “Don’t get into too much trouble, for my sake, please.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” Charles said, “Sorry for all the trouble.”

“As for you young man, I’ll stay quiet about your location, just don’t do anything rash or I might not keep my lips sealed,” Dr. Vinschpinsilstien said, narrowing her eyes at Rupert.

“I’ll see you in a few minutes, RooRoo!” Charles said. The screen switched off as Rupert sighed, heading back into the main waiting room as he stayed away from the windows, in case he was spotted.

“Not so fun on the other side of the tracks, huh?” Rupert jumped as he saw Henry sitting in one of the chairs, smirking a bit.

“I guess it makes sense… in an equivalent exchange sense,” Rupert said, “You decided to turn over a new leaf and I’m now…” Rupert sighed as Henry smiled.

YOU GET USED TO IT. AND YOU’RE LUCKY. YOU’LL HAVE AN ENTIRE SUPPORT GROUP BEHIND YOU. I WAS ON MY OWN WITH VERY FEW PEOPLE I COULD EVEN TRUST, Henry told him, SO I THINK YOU’LL BE FINE. AND SINCE YOU HAVE FAMILY IN THE CLAN, YOU’LL GET ALONG JUST FINE. I THINK YOU’LL FIND IT MORE FUN THEN MILITARY WORK.

“If you insist,” Rupert said, “I just wish I could have something to eat. I haven’t eaten since about eleven AM.”

I CAN ORDER GOUDAS THROUGH DRIVETHRURUSH. WHAT DO YOU WANT? Henry said as Charles entered the room, putting his arm around Rupert’s shoulder as he smiled.

“Are you guys ordering some dinner? Are you sure that’s safe?” Charles asked.

IT’LL BE FINE. I HAVE MY WAYS, Henry said, MIGHT AS WELL BUY SOMETHING FOR DR. V. ASK HER WHAT SHE WANTS CHARLES.

“Aaaah, I was just in there!!” Charles shouted as he headed back into the hallway.

- - - - -

Rupert had managed to sleep for the majority of the evening as Charles sent off Henry to take Beatrice home. Meanwhile, he was keeping close contact with the Toppats, knowing in his heart this wasn’t a smart idea. But he wanted to keep Rupert safe and if it meant bending the rules (or breaking the law) he would do it. Finally he got a message from Amelia.

GlitterToppatGirl: We’re going to have a group cause a mass distraction on the other side of town. Once the coast is truly clear, we’ll have a car pick up Rupert and take him to the manor. As for you, you’re unfortunately on your own on getting out of there.

xXBold_Action_ManXx: If I play my cards right I could probably hover out of there. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.

GlitterToppatGirl: What are you going to tell your dad?

xXBold_Action_ManXx: He’s probably gonna be super pissed at me no matter what, so I guess the truth. He’ll be upset, but in all honesty, I think it’s for the best…

GlitterToppatGirl: I’m sorry… about all this.

xXBold_Action_ManXx: You don’t need to apologize. No one could have seen this coming. Just let me know when Rupert’s ride is here and I’ll get him out, OK?

GlitterToppatGirl: 👍

Charles leaned back in his seat and not thirty minutes later he got a ping from Amelia once again. He shook Rupert awake as he sleepily blinked at him, before his eyes started to shine.

“Please come with me…” Rupert said softly.

“I can’t…” Charles said, “I’m gonna have to stay here until the coast is clear.”

“I… I don’t know if I can do this,” Rupert said.

“Then don’t. I’ll find a way to hide you, I promise,” Charles said, “Just say the word and I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe.” Rupert’s eyes started to shine.

“You’d break the law for me?” Rupert asked.

“I’ve been breaking rules for a while now. This isn’t my first rodeo,” Charles said. Rupert let out a small sigh as he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Charles’. They kissed for a minute before letting go, Charles nuzzling his forehead.

“I’ll tell your mom you’re safe, OK? I love you, RooRoo,” Charles said. Rupert nuzzled back, his eyes glittering with tears before he sniffled.

“I love you, too…” He got up and headed outside, making sure the coast was clear before dashing towards the car and opening the door.

Amelia was sitting in the passenger seat in front, with the Right Hand Man driving the car, glancing warily at Rupert. Rupert stared at the two women in the backseat; the Witch and Carol Cross.

“Well, don’t just stand there, get in!” Carol said. Rupert nodded his head as he squeezed into the middle seat before the car sped off. Charles watched from the window, tears filling his eye display as Dr. Vinschpinsilstien opened the door.

“I have a room ready for you. Just come to bed when you’re ready,” she said. Charles nodded his head forlornly as she walked over to him, rubbing his back.

“I think he’ll be fine. Don’t worry…” Dr. Vinschpinsilstien said softly. Charles nodded his head as he headed into the main office with her to go to bed.

Meanwhile, Rupert was squeezed in the car as Amelia glanced at him worriedly.

“Feeling alright?” she said softly. Rupert nodded his head as Carol smiled at him gently.

“Aw it’ll be alright, cuz! You’ll get used to it eventually,” Carol said.

“Cuz?” Rupert asked.

“Cousin. You’re her half cousin, but you’re my fully fledged cousin,” the Witch said.

“So you guys are technically…” Rupert said.

“Yes, we’re the kin of Jaques Kensington,” the Witch said, “I’m technially Anabelle Kensington, but I earned the nickname the Witch a while back.”

“You can call me Carol. But call me Carrie and I’ll crush your nuts,” Carol said.

“It’s true, I saw her crush a walnut and everything at one point!” Amelia said from the front seat as the two of them laughed. Rupert felt a little awkward as the four talked amongst each other before they finally pulled up to a massive gate. The Right Hand Man leaned out the window to talk to someone in the intercom and the gate opened as they pulled into the lot.

Rupert took a deep breath as they parked the car in a huge lot underground before Amelia motioned for him to follow her. He said good-bye to his cousins as he walked up to the elevator with the Right Hand Man and Amelia, who pushed a button for the top floor. He felt his anxiety rising as the elevator took them up to the top, the doors opening to reveal a long hall with dozens of portraits. He eyed each one as he spotted his uncle’s, already recognizing him.

He lingered a bit, staring at the painting before he heard the Right Hand Man call him to come along. Eventually, they reached the end of the hall, the Right Hand Man opening the double doors to reveal a huge office. While there were a few stacks of paper here and there, it was very organized. And behind that desk was of course, Reginald Copperbottom. He looked up before smiling gently at him.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Rupert Price. Or should I say Rupert Kensington,” Reginald said, a bit of a teasing tone in his voice.

“Don’t,” Rupert said.

“Well, you’ve made quite a mess out there. That is to say, that it was… average by our standards. But you certainly know how to get into trouble, considering it was enough to garner the government’s attention. There are several warrants out for your arrest as of right now,” Reginald said, “I just want to ask you one thing.”

He leaned forward in his chair, a look of concern on his face.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Rupert blinked in surprise as Reginald continued.

“All I have to do is say the word and Burt will erase all records of your crimes and you can go home a free man. We have all the strings in place, but it’s your call if you want us to pull them,” Reginald said, “But if you stay, well… we’ll be able to teach you how to get out of trouble. What do you say?” Rupert fell silent for a bit, trying to think about this. His mouth made a flat line before he shook his head.

“I’ve already come this far. It would be cowardly if I just backed down now,” Rupert said.

“You can’t beat the military out of him, huh?” the Right Hand Man said, chuckling a bit.

“Well, then let’s just get this paperwork done and soon you’ll be a Toppat! We’ll also have an induction ceremony in your honor, of course that includes breakfast as well. A party that early might not be the best choice, though…” Reginald muttered, suddenly looking up to see Rupert looking kinda forlorn. Reginald gave a soft smile as he walked around the desk and gave Rupert a big hug.

“It’s not too late to say you wanna have those records erased…” Reginald said.

“No, it’s just… I’m afraid that… I just wanted to see my mom again…” Rupert said, sniffling a bit, “I want her to know that I’m OK and that I’ll be fine with what I’m doing, but I’m just… I just… I’m sorry…” He sniffled a bit more as he tried to hold back the tears as the Right Hand Man glanced at Reginald, who nodded his head.

“Well, let’s just get everything sorted out here for now!” Reginald said, “You’ll get a tour courtesy of your cousins once you get fitted for an outfit. And a top hat of course!”

“Hmm…” Rupert hummed.

It was mostly about ten minutes of sorting things out and asking some awkward questions before Rupert was led into the seamstress department by the Right Hand Man. Taylor Tailor was more then happy to help Rupert fit into a much more fitting outfit as he decorated a top hat with a multitude of stars, mostly to make himself feel better. Then he met the Witch and Carol outside of the room so they could give him a tour.

“We’re gonna take a slight detour first, but it shouldn’t be too long,” the Witch said, “Our first stop is the communications department.” Rupert was a bit confused, but he followed the two of them, not really feeling up to much as they knocked on the door and opened it.

“Hey, nerds!” Carol shouted as a couple of them jumped.

“We could do without that,” Burt said as he stood up. Rupert shuffled in quietly as he gasped. Minerva was sitting at the desk next to Burt, her eyes shining as she saw Rupert from across the room and practically ran over to hug him. Rupert hugged her back, shaking as he started to cry.

It was pretty quiet in the room, save for Rupert’s sobs and Minerva’s soothing words.

- - - - -

Charles woke up at around eleven o’clock, much to Dr. Vinschpinsilstien’s chagrin, but things had calmed down significantly since last night. He finally contacted Henry and Ellie letting them know that he would be making his way back soon and they only told him to be careful and not to do anything crazy.

Finally, he rented a cab to head back to Stickburg, hoping the cab driver wouldn’t think he was a suspect in something and try to sell him out for Rupert’s location. But in the end, the hour long drive back was uneventful as Charles got out of the cab and headed to the apartment, opening the door to be greeted by Henry and Ellie, who did nothing but hug him as he smiled.

“I don’t know what to say to help you in this situation, but I hope you know that you’re not a bad person for what you did,” Ellie said.

“My dad’s gonna be super pissed at me for letting Rupert go…” Charles muttered, “But I guess that’s the small price I have to pay…”

“You’ve done enough work to let it slide just this once. And if he does try to get your arrested, this time we’re going to back you up! No ifs, ands, or buts about it!” Ellie said. Henry nodded his head as Charles smiled.

“Thanks you two. Now if you excuse me, I might as well let him know the bad news,” Charles said. He headed to his room and opened his messenger, a sort of fear overtaking him as he read the last message from General Galeforce.

H_Galeforce: Charlie, if he managed to make it to the Toppats, then that’s understandable. Just know that it’s not your fault, it’s Price’s and his alone. I’ve already removed him from our roster and everything. But ignoring my messages isn’t going to help anything.

xXBold_Action_ManXx: Too Late…

H_Galeforce: Honestly… there’s not much we can do now. We know where the new manor is, but we can’t make an arrest without proper paperwork. We might as well just hope we can catch him on our own.

xXBold_Action_ManXx: I’m sorry, I really am! But he was so scared and I wanted to protect him. I know if you were in my position, you wouldn’t do the same thing, but I love him so much and I want him to be safe.

H_Galeforce: I know. If you really think that I wouldn’t have done the same in your position, you’re wrong.

xXBold_Action_ManXx: What?

H_Galeforce: You only did what you felt was right in the situation. In the end, there’s nothing we can do about it. We might as well move on. I think everyone knew that Rupert was eventually going to find about his ties to the Toppat Clan. We can only hope he doesn’t give us too much trouble.

xXBold_Action_ManXx: So I’m not in trouble.

H_Galeforce: I’m upset! But in all honesty, I can’t exactly discipline you the same way I would if you were still part of the force. I can only hope you learn something from this.

xXBold_Action_ManXx: That I shouldn’t sacrifice my morals for my own personal gain?

H_Galeforce: That sometimes there are things worth breaking the rules for. I understand that seems a bit weird coming from me, but remember that I broke the rules because I wanted to save you. And now… well I can’t say that I’m proud of the actions you’ve taken. But I’m still proud of you either way. And I love you so much. I hope you know that Charlie.

xXBold_Action_ManXx: Thank you. I love you too. I guess I’ll have to fight Rupert now though.

H_Galeforce: Love is the worst battlefield. Don’t take it personally. But maybe he’ll join the detective’s division and he’ll have some information on some our other problems. In the meantime, take some time to relax and I’ll call you if we ever need any extra help.

xXBold_Action_ManXx: Thanks dad. Love you.

Charles leaned back and sighed, feeling a bit lighter as the door opened and Beatrice appeared at the door, gasping.

“Um… you should know that I’m in safe mode, so I won’t hurt you, but it’s gonna take a lot more then a little kindness to get me to talk!” Beatrice said. She slammed the door as Charles chuckled a bit.

“So I guess we’ll be dealing with that for a bit…” Charles said.

#the henry stickmin collection #henry stickmin #charles calvin #rupert price #fan fic #fanfiction #the narrators stories

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