#and clowning is always first on that list 🤡

[kindahoping4forever]

Luke performing @ Boston Calling Music Festival - 24 May 2024

[bookdragon-shenanigans]

Second Signet Analysis: Distance Wielding

Welcome to the first in a long series of posts where I do a round up of all of the "Violet Second Signet" theories in hopes to provide a (hopefully) complete list of all possible ideas so when Onyx Storm releases you won't be clowned because at least you can say, "Hey! I saw a theory post on this once!". 🤡🤡🤡

So since RY dropped the bomb that violet’s second signet has manifested in IF, my brain has been going BONKERS racking up possible signets. I’ve currently settled down on one theory that I guess could be correct. (Idk honestly) (or at least that’s what I’d write if I was in RY’s place)

VERY BIG DISCLAIMER: Although I try to stay neutral, some things in this post is my personal opinion. You do not need to agree with them and neither am I asking you to.

Anyways with that over, let’s start the analysis.

FOURTH WING/IRON FLAME SPOILERS AHEAD

Obviously the starting post had to be distance wielding because duh.

What is Distance Wielding?

As the name suggests, Distance Wielding lets a rider travel large amounts of distance within a short period of time (I'm going to guess it's just teleporting but with a fancier name?). As RY herself states-

“Are you a distance wielder?” I’ve only read about two riders in all of history who could cross hundreds of miles in a single step. -Rebecca Yarros, Chapter 55, Iron Flame

Now, it is to be mentioned that it was one of the only elements/signets that were actually name dropped during the second signet conversation.

There are many hints that Violet might be a distance wielder:

Violet is often described as extremely quick

There is one scene in Iron Flame which could either be a genius hint or bad editing:

I jolt upright in bed, reaching for my throat and gulping lungful after lungful of air, but there’s no cut, no ache, and when I turn the mage light on with lesser magic and a twist of my hand, I see there’s no blood, either. “Of course there isn’t,” I whisper aloud, the raw sound cutting through the silence of my bedroom as the first hints of sunlight lighten the sky to purple beyond my window. “It’s just a fucking nightmare.” There’s nothing that can touch me here, Xaden asleep beside me. [Xaden isn't supposed to be in Aretia if my timeline is correct.]

 Distance wielding is a signet that “Hasn’t been seen in centuries”. Do you know who also hasn’t been seen in centuries? ANDARNA.

Andarna always says “I’ll be right where you need me” and if that isn’t suspicious then idk what is

My opinion (?):

I was thinking distance wielding for violet at one point too. But then this appeared:

(some parts of quote cut out because it’s irrelevant)

“What’s your signet?” Mom shouts, but I lack the strength to lift my head. “Hasn’t manifested,” Aaric answers in a panic. -Chapter 64, Iron Flame

Now, from a writer's point of view, why would RY mention this line if not for it to be relevant? Aaric has bonded a pretty powerful blue dragon and his signet hasn't manifested.

It adds up to Aaric’s personality too. He ran away from home and is still trying to get away from his father. He's spent the entirety of IF running away. So distance wielding is perfect for him seeing as it can let him travel extremely quick (aka amazing for fleeing)

Anyways, that is all for this one cause the brainstorm has become a brainfog and I cant legitimately think anything rn. Let me know if I missed anything (please 🥺🥺🥺) and other signet theories you have so I can make sure I didn't miss anything!

[maxinepixels]

the curious case of rhyan's love life... 💘

Rhyan Brown has had a very interesting go at love over the years. For context, he is currently 19. He is turning 20 this winter (my sweet pisces baby). All of his life Rhyan has always been the "weird" or "awkward" looking boy in school, but right before his sophomore year in college, my boy glowed up. Despite him being somewhat shy and nerdy, he has had a very busy love life so far (like father, like son smh). Also, please forgive how some of these pictures look. A lot of these were taken more than two years ago before I found my gshade/lighting aesthetic.

Rachel 🐰

First we have Rachel, she is Rhyan's childhood best friend. Growing up in Henford-on-Bagley, there wasn't much to do and not many people in town. Therefore, all of the kids knew each other. Rhyan thought he knew everyone until he met Rachel. She moved into town when they were 10 years old, and they became instant besties. As they got older (around middle school years), Rhyan started feeling differently about Rachel. He developed a major crush on her. However, he didn't tell her this until their freshman year of high school. They even went to their first homecoming dance together (they were so cuuute). Unfortunately, when Rhyan finally told Rachel about his feelings, she didn't really feel the same way. She just looked at him as her best friend. This hurt Rhyan's feelings so much because he thought they were on the same page. Despite this, they have remained friends over the years. They are actually still listed as best friends in the social panel. Recently, Rhyan tried asking her out and she literally came to the restaurant and instantly left...it's safe to say she still doesn't like him like that. She is the "one that got away" in Rhyan's eyes.

Miki 🍡

Rhyan and Miki met through his twin sister, Rayven. Rayven and Miki were best friends in high school and she was always at their house. Rhyan always thought Miki was very cute, but nothing ever happened between them. Right before the twins went off to college, all of their high school friends linked up and Miki and Rhyan were kind of vibing. They kissed, but it never went anywhere after that.

Brianna 🤡

This girl literally turned Rhyan's world every which way but loose. They met in history class their senior year of high school. Rhyan was literally head over heels for this girl instantly. I mean she is so pretty, so I get it but damn, I needed my boy to stand up. They went to senior prom together (Brianna was pissed that she didn't win prom queen, but Rhyan won king). For the most part, their relationship was fine, but Brianna was such a bitch. She was mean to his twin sister to the point that Rayven hated her. She even tried to get an attitude with Rhyan's mom a few times when she was over their house. However, no matter what he was told, Rhyan could not break up with her. The summer before his freshman year of college, Rhyan and Brianna were hanging out and she started wildin out. I guess she was starting to feel the pressure of him going to school and being away from her. Rhyan would never do anything to mess up their relationship while at school, but he didn't like the way Brianna was acting the whole summer. So right before he went to school, he broke up with her. She was pissed. But she deserved it. Rhyan was such a good guy to her, so in my book, she's a clown.

London 🔒

You would think Rhyan knew the signs of a crazy girl after dealing with his ex, but nope he fell for another one. He met London on the first day of his freshman year, she lived in his dorm. They literally started dating on day two of school. My guy didn't even have a chance to meet any other girls on campus. London was mixed signal city (thanks to the Lovestruck pack). One day she loved him, the next she was unsatisfied and wanted to break up. They were highly attracted to each other, but it was too much too fast. While on winter break of their freshman year, she literally asked him if she could move in with him...TWICE! Like please get a grip, ya'll are only 18. Rhyan dated her his whole freshman year, but he broke up with her right before they went away for summer break. He was tired and couldn't take the crazy emotional rollercoaster that she had him on.

Zaniyah 🎉

Rhyan met Zaniyah while out at a club with his boys during the summer break from college. She immediately caught his eye and they hit it off right away. They started hanging out and always had so much fun together. I loved Zaniyah she was literally so sweet. However, Rhyan was really over relationships at this point (he developed the unflirty trait by this time, poor guy). So they just kept it casual. Whenever Rhyan was in town, they would link up. Zaniyah is a little older than Rhyan (at this time Rhyan was about to be 19 and she was 21), so she could handle the situationship. She never pressured him to be in a relationship. The last time they linked up, he took Zaniyah out on a date and he almost considered asking her to be his girlfriend...but he decided against it (my boy couldn't bring himself to do it). They are still on good terms and are good friends.

Olivia 😍

Finally, we have come to the final boss in Rhyan's love life saga...Olivia. So, Rhyan initially met Olivia while they were in high school. She was his older sister's best friend (his older sister's name is also Olivia, so they became friends bc they thought it was cute but that's a whole other story). Rhyan and Olivia started dating when Rhyan was a sophomore and Olivia was a junior. Their relationship was so cute and wholesome. The next year, Rhyan's junior year and Olivia's senior year, they made plans for what they're life would look like after high school (Rhyan was so in love with Olivia, but I was here for it). However, once Olivia graduated, she stopped calling and really distanced herself from Rhyan. Not understanding why and being hurt, he cheated on her with Brianna (the clown). Once she found out, she was really done and broke up with him officially. They didn't speak to each other at all after that.

However, recently they reconnected (for timeline purposes Rhyan is now a sophomore in college). Rhyan took her out on a date and they actually were able to re-kindle their romantic feelings. I mean the glow up they have both had is actually crazy. Currently, they have decided to get back together and be boyfriend/girlfriend again. Rhyan is so happy because she was his first real girlfriend, his first everything. Hopefully, they can make it work.

whew chile, im tiiied after that 😪🥱

[adamsobservatory]

Helloo could I request cliff Holden (our life beginning and always) x male reader that kinda acts like a tsundere sometimes?

(You can write whatever genre you want, just please don't write angst)

oh and could I be 🤡 anon?

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝

Character/Pairing: Cliff Holden x Male Reader Pronouns: He/Him Summary: No summary ! Just a list of HC Warnings: Spoilers to Our Life Beginning and Always (If you haven't played it, you should omg I love it) Author Notes: Ooo I haven't written much about Cliff so sorry if this isn't the best, Of course you can be clown anon ! As always I love Cove and his papa （＾・ω・＾✿）

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝

You and Cliff met a few months after Cove and MC moved out. I don't see Cliff dating until Cove is old enough to be on his own, Cliff loves his son and wasn't really open to any new relationships after moving out to Sunset, plus I don't think Cove would be too keen on his father bringing someone new into their lives.

You guys met when you went to get some ocean gear. You didn't know what really drew you to him but as you were checking out you guys talked and hit it off, becoming fast friends.

He'd ask you out after becoming good friends with you, maybe a couple months of chatting and hanging out together.

He'd ask you out on a date to the aquarium and would show you all his favorite fish. I don't think he's the type to meet you for the first time and ask you out after one conversation, he's more relaxed and is the type to take things slow. He'd want to get to know you before taking you out to plan something that you'd like.

He finds your attitude cute and teases you sometimes just to see how much you'll react but its all lighthearted and sweet (I love him sm)

You and Kira get along great! When she comes up to visit you both, you guys catch up over tea and coffee and tease Cliff (lovingly ofc)

Kira also teases you a bit just to see how embarrassed and flustered she can make you.

She'll also tell you about the guy she's been talking to in Nevada

Cliff would let you meet Cove after a couple months of dating maybe like 8-10 month just to let Cove meet the person he was talking about to his son

Cove was slightly nervous but he brought MC with him so it was alright.

You and Cove get along, you guys don't talk that much due to him moving out from his dads place and him having his own life but after getting past that awkward stage, he'll walk in with a smile to greet you and Cliff.

Cliff will impulsively buy you gifts when he's out, he'll bring you flowers sometimes throughout you guys dating

I don't see him getting married again. Maybe if you've been together for a while, like 2+ years of dating.

Sometimes you'll just hold hands on the couch while reading or watching TV and he'll kiss your hand and watch you blush and cover your face with the other hand.

One time you kissed his tattoo before falling asleep and his face was so red, he hid his face in your hair as you dozed off on his chest.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝

[tsarisfanfiction]

for the OC ficlet ask X, Y, Z (feel free to discard one letter if u want Im just being a 🤡) prompt: star

OC Ficlet Ask You might be being a clown but I do have Apollo kids with all of those letters! They do have a pretty big age gap here, though (details at the end of the post), so I had to get a little creative... Very loose on the prompt here but ah well :P

Yvonne sighed, pulling the strap of her shoulder bag until it sat more snugly in the hollow between her shoulder and neck. The trip had been long and tiring, but it was nice to visit another part of the world. She wasn't as much of a stargazer as some of her siblings, but the Spanish National Observatory had a great deal of published works that made for an interesting annual read, and as her flight to Greece involved an overnight layover in Madrid, she'd decided she might as well take advantage of her brief stop in Spain with a pre-booked visit to the Royal Observatory.

A young brown-haired girl ran past her as she made her way through the neighbouring park, giggling as she was chased by several other youngsters around her age, shouting in strings of Spanish. Yvonne didn't speak Spanish, but it wasn't so far away from French that she couldn't get the gist of the words.

"Give it back, Ziva!"

"Catch me first!"

"Go that way, head her off!"

Yvonne didn't know what the girl - Ziva - had stolen, but it all seemed to be in jest, so she left the children to their chaos as she continued her trek across the park and towards the Observatory.

The park was busy, but above the laughter of young children and the whisper of light wind in the trees was the sound of a mellow instrument. A cello, if Yvonne's years in cabin seven surrounded by musicians had taught her anything. It wasn't loud, or obstrusive, but Yvonne had always loved listening to her siblings play.

She had some time before she was supposed to be at the Observatory for her visit. A brief detour, following the sound, had her stumbling across a young man perched on a stool, eyes closed as his bow danced across the strings of his instrument.

The piece was familiar, and with a small smile, she sat herself down on a nearby bench and listened, not interrupting. To mortals, it was likely a pleasant but unfamiliar tune, but despite being an instrumental variation, Yvonne would always recognise a camp favourite.

When it finished, she clapped lightly, and he looked at her, his eyes widening as he caught sight of her throat. Yvonne had never got out of the habit of wearing her old camp necklace; her students thought it was quaint, and the fact that several of the designs came from Greek mythology, as far as mortals were concerned, meant that no-one batted an eyelid at a lecturer on Greek history wearing them.

This young man clearly didn't wear his any more, but there was nowhere else where he would have learnt to play that tune.

"Cabin Seven?" Yvonne asked him in English, shifting closer. He met her eyes and nodded.

"You?" he asked, and she smiled at him, at her little brother.

"Me too," she said, "although I was never the best at music."

He shrugged. "Not everyone is," he agreed, because their father was the god of too many things for them all to be good at the same couple of things. "Xavier."

"Yvonne."

OC list: Yvonne Calvert - Canadian, aged 32 Ziva Lucero - Spanish, aged 10 Xavier Campara - Spanish, aged 24

[marmaladeships]

F/o List

Romantic

Main F/o’s(uncomfortable sharing)

•Pierre Bezukhov(The Great Comet)

Tags:

~🧸My Cuddly Bear🧸~

~🧸The Bear and The Squirrel 🐿️ ~

•William Shakespeare(Something Rotten(Christian Borle)

Tags:

~🪶It’s Hard to Be The Bard🪶~

•(Young)Charles Xavier(X-men)

Tags:

~😈🔮~

~PsychicDæmon~

(They’re almost always on my mind:3)

F/o’s I’m currently hyper fixated on:

•The 4th Doctor(Doctor Who)

Tags:

~🍬Have a Jelly Baby🍬~

~🌌Me and The Doctor🌌~

•Sweeney Todd(2023 Revival)

Tags:

~🩸Sick at Heart🩸~

~🪒Pretty Men🪒~

•The 7th Doctor

Tags:

~❓~

•Oleg Salt(CaTCF)(Broadway version only)

Tags:

~🧂When Veruca Says🧂~

~ 💗💜💙~

•Patrick Bateman(American psycho)

Tags:

~🔪Hip to be Square🩸~

•Kurt Wagner(Nightcrawler)(X-men)

Tags:

~💙Fwuffy boy💙~

•King John(Robin Hood 2010)

Tags:

None yet

•Terzo(Ghost Band)

Tags:

~✨Can't you see that you're lost without me?✨~

F/o Limbo

•Oz,The Great and Powerful(Oscar Diggs)

The Wizard of Oz

Tags:

~💚Me and The Wizard💚~

Secondary F/o’s

•Karl Heisenberg(Re8)

Tags:

~⚙️Hobo Magneto⚙️~

~🤴Beauty and The Beast 🐺~

•Remy LeBeau(X-Men Comics)

Tags:

N/a

•Erik Destler(Poto)

Tags:

~🪽My Angel🪽~

•Wilford Warfstache(MEU)

Tags:

~💕Life needs a little Madness💕~

•Mephisto Pheles(Blue Exorcist)

Tags:

~💜Mephisto💜~ 

•Gale Dekarios(Bg3)

Tags:

~🪄I’m Going to Fistfight Mystra🪄~

•Raphael(Bg3)

Tags:

~😈Me and The Devil😈~

•The Easter Bunny(Rotg)

Tags:

N/a

•Montgomery Gator(FNAF)

Tags:

~🐊Hey!Little Guy!🐊~

Clowns 

•Jack the Clown(Jack Schmidt)(Halloween Horror Nights)

•Krusty the Clown(The Simpsons)

Joint Tags:

~🤡Hear me out guys🤡~

QPR’s

•Emmett ‘Doc’ Brown(Bttf)

Tags:

~⏱️Time Travel Buddies⏱️~

•Jack Rose(Just Dance)

Tags:

~🌹Lover Boy🌹~

•Skimbleshanks 

Tags:

~🐈A Cat That Cannot be ignored🐈~

•Darkwing Duck(Darkwing Duck)

Tags:

~🦆Daring Duck 🦆~

•Sportacus(LazyTown)

Tags:

N/a

Stede Bonnet + Edward Teach(Ofmd)

Tags:

~🐙The Gentleman,The Kracken and Me🐙~

•Darkiplier(MEU)

Tags:

~🥀My Hearts Desire🥀~

•Illinois(MEU)

Tags:

~🎢My First Adventure🎢~

Crushes

•Raoul De Chagny(Poto)

Tags:

~❤️The Vicomte❤️~

•Scrooge(Muppets+Netflix Version)

Tags:

~🦪Solitary as an Oyster 🦪~

•Dracule Mihawk(Opla)

Tags:

N/a

•Aziraphale and Crowley(GO)

Tags:

~👼I can be yuor angle👼~

~😈Or yuor devil😈~

•Anatoly Sergievsky(Chess)

Tags:

~♟️~

Maybe F/o’s

•Marvin Gardens(Falsettos)

Tags:

None yet 

Special Case F/os

(these are special because it they were my first f/o or they have some sort of meaning)(Won’t post about these much)

•Johann Faust the VIII(Shaman King)

Tags:

~♥️First Love♥️~

•William Afton

Tags:

N/a

•Grell Sutcliffe(Black Butler)

~💋My Fabulous Wife���~

•Arataki Itto (Genshin Impact)

Tags:

~Boyfie~

•Carlisle Cullen(Twilight)

Tags:

~🧛‍♂️Hey Edward!Im f*cking your dad!🧛‍♂️~

•Yancy(MEU)

Tags:

~🚫I don’t wanna be free🚫~

•Royal Margarine Cookie(Crk) 

Tags:

~🐉The Handsome Dragon Rider🧈~

•Remy LeBeau (Gambit)(X-men)

Tags:

~

Tertiary F/os

(Don’t talk about these ones much so none of them have tags)

Overall Tag:

The Doctor’s Loves

•Bowser •King Dice  •Doc Ock  •Puss in Boots  •Finn Mcmissle  •Godbrand •Emperor Belos •Ken(Barbie Movie 2023)

•Spamton.G.Spamton

•Calico Jack(Ofmd)

•The Narrator

•Divus Crewel

•Vinsmoke Sanji

•Cole Cassidy

Familial F/os

(None of these have tags except for a few)

Sun/Moon(Fnaf)

Caretaker

Tags:N/a

Allan+Midge(Barbie Movie)

Brother+Sister-in-law

Tags:N/a

Anatole+Hélène Kuragin(The Great Comet)

Brother+Sister

Tags:~😈The Troublesome Trio😈~

Eda Clawthorne(Toh)

Mother

Tags:~🦢birb🦢~

Glamrock Freddy(FNAF)

Father

Tags:~✨You’re my Superstar✨~

Stanley(Tsp)

Twin Brother

Tags:~⁉️Wait!Two Stanley’s?!?!?⁉️~

Adam+Barbara Maitland(Beetlejuice)

Parents

Tags:~🧟Fright of their lives🧟~

Nellie Lovett(2023 Revival+Movie)

Mother

Tags:~🥧Me Mum🥧~

Ethan+Mia Winters(Resident Evil)

Brother+Sister-in-law

Tags:~❄️The Winters❄️~

The 12th+14th Doctor(Doctor Who)

Dads

Tags:~🙄Do you even know what thinking is?🙄

~🌌Wibbly Wobbily Timey Wimey🌌~

~🌌You’re like my dad!🌌~

The 11th Doctor(Doctor Who)

Brother-Figure

Tags

~🎀Bow ties are cool🎀~

Platonic F/os

Willy Wonka(CaTCF)

Tags:

~🌈Pure Imagination🌈~

Retired F/os

(Still kinda love them but not enough for them to be f/os)

•Shota Aizawa •Hizashi Yamada •Keigo Takami •Zhongli •Keaya •Diluc •Baizhu

•Undertaker •Sebastian Michaelis •Phone guy(Scott) •Asmodeus(Obey me)  •Gold Rodger •Almond cookie 

[papirouge]

Hi!! sorry for the late response, you answered my ask about jpop idols, thannk you so much for such a thoughtful answer!!!

Honestly when i was younger i was really into mostly hello!proyect, so i know that they had literally child groups with berryz and cute, whose younger member was 8 years old! It was pretty creepy how they would make those photobooks with them posing on bikinis as soon as they turned 13 or 14.

I also really loved perfume, it used to be my favorite group, but like you said nakata got lazy and started prioritizing other acts around the level 3 era, and it really got cemented with cosmic explorer, which is when i started to lose interest in them. Their costumes also used to be so good, creative, and designed thoughtfully for each girl, but now its always the same costume except achan gets the longer skirt, kashiyuka the shorter skirt, and nocchi gets the shorts. Even the fabric is visibly cheaper. I feel like the only one who still cares is mikiko as her choreographies are still good.

But i dont know who that artist you mentioned is, but i'm interested in hearing the story 🍵

Japan is EXTREMELY problematic when it comes to child sexualization and the fact that rightoids who are constantly blaming the left for entertaining sexuality degeneracy....have no problem sporting anime pfp/watch anime is everything you need to know about how much of clowns those people are 🥴 They don't care about child abuse, they just pretend they do to dunk of their political opponents.

They try to cope saying it's "cultural" but Japan is currently recording an increase of sexual crimes, so...why would they defend a culture suspected of increasing sexual assault coming from a country struggling to contain their own sexual predator? 🤔 Also why the "it's cultural" argument shouldn't be used for honor killing and child marriage then ? Oh my bad, it's Muslims so this time we can finally admit it's a problem 🤡

To be fair with Perfume, they've been around since ~20 years now, so it makes sense their concepts are starting to become more rehashed. Nakata is a VERY derivative artist (even when he tried something new after he discovered future bass, he shoved this sound in everything he made around that time, whether it was on his own album 'Digital Native' or Perfume song "If you Wanna" lol.

The concept of them having distinctive outfits (as you said, longer dress/skirt for A-chan it's said that's bc she has wider hips which aren't considered a good feature in Japan, shorter dress/skirt for Kashiyuka, and shorts for Nocchi) goes back to their debut, and I think it's incredible they sticked to it for so long (especially since they also have respective hairstyle code - Nocchi has never been able to have hair longer than her chin for most of her life.... 🥲), but yeah, after so many years.... it's starting to get old. But they're basically idols I don't think doing an イメチェン (= drastic change of style) would be well received...

In the era of streaming, the lowering of budget for music videos is global. Perfume last outstanding MV (great costume + set design + extras on set) was "Cling Cling"... which was released almost 10 years ago🥴 but other Japanese artists had a drastic drop in MV quality, included Ayu Hamasaki (the artist I talked about in my first reply).

She is Japan best selling artist of all times and her "Jewel" MV has been for a while listed in the most expensive music video of all times🥶💎

Ayu story is quite endearing because her dad abandoned her when she was a child and was edging on delinquency before being scouted in a karaoke. She's from an era when random girls were being scouted and producers propelled them into stardom, tho very few of them made it beyond one single (which was initiall the case of Ayu who started... making rap and flopped miserably LOL) but by an odd turn of events, she got another chance where this time she did pop and things eventually took off. What's interesting with Ayu is that despite being marketed as an idol when she debuted, she from the start decided to take control over her music/image/artistry : she wrote all her lyrics, displayed her own (very distinctive) personal style, etc. By her sophomore album, LOVEppears, she endorsed a more daring image and in the following one, Duty, she dropped the cutesy idol thing to become more diva like and confident ...

That's also around the time she started pulling out very disturbing music videos. There are A LOT of them, but I'd say "Ladies Night" is the one who stuck the most with me (which is weird bc the song is pretty positive : celebrating girlhood support)...but the MV is just unnecessary creepy and dark. It starts off cute & goofy...only to become more and more scary & nightmarish 😰 WHY??

Her '(miss) understood' album era is pretty dark tbh ALL the MV of this album have this dark, gloomy energy... Excellent album musically, but with a very dark energy

Thankfully there is "Fairyland" (which was also one of the most expensive MV of that time) to brighten up that energy (but even the MV ends up in some sort of downturn with the photo burning up?)

- Her 'Duty' and 'Party Queen' album booklet + SURREAL MV features full on sex kitten programming (it's interesting that "SURREAL" has subliminals about her -then- hidden relationship with Tomoya Nagase (another popular male entertainer/idol of that time) and has a frenetic vibe which is very reminiscent of hypnosis/trance state. I hate that it's one of my favorite MV of her 😓(the scenery is just soooo pretty). There's a LOT of symbolism here.

- dissociation in "RAINBOW" and "Don't look back" MV

- mind control in "Alterna" and "Marionette"

- "Free & Easy" MV is a gigantic nod to Joan of Arc and apostolic martydom

- transhumanism in "Real Me" MV

Now that music videos don't have the same budget as they did 15-20 years ago, Ayu's MV aren't anywhere near as elaborated as they were before (also her music has gone down to the toilets - she should've retire after her 10 years best of). But it's obvious she sold out to achieve this level of fame and success, therefore she had to shove all these twisted messages in her MV.

[astroboots]

VERSUS: CHAPTER TWO

FRANKIE MORALES X F!READER + DAVE YORK

Warnings: explicit sex, angst, implied violence, swearing, masturbation, oral sex.

Word count: 8.5k words

Summary: When Dave York is assigned with a name on his list to take care of, one that hits a bit too close to home for Frankie, you, it forces him to tap into a dark part of him that was supposed to be a closed chapter of his life.

Dedications: To beloved clown extraordinaire @thirstworldproblemss 🤡 💖 🤡

A/N: short smut but possibly the dirtiest and most gratuitous sex I've written. No actual violence, but threats of violence that can be triggering. Please proceed with caution.

Chapters {01} {02} {03} {Read on AO3}

[Masterlist] | {Playlist} | [Tag sign up]

You can tell the man’s a soldier, a mile away. When he first enters the grocery store his eyes roam the layout of the space and only settles once he has found the exit sign. He walks in step with the beat of a drum. An elderly lady accidentally bumps into him, and he apologizes to her with a polite ma’am, immediately stacking up the items that got knocked over on the shelf neater than the staff had done.

He must be nearly 6’5 feet, with a dark fuzzy beard that reminds you of one of the big hibernating bears in the pages of Mireya’s story books. One look tells you he’s the kind of man that no one in their right mind would want to anger. So when you round a corner of the grocery store and the first thing you see is a slight man approximately half his size in a suit, crowding into the giant man’s space and screaming in his face, you shake your head. What a freaking idiot. The second thing you see is a broken carton of milk on the aisle floor, milk splashed onto the civilian man’s shoes, bleeding out across the linoleum.

The smaller man’s face is red from the shouting. This is the idiom of crying over spilt milk come to life.

In the face of the ridiculous tantrum, the soldier only says one word, devoid of all emotion, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “Move.”

His jaw is locked tight, eyes dark and blank. You recognize that thousand yard stare and what it means.

Saw it once in Will’s eyes three seconds before his arm locked around a man’s throat in a chokehold that didn’t loosen until the man had urinated all over the tiled floor.

The same look in your ex-husband’s eyes that would have had Frankie locking himself in the garage to calm down, before coming back to you with a still shaking tremor in his right hand.

A small crowd has gathered at the commotion, but no one is stupid enough to intervene. You really should just mind your own business, just buy the damn ice for Molly’s barbeque and get out of the store. This has nothing to do with you. But even before you manage to finish that thought, your feet have already carried you into the line of fire, and you find yourself standing between a 6’5 human grizzly bear and a shrill suit with a man inside. How very smart of you.

“Why don’t I just get you a new carton of milk,” you suggest in the same tone you use for Mireya when she misses her nap and throws a tantrum. (Except your daughter’s been taught to apologize once she calms down).

The businessman has the audacity to look at you like you’re the one acting out of turn. “Lady, that’s clearly not the problem here.”

“Then what is?" you ask. "What harm has actually come to you from some spilled milk that you haven’t even paid for yet?” You meet the man’s eyes, and at least he has the decency to flinch and be a bit flustered.

“My shoes—” he starts.

“Your shoes will dry. In fact—” you reach into your handbag and pull out the pack of baby wipes you always keep for Mireya and hold it out to him, “—take these.”

Someone in the crowd behind you actually giggles. That seems to be the straw that breaks the overgrown man-child’s camelback, as he mutters a, “whatever,” and walks away with a bitten down murmur that you can’t really make out, but you’re pretty sure it wasn’t ‘beach’.

The giant man behind you takes a determinant step forward and the alarms in your head shriek. Your hand shoots up to his chest, stopping him mid-step.

His nostrils flare with the deep breath he inhales, and you can feel anger vibrate through his chest where your fingers connect you to him. Slowly, the colour seeps back into his eyes, transforming tar into brown. It’s not until his breathing has calmed that you realize you’ve been holding your own breath. Still are.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that,” he says, and his voice is a simmering thunder even when quietly spoken.

“It’s fine. My husband is former military. I’d like to think someone would do the same for him if he encountered an asshole like that.”

You catch the slip of your tongue only after, and you can almost hear Molly snarking about the Freudian slip. If she’d been here, you’d tell her that sometimes you just don’t want to tell a total stranger your husband is now your ex. Don’t want explain why the two of you divorced. The whole, oh he fucked off to Columbia for a month after a drug suspension at work. Did I mention we had a new baby?

The man's mouth works, as if he wants to say something to you, but stops. Instead he looks down towards the floor, looking oddly ashamed of himself.

“Well. Thank you Mrs. Morales,” he says, turning on his heel and walking out of the store.

Your eyes stay fixed between the aisles until the large shape of his back disappears from your view. Discomfort palpitates in your chest because you’re pretty sure you never told him your name.

It takes you a full seven minutes to park your car outside Molly’s house because the engine keeps dying every time you shift into reverse. In the end you just let it sit on the side of the curb, crooked with its nose sticking out.

One of Molly’s new neighbours casts you a funny look as they walk by. You can’t blame them. In this Pleasantville neighbourhood, your ugly old car sticks out like a rusted sore thumb.

Things are pristine here. Perfect families and perfect houses. Every piece of real estate on this street would be listed for more than you could earn in three lifetimes, or Molly for that matter. Things changed significantly for her when Tom's last will and testament revealed a previously unknown family trust. Now she lives in a three storey Georgian-styled mansion with two bathrooms on each floor, paid for in full.

Molly is already standing by the front lawn, as if she has been waiting for you this entire time, despite having a garden full of guests. The first thing she does is take one look at your dumpy car parked sideways in front of her pavement and burst into a big hearty laughter. “Just let me buy you a new car already.”

Molly does this now, buys things. Buy houses, buy cars. Last week she tried to buy Benny a Ferrari when they were both drunk on Rum Runners. It’s a far cry from the frugal housewife that used to agonize over clip coupons and small change. Now she’s become an in-real life Willy Wonka, and it’s not just because she became rich overnight, although that certainly helps. It’s because Molly doesn’t trust the money.

You’ve been privy to one too many late night calls, where Molly hissed into the receiver that Trusts are for shady oligarchs and evil Bond villains, not a single mom of two from Florida. But there was only so long she could get by on a paltry substitute teacher’s salary. Now that she’s gained full access to the trust, it’s like the money burns in her hands until she spends it all.

You squeeze out of your car, arms full of half-melted bags of ice; plant one foot on the car door, and kick it shut. ”Stop it Molly, you’re not Oprah, you can’t just go around buying people cars.”

“It’s more money than I can spend in a lifetime. What am I supposed to do with it if I can’t even spend it on my friends?”

“You put it in a bank. You invest it. You don’t go around buying everyone cars, Molls. Don’t you have a fancy person at the bank who tells you how to spend and invest that money? Call them.”

You lock the car behind you even though your beaten up old thing is the last car anyone would steal in a neighbourhood of Teslas.

“Can’t trust banks these days,” she says. The sun is refracted on the black shine of her ray-bans as she steers you to the garden. She’s the picture of ease, except for the way her hand fidgets against her hip like she’s trying to rub out anxiety with her fingers. “They called me just the other day to tell me that the trust kid handling our account made off with our files.”

“What do you mean made off with your files? As in he stole the money?”

“No, money’s still there,” she tells you. “But the kid disappeared and no one can find him. He took a bunch of the client files and personal info. It’s a huge data breach apparently, and now the bank is scrambling around like rats on a sinking ship to figure out what he took and what he did with it.”

You frown. It sounds incredibly worrying, but before you get the chance to follow up with questions, Molly takes the ice from you, then shoves a beer into your hand and tells you to drink.

“Forget it. I shouldn’t even have brought it up. This is a party hun, drink and be merry.”

She smiles like it’s all a joke, because that is how Molly deals with painful subjects, deflecting with humor. When guilt of unloading her worries onto someone else catches up with her, she’ll cut the conversation off. The military wife in her still abides by the principles she learned on base. Support your man. Smile. Don’t bother them with your insignificant problems. They have enough to deal with.

Her sunglasses slip and you see the hint of purple-bruising under her eyes from lack of sleep. Still, you let her be, because you know her well enough to know that there's no sense in trying to pry things out of Molly. When she shuts that door, it is harder to get into than Fort Knox.

The ice bags are dumped into an ice cooler, and Molly grabs a cool bottle of beer that pops open with a hiss.

The gathering is a far cry from Molly’s normal Saturday barbeques in her old backyard. Besides you and Molly, no one is drinking beer; all the guests are holding wine glasses that glint under the afternoon sun. The garden is filled with the white noise of polite conversation instead of rambunctious hollering as the other guests start to filter through.

Turning to look out over the crowd, you see a sea of white pants and gaudily colored silk shirts. It's easy to spot your ex-husband who stands out among them.

Dressed in plain jeans and a softworn tee that stretches over his broad back, Frankie looks like he’s in a photo of which one doesn't belong -- in a good way. His brown messy mop of hair hiding under his cap and curling at the back of his neck in the warm afternoon sun. You’re staring blatantly and can’t look away, and you’re not sure if the heat prickling your face is from the warm afternoon sun or something else entirely.

“Stop staring at the man hun.”

The words pull you back by the skin of your neck, leaving you with prickling embarrassment at being caught.

“Why don’t you just go talk to him instead?” she says.

“It’s fine. He’s here to have fun, not get bothered by his ex-wife.”

“Fun?” She laughs as if you said something hilarious. ”You think this is the kind of crowd that Frankie likes to hang out with in his free time? Look at these assholes,” the tipped neck of her bottle points to an innocuous neighbour, “that man’s toupe has been distracting me since he arrived. It’s faker than my artificial lawn.”

She’s mid-way into one of her impressive rants but manages to get herself back on track with a shake of her head. “Frankie’s here because you asked him to come. But now you’re leaving him to be pecked at by the toupe vultures. Go over there. Say hi to the man and oh—” she adds, “—try to be nice.”

“When have I not been nice?”

Molly tilts her head, just so, until her eyes peek over the rim of her sunglasses, giving you a scathing look. “Benjamin told me you tried to give the man the directions to his own bathroom last time he was in the house. That’s cold.”

Any further protest dies on your tongue. Your chest deflating in defeat. “I’m not trying to be the mean ex-bitch of a wife on purpose. I just…” You look at your feet, feeling childish. “I don’t know what to say to him anymore.”

Molly looks you up and down with something akin to pity, which stings when it’s from your best friend. “Franke’s trying really hard. Throw the guy a bone sometimes. Talk to him. Make conversation. If not for yourselves, you do it for her.”

You want to tell her It’s not that simple. It’s not just about you swallowing down your pride and magically you and him can be best friends again. Every interaction with him is marred by guilt. The guilt of dragging him through a divorce that put his every failing on trial. Anxiety. PTSD. Coke use. Failed pilot. Failed husband. It all sounded very black and white, when spoken by a lawyer in a three piece suit and a Rolex watch asking you if you want the best for your daughter, (and there was never going to be any answer to that besides yes).

It made you forget that they were advising you to treat your best friend as your worst enemy. Until it was too late to take back what was said. Things Frankie had confided to you typed up in Times Roman font on a court transcript. Now when he’s near you don’t know what to say to him anymore, because you’ve already said too much. It’s painful to accept the fact that you became the villain in your own story.

Molly is still holding that pitying expression in her eyes, and you wish you could explain all of this but you don’t want to bother her with your self indulgent crap. She has enough to deal with without having to listen to you drone on about your failings with your still alive ex-husband. Instead you just nod. “I’ll try.”

Scanning the garden again, you notice Benny standing next to Frankie with Mireya on his shoulders. God knows how you managed to miss him the first time around because he’s hardly subtle.

Two younger housewives linger close to Benny, with all the telltale signs of flirting. The hand-on-the-shoulder touch. The lip biting. The throwing-their-heads-back, laughing at whatever it is he’s saying. Benny’s a funny guy, but no one is that funny, unless you’re as pretty as Benny. The boy looks like a 90s heartthrob straight out of Top Gun. He’s a sweetheart, bless him, but the pretty ones never were your type. Too obvious.

Neither of the women seem to pay much attention to Frankie. Not that Frankie seems to mind being left out, preoccupied as he is with the phone in his hand and wearing a soft smile you haven't seen in years. There’s a prick of jealousy at the tip of your finger as you wonder who he’s texting that makes him smile that way. It’s entirely childish of you and you know it. Just because you can’t get over him doesn’t mean the man is supposed to mope over you like some forlorn WWII widow for the rest of his life.

He’s still typing away at his message, head bent down entirely too close to the screen like an old man. It's ridiculously endearing, and he’s still smiling.

Something altogether familiar swells up in your chest, and it aches in a way that you don’t know if it’s good or bad anymore; you just know you miss him.

It's only when your own phone pings in your back pocket that you manage to look away.

Frankie I’m here. Mireya too. Got your tupperware with me.

And oh. Warmth crowds your chest and pushes upwards until your cheeks tingle with heat. You look up again and this time Frankie spots you.

He waves at you, and Mireya notices too. In her excitement, your daughter nearly tears Benny’s hair out from the roots, and you can hear Benny yelp in pain even from across the garden. At the rate this was going, he’d go prematurely bald. Benny doesn’t have the facial structure to pull off a Bruce Willis, so you decide to spare him by making your way towards them.

As soon as you are in reach, Benny throws his arms around you, lifting you in an enthusiastic hug that has your feet hovering above the ground. Mireya’s knocked off his shoulders, and thank god for Frankie’s quick reflexes that has his arm flinging out faster than a slingshot to catch her. He curses out the younger man with a half bitten off spanish curse but glances at Mireya and settles for, “be careful Benjamin.”

The gorgeous women of Benny’s new fan club laugh at the whole scene. From the outside it probably looks like you’re all close. Benny drapes a warm arm over your shoulder, like you’re one of his oldest friends. Then he introduces you and Molly to his lady friends as the most important women in his life. Molly rolls her eyes at him with a fond scoff and you're tempted to do the same, but don't. Benny never gave you crap or stopped treating you as family, even after the divorce. Every time he’s kind to you that tar of guilt boils hot into your stomach.

Mireya kicks up a fuss, half leaping into the air from Frankie’s hold, climbing into your arms. It’s a struggle to keep ahold of her, her feet kicking out at all angles. Her kisses are warm and sticky with traces of melted sugar. On a good day without sugar, Mireya’s a tornado of chaos and mayhem. Add sugar into the mix and you are just asking for trouble.

“Did she have candy?” you ask.

Frankie rubs the back of his neck, a precursory tic for an apology that’s coming. "I left her in the car with Benny at the gas station and she got into a whole jar of jelly beans.”

Benny huffs indignantly. “We shared like half of it.”

“You’re also ten times her size, Benny,” Molly says.

Frankie ignores them both, focusing on you, and the small apologetic smile tugging at his lips makes your heart clench. “I’m sorry about the candy. It won’t happen again.”

“No it’s fine, you’re the one that has to take her home tonight and deal with the consequences.”

He winces like you’ve just gutted him with a knife and it registers that your tone was a lot sharper than you meant it to be. Nothing comes out the way you intend it to. Mean when you try to be funny. Rude when you’re trying to be helpful.

From the corner of your eyes you can see Molly and Benny exchange a look. Then Molly downs the rest of her beer in two mouthfuls and sets the bottle on a nearby table. “Benjamin, can you help me carry out some chairs from the garage? Don’t want the guests to be on their feet constantly.”

“Do you want me to help?” Frankie offers, already taking a step forward to make his escape. You can’t blame him for the eagerness, you'd want to get away from you too if you were him.

Benjamin grips Frankie’s shoulder to drag him back half a step. “Nah, you stay put, old man, don’t want you to throw your back out and collapse in the middle of a party.”

“Pendejo,” Frankie shoots back, and his hand jerks like he's about to flash the younger man his middle finger. But he stops himself. Probably for the benefit of Mireya who is already in trouble at nursery for saying shit last week (your fault).

“You two stay here.” Molly orders, then she shoots you a meaningful look and leans over with a quick lowered whisper meant for you. “Be nice.”

You can hear the two of them as they walk away. Benny must think you're deaf because he makes no effort to lower his voice, rambunctiously hollering to Molly, “twenty bucks she’ll try to show him where the bathrooms are.”

Across from you, Frankie’s back contorts with discomfort, knowing you must’ve overheard.

Fuck, what a wonderful way to spend your free Saturday. Standing across from your ex-husband who looks about ready to dig a hole under his feet to get away from you, and your own social anxiety pinging as you try to make conversation with two women you don't know.

Even Mireya bails on your awkwardness, running off to play with the other kids on the trampoline without so much as a “bye” and taking your last excuse to leave the present company with her.

“Did you hear about Brandi and Denise?” One of the women asks. “Apparently they had an affair and she cheated on her husband.”

Her friend waves her hand dismissively unconvinced by the hear-say gossip. “That’s just Brandi’s side of it though. You can’t believe that.”

Frankie looks thoroughly confused. Then you see him reach for his phone and watch him painstakingly type out a message before the phone pings in your pocket.

Frankie I don’t want to be rude. Who’s Brandi and Denise? Are they also Molly’s neighbours?

You Brandi is Brandi Glanville and Denise is Denise Richards.

One sole eyebrow arches high on his forehead as he reads your reply. Then he starts to type frantically.

Frankie Wait. Denise Richards the Bond Girl? Molly knows Christmas Jones now?

An unflattering pig-like laugh bubbles up your throat, and before you’re able to stuff it back down, Frankie’s head whips up in attention. Your eyes meet and there’s tangible contact there.

You No they’re talking about a TV show. Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

Frankie Ah. Got it.

The screen fills with three dots, indicating he’s typing. Then disappears, then starts again. He’s such a slow texter. Then finally it pings.

Frankie So what is this show about?

You Some reality show. I’ve never watched it. Molly’s mentioned it a few times though.

Frankie I thought Molly hated reality shows.

You She says watching rich people being trainwrecks makes her feel better about herself in comparison.

Frankie Ah so like when you got into that whole phase of watching Bridezilla planning our wedding?

The uncharacteristic playful tease, surprises you. You look up from your phone, and he's looking back at you with wide eyes, as if he’s just as surprised at himself for sending it as you are. Pulling his cap down his forehead, Frankie drops his gaze to the ground, and you can physically see him withdrawing in front of you. Molly’s words about bone-throwing ring in your ears.

You You know we don’t talk about that phase. You swore on your mother’s grave.

His phone pings with your message, and when you look up from your phone this time he’s smiling. You both are.

His feet shift, and Frankie gestures with a head tilt to his right. You have no idea what that means. Your expression must have betrayed your confusion because he ducks his head back down to his phone, and spends an eternity typing out another message.

Frankie I’m starving and going to try to grab something to eat. Do you want to come? Don’t want to abandon you in this crowd.

The smile on his face as you look up is relaxed and warm, and you quickly make your way towards him. Your exit is unnoticed by the others in the group, and as you catch up with him, old habits and instincts have you reaching out to take his hand in yours. It lasts for a heartbeat, your knuckles brushing up against the back of his hand before you realize what you’re doing and pull your hand back. Frankie doesn’t react. If he notices, he’s kind enough to spare your pride.

By the grill set up, Frankie hands you a plate with a burger with a lukewarm beer, and you both end up standing under a shaded tree that still gives you a full view of Mireya where she’s impersonating King Kong over by the trampoline.

“I didn’t mean to sound like a bitch earlier.”

“You didn’t,” he reassures you, but the fact that he knows exactly what you’re referring to without clarifications means you definitely sounded like a bitch. You don’t push him on it though. It’s not like you have a burning desire to be told you’re a bitch twice in one day.

Frankie takes a sip from his beer bottle, and your eyes are drawn to the column of his throat, the strong yet graceful line of it. It almost makes you miss the way his left hand keeps flexing restlessly against his thigh. And the conceited part of you, somewhere deep down, wants to believe it’s because it’s the same hand you almost grabbed. But the logical part of you knows it's probably just a new tic.

Molly and Benny are at the other end of the garden talking to other guests, but you decide to stay put where you are for now. For once you both allow the silence to sit without a compulsive need to interrupt it with forced conversation. It’s almost nice.

The afternoon goes by in a bit of a blur. Mireya rushes back and forth between the two of you and the trampoline like Forrest Gump running after a bus. But at least she’s getting all the sugar out of her system. When Frankie gets up to get her proper food, Mireya pulls on his jeans to tell him something, and Frankie immediately stops what he’s doing, putting down his plate to get down on her level. Squatting down even though you know how bad his knees are these days so the two of them can have a little conversation.

Frankie’s a really good dad.

When her princess braids fall apart, after too many rounds on the trampoline, she runs a beeline past you straight to her dad, asking him to do it the way she likes it. Mireya sits in his lap and Frankie takes his time, careful and attentive to brush through her hair before he painstakingly sets the braid, the tip of his tongue peeking out from the corner of his lip in concentration.

You’re more than a little bit embarrassed at the way you stare at his mouth— how your pulse stings under your skin to his low hums and a soft coo of, “all done princesa.”

It’s the little things that make him such a good dad. Glimpses that you never get to see when you are each solo-parenting in your own little corners of your separate lives. You realize it as you watch him, feel the realization bloom and spread along with the love you still hold for him, when you see how much he loves your daughter.

She runs back and forth between the two of you and the trampoline so many times you lose track. On her final return, she practically tackles Frankie, clambering onto his lap, about to trample his groin in the process. You grab her ankle at the last second, and Frankie mouths a relieved, silent, thank you. Then her plump, chubby arms wrap around his neck, curling herself into his chest, eyes heavy and drooping half closed.

“I should probably head home so I can get her to bed,” Frankie tells you and the twinge of disappointment is one you probably fail to mask.

“Oh right. It’s getting late.”

Mireya burrows closer to her father’s shoulder with her sleepy gaze on you. “Mommy, do you want to come?”

Both you and Frankie look up in surprise, and it takes a second to regain your bearings. Then you shake your head with a forced laugh. “No, that’s ok, Possum. I’ll see you tomorrow night ok?”

You say your goodbyes, kissing her warm apple cheeks, and then watch them both walk away. Mireya is waving to you from over her father’s shoulder. It makes Frankie turn around, smile and wave to you as well. The small part of you that wanted to say yes to Mireya’s question aches as you watch them go.

Without them, the loneliness in a crowd of strangers becomes unbearable. You make an excuse to Molly about needing to get up early in the morning, but then you just sit in your car, listening to the din of conversation from the party guests, not willing to stay, not yet ready to drive home to an empty house when you know neither your daughter or Frankie will be there.

Eventually, you turn the key in the ignition, and the motor revs up with a cough-like sound so severe you worry it’s developing pneumonia. Then the engine dies. You let out a frustrated groan and cajole your car with a come on, don’t do this.

For god’s sake, you’re fucking talking to yourself like a crazy person now. You try it a second and a third time, before it finally decides to cooperate long enough for you to press down on the clutch and drive out into the street.

Fuck, you really need to get this piece of shit car fixed.

It’s Saturday, and Lauren finds herself sitting alone by the bar at her hotel. It’s the same way she’s spent nearly every single Saturday for the last three years since her divorce. The furniture is drab, the music bland and there is a musty smell of beer lingering in the space.

If Lauren had known that this was what her life would be like as an adult, she would never have bothered to apply for law school. Working as an offshore lawyer in the Bahamas sounds fancy enough. But this is the third time this month that she’s flown out here to Miami, where her kids live just so she can catch a glimpse of them during the weekend, before flying back to St John’s.

This is her life, 10 hours of chargeable work every day. Working for rich assholes with trust structures more intricate than a spider’s web because they don’t want to be paying the taxes they owe to their countries.

And those are the legitimate clients. The illegitimate ones show up to her office with $25 million zipped up in backpacks— a breach of every single anti-money laundering regulation that exists. Lucky for them she’s a professional legal laundromat. The dirty money gets clean and integrated back into the system.

The bartender shouts out last call, but he shouldn’t have bothered yelling so loud. It’s only her left. Lauren finishes her drink and is about to order her last one for the night when another slides across the cherry oak bar. A tumbler glass that glistens in that familiar amber of an Old Fashioned.

“From the gentleman over there.” The bartender indicates towards the leather armchair by the corner, and it surprises her that there is anyone else in the bar. He must’ve been really quiet because she didn’t even notice anyone else coming in tonight.

The man is well-dressed. Herringbone suit in a soothing navy. A shiny emblem of the American flag pinned on the lapel of his suit that reeks of a high end bureaucrat. But he’s clean-shaven and well-groomed with tidily combed thick brown hair. It was all very tall, dark and handsome.

Maybe it’s the loneliness, or the fact that he’s just handsome enough. Maybe that’s why Lauren flashes the man an inviting smile that has him rising from his seat and making his way towards her.

“Mind if I join you?”

He smiles, and it comes with the practised ease of a politician running for office. Slightly insincere but charming all the same. The wedding ring is still on his left ring finger, and he doesn’t even bother to hide it as he sits down. Wears it like it’s a point of pride. Hardly husband material this one, not that she cares.

“Not at all. Please do.”

The man straddles the bar stool and up close, he’s even more handsome than at first glance. The strong cut of his jaw and the distinctive hook of his nose are reminiscent of a dignified lead actor that belonged to the 70s era.

“That’s a lovely necklace.” He says, eyeing her neck and the mahogany gaze arrests her. Had she been a younger woman she would have flushed.

“Thank you.” Instinctively, her hand reaches down to play with the golden locket. “It was a present from my son for mother’s day.”

“Sounds like a sweet kid. How old is he?”

“Just turned nine last month. Love of my life but he’s at the age where he can’t sit still for a second.”

There’s a quiet chuckle from him, eyes warmer in this moment. “My daughter’s around the same age. Got me wrapped around her finger.”

She allows herself to let down her guard. Men who are good fathers, philandering aside, are always endearing. It’s a sign of kindness and nurture. Someone you can trust.

Reaching into her handbag, she digs for a pack of cigarettes and her lighter. Then she holds out the pack offering him one, but he shakes his head with the same charming smile that could belong to any of the Kennedys. “I don’t smoke.”

Even if he wasn’t going to partake, Lauren still pulls out a cigarette; it’s been much too long of a day for her to abstain for the sake of being polite to a stranger.

In an old fashioned move of chivalry, he reaches for her lighter, leaning over the counter until they’re huddled closely together. Then he lights it with a fluid motion of his thumb.

She takes a long drag until the glowing amber of the flame takes. Lauren’s always been fond of a man who knows how to properly light a cigarette for her. It’s all very Casablanca and black and white Hollywood; few men do this nowadays.

With a smooth metallic flick, he folds the lighter closed and slides it across the counter. It strikes her how small her lighter looks in his large hands. For a second, it makes her wonder how good they’d feel palming the flesh of her hips.

He’s watching her silently, the focused attention enough to balance her nerves on a precariously tender edge. So heated, it practically smolders with an intensity that makes her look down to her drink. Strands of hair fall into her face, and the gentle brush of his knuckles draws it away, tucking it behind her ear. Somehow that small gesture feels strangely intimate. An aching excitement sweeps through her insides. Sharp and insistent, and doesn't let go.

This close, there’s no hint of cologne, which surprises her. You’d expect a man like this to wear something expensive, bergamot and strong, convoluted spices. Instead, there’s just the fresh scent of soap and linen, pleasant and unassuming.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

“You’re welcome.”

What follows is a pleasant conversation even if the man doesn’t tell her much about himself. But that's fine. Exchanging personal information is hardly the point here. Lauren knows this dance by now. You don’t chat up a stranger at a hotel bar close to midnight, hoping to find a kindred spirit. She doesn’t give him her name, and he doesn’t tell her his.

All she knows is that when he speaks, the low timbre of his voice makes goosebumps prickle across her skin. He's just the type she wants to spend the night with and never have to see again. A perfect meaningless sexual encounter to ease the loneliness. That's enough.

As the bartender tells them they’re closing the room for the evening, Lauren eyes the man, and she can’t help the way her teeth sink into her bottom lip.

“Your room or mine?” she asks. The smile that slowly curls into the corners of his lips tells her that he already knew there was no other way this night would end.

—

They pick hers.

When they make it to the elevator, she’s surprised that he doesn’t so much as try to touch her. Whether it’s patience or chivalry, she can’t tell. Normally, whatever man is with her would be mauling her before the elevator door closes, pressing her against the railing until it has made a semi-permanent dent in her ass.

Instead this man walks her to her door, keeping a respectable distance between them even when they slip inside. It’s clear that for all his demanding presence, she’s going to have to be the one to take the initiative so she leans up on her toes to kiss him. Before her lips can touch his, his broad hand covers her mouth. The base of her spine tingles at the contact.

“Lovely as the offer is,” and there’s a thick drawl of condescension in his tone that demands absolute obedience. “I’m going to need something else from you instead.”

She chuckles at that. But the artificial warmth drains from his eyes, leaving her cold enough to shiver. He takes a step forward, and she instinctively backs up in response until he has her knees hit the edge of her bed.

Something’s not right.

“Sit down.”

She does. Her ass lands on the mattress with a soft thud, and he’s hunched down to her level, his hand still a close seal over her mouth.

There is nothing sexual about the way he’s eyeing her from top to toe. This is the exploratory gaze, not of a man or a predator, but of a professional surgeon. He looks at her body as if it’s a cadaver, not an object of desire.

Something is very wrong here, and it clicks far too late that she’s in danger.

“Mrs. Yates.” He says it so casually that it takes Lauren a second too long to remember that she never told him her name. Any remnants of the polite, professional smile bleed away until his mouth forms a hard, straight line, devoid of leniency.

Panic takes over. Her heart is pounding inside her chest with a beat so hard it hurts. Cold, clammy sweat prickling the back of her dress.

She’s in danger, this man is dangerous.

“I need you to listen very carefully. I am going to take my hand away,” he says, giving his instructions in short simple sentences as if speaking to a dumb child. “If you scream, I will cut through your windpipe.”

There’s a sharp pain in the column of her throat. Phantom pain, inflicted by the sheer certainty that he will follow through with no hesitation if she does not do what she’s told.

“Is that understood?”

Lauren nods, and the man removes his hand from her mouth.

The shrill scream of blood in her ears tells her to run, to shout, to make every move of resistance that she is capable of so she can be saved. But somehow her flight and fight instincts have landed on freeze. She sits there, compliant and not a sound comes out of her.

“Here is what is going to happen. You’re going to take out your laptop. Then you're going to give me access—” his eyes stop at her throat, eyeing her jugular vein, and it’s a threat of its own,“—to your client files at work."

The rising fear tastes like cold metal in her mouth. The man just wants information from her. Maybe if she gives him what he’s come for. If she doesn’t make a fuss. If she cooperates she might still make it out of this thing alive.

She closes her eyes and pictures herself being let out of the room, hailing down the first cab she can to take her to her ex-husband’s apartment. Pictures how tightly she’d hug and squeeze her kids and never let go. This doesn’t have to be a foregone conclusion. She can still make it out of this room alive at the end of the night.

Except Lauren knows better. Victims are unlikely to survive once they have seen the perpetrator’s face.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Now why would you say that?”

“Because I’ve seen your face. I can identify you.” She surprises herself by how calm and steady her voice is. It’s a small consolation for her own stupidity in inviting this monster to her room, but she takes pride in that. It’s the only thing she has left. “You’re not going to let me walk out of here and tell people about this.”

“I’m just interested in doing my job, Mrs Yates. If you cooperate then all of this can be done and dusted in the next hour or so. I’ll leave and go home to my daughters, and we can pretend none of this ever happened. If you don’t, I will have to make you cooperate in the best way I know how. Do I make myself clear, Mrs Yates?”

She pauses. There are faint sparks of hope in her stomach. “Which client matter is it that you need me to open?”

“I need the names of the settlors for the Tom Davies family trust.”

In the morning, you wake up begrudgingly to the sound of your phone blaring at you. The sunlight that's escaped through the blinds heating your cheeks, pulling you further away from sleep. You pat along the mattress, disorientated, for the snooze button. Instead, when you hit the button, you hear a familiar voice.

“Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,”

It’s Frankie.

“I just realized Mireya forgot to bring her workbook,” he says. “Can you put it under the doormat? We'll swing by and pick it up so she can work on it today.”

“No, it—” you clear your throat. God, you sound like a croaking old witch this early in the morning. “It’s fine. I’ll just let her teacher know in the morning.”

“You sure? I don’t want her to fall behind at school. Don't want to let these sorts of things slip just because she has to shuttle back and forth between us.”

“It’s pre-kindergarten, not Mensa. You’re really bringing a whole new meaning to the term helicopter parent you know.”

Fuck. That came out too sharp, too cutting. But instead of awkward silence, Frankie laughs, bright and boyish. Your heart jumps, flips and somersaults at the sound of it.

“Sorry for waking you up,” he murmurs, and you’ve forgotten how soft his voice sounds on the phone. “I’ll hang up so you can get back to sleep.”

“It’s okay, I should be getting up anyhow. I have to take my car to the garage”

“What’s wrong with your car?”

You stifle a big yawn, as you stretch and the soft cotton of the t-shirt you’re wearing slides over your stomach. It’s one of Frankie’s old ones that you wear for comfort sometimes. “It makes funny noises when I use the clutch and the engine keeps dying when I put it in reverse.”

“I could have a look at it for you?” Frankie offers.

“No, it’s fine, Frankie. You don’t have to do that. I’m not gonna have you be my mechanic on your day off.”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to,” he says it with such sincerity in his tone, and you don’t know how to respond to it.

Maybe it’s because you’re half awake and unable to overthink things. Groggy sleepiness having removed all filters for you. For once, Frankie and you have become capable of holding a decent conversation.

And you don’t want it to end.

“Do you want me to help you next weekend?” he asks again, “I can come by a bit earlier when I drop off Mireya?”

“You probably have better things to do on your weekends than fixing my car.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Do I? What would those be?”

“I don’t know. A night out with Benny, or a date.”

“The only thing I’ve been dating is my left hand.”

Silence. Uncomfortably awkward silence, as the weight of what he said slowly dawns upon him. “Fuck. Sorry,” he says.

Your sleep-concussed brain conjures up the image of Frankie with his fingers wrapped tightly around his cock. Eyes closed. Head thrown back in pleasure. Sweat damp curls clinging to his forehead as he’s bucking up against his hand with a strained moan. You're so caught up with the vivid details of this image that you forget to answer. Staring silently off into space until you hear him say your name in a hesitant tone, the one he uses to check in and see if he's crossed a boundary.

You try to respond with a laugh, but it comes out sounding breathless to your ears. “It’s fine. Nothing I haven’t heard before from Benny. How’s work?” you ask, trying to direct the conversation back to safer territory.

Maybe Frankie’s still trying to make up for his early misstep, but he jumps straight into a story about his work. You try to focus on what he’s saying, something about turbo engines and safety standards? Fuck knows. Because the earlier image is still skirting the edges of your mind, trying to push its way through. Frankie’s large hands as he strokes himself at a languid pace. His beautiful thick cock revealed with each downward stroke.

His words are spoken husky and low into the phone, sweet like melted brown sugar. Fuck, this is not that kind of call, but moronic lust does not care about respecting the boundaries you’re supposed to have with your ex-husband. All you can think about is how everything is throbbing pleasantly, and how good it would feel if you just allowed yourself to be touched.

You’ve gone dumb with arousal. You can’t have this conversation right now, not when you’re still wearing his clothes and hearing his voice on the other end. “Frankie, I need to hang up.”

There’s silence on the line as Frankie stops mid-sentence. “Oh. Is everything ok?”

“Yes.” There’s a needy ache that’s building, heavy weight of want alongside your thighs. You press your legs together, stemming the whining of sheer need that you know is coming. Desperate for the friction that you’re currently denying yourself. “I just need to get on with my day”.

“Alright. So do you want me to—”

“Bye.”

You end the call, and Frankie's voice cuts off mid-sentence. With the state you're in, it won't take much at all. You don't even need to think of Frankie. You just need to take the worst of the edge off so you can function as a human being again.

But you don’t think of anyone else. It’s Frankie you’re thinking of when your hands skim the edge of your underwear, sliding a finger along the seam of your cunt, and you find yourself slick and wet for him.

It’s not the first time you’ve done this, thought of him as you touched yourself. Lately, the memory of him is a place you keep returning to when you’re lonely.

It’s still your bedroom and bed. But in these memories, Frankie’s always in bed with you. Your fingertips try to imitate the wet gentle glide of Frankie’s tongue on your clit, following the nostalgic pattern he would make. Arching away from the mattress, you try to chase after the electrifying sensation, but it’s never as good as the touch you’re fantasizing about, and it leaves you feeling empty and restless.

Your fingers alone can't make you feel safe and loved. The weight of them can’t compete with Frankie’s body pressed close and reassuringly along every curve and dip of your body.

Some memories are ingrained. Can’t be forgotten, and if you’re honest, you don’t want them to be. You want to remember the hushed way he used to say your name first thing in the morning. The softness in his voice that was reserved just for you, even as it dropped to that low smoky edge. You want to live in the memory of waking up to the rustle of sheets with Frankie between your legs, his mouth working you. How his soft messy curls tangled between your fingers and when you tugged harsh enough to sting his scalp, he would moan into your pussy, hungry for the sharp pain, pressing himself even deeper into the mattress.

You think of the last time you were together. Before Colombia and the coke suspension. When things were still good. The way your thighs had pressed tight over his flushed-warm cheeks. How he had had you so overstimulated, you couldn’t even remember your own name. Hadn’t been able to remember if it was your second or third orgasm, as his tongue traced over your slick folds, over and over, until your whole body became one overwrought nerve. His voice had sounded slurred, almost drunk, as he murmured against your pussy, “so good baby. I knew you had one more for me.”

You miss him. You miss him so fucking much you’re lost in the blinding, thick fog of it and can't find your way back.

When you close your eyes all you can see is Frankie. Eyes glossy and darkened with greed for you. Your heart aches at the thought that he’ll never look at you that way again. Still aches as you think of Frankie settling himself between your legs and knelt there as his hand continued to stroke his cock, fast and almost frantic. The wet friction from the precum that’s leaked onto his palm and you could hear the depraved sounds of his impatience to come.

You remember the scent of his sun warmed skin so close to yours. How he’d pressed the swollen head of his cock to you, rubbing it against your slippery, oversensitive clit. Felt his last stuttering strokes before he came with a strangled groan. The heat of his cum spilling in thick pulses onto your pussy.

Your orgasm hits you so suddenly, it catches you by surprise. Bright pleasure floods every single nerve ending, filling you to the brim. There's nowhere left for you to hide from the sensation. Fingers grasping at the quilts, knees squeezed tightly together as your legs tremble against the mattress, and your thighs burn, achingly sweet.

In the silence of your bedroom all you can hear is your own staggered breaths. No Frankie.

Fuck, what is wrong with you? The haze of being a horny idiot starts to fade and the clammy sheets stick to your legs. This is so very, very wrong. But everything buzzes pleasantly, and even though you’re supposed to be wallowing in shame, you just feel overcome with a warm sense of bliss that won’t go away.

It’s only then, as your head clears, and the ache in your thighs start to give way, that it occurs to you, you’d hung up on Frankie still mid-sentence. Fumbling and patting against the mattress for your phone, you dial his number from memory. It only rings once before he picks up.

“Hey, everything ok?”

His voice is warm and rumbly, if a little bit confused, and even though your head is much clearer now, it still has an effect on you. This is so dumb. You can practically hear the air raid sirens blare telling you don’t when you open your mouth, but you close your eyes and ignore it.

“Frankie, does the offer for next Sunday still stand?”

~* Next Chapter *~

Tag List: Let me know if you want to be removed from the tag list.

@yespolkadotkitty @thirstworldproblemss @songsformonkeys @buttercup--bee @pedropascaldice @heatherbel @helloannbananalove @danniburgh @keeper0fthestars @knittingqueen13 @reader-s-cantina @sleep-tight1 @itssmashedavo @pumpkin-stars @leonieb @filthybookworm @loversandantiheroes @disgruntledspacedad @mandorush @agirllovespancakes @littleferal @miceenscene @wyn-dixie​ @phoenixhalliwell​​ @frannyzooey @winter-fox-queen @pascalpanic @gracie7209 @purplepascal042 @mouthymandalorian​ @holographic-carmen @loversandantiheroes @mothandpidgeon @danidrabbles @asta-lily @green-socks @amneris21 @elegantduckturtle @darnitdraco @hows-my-hair @whataperfectwasteoftime @voteforpedro09 @words-way-of-life @juletheghoul

[annapostsstuff]

it’s been forever since I was tagged by my girl @ravenadottir but I’m such a dumb bitch and keep forgetting to answer my tags🤡😭

1. name/nickname: Anna Elizabeth so it’s Annie, Anne,Lizzie, Beth, little one, shorty, it’s a really really long list fam...

2. gender: female

3. star sign: Virgo, and that’s all I know🤭

4. height: 5′2 (158 cm)🤡

5. time: 10 am

6. birthday: September 14th

7. favorite bands: Jonas Brothers,Coldplay, Maroon 5, dunno have a lot of faves...

8. favorite solo artists: Bruno Mars, Ed Sheeran, Taylor Swift, Britney obviously💁🏻‍♀️, Rihanna, The Weeknd, Dua Lipa, and a lot more...

9. song stuck in your head: right now? It has to be WAP by Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion🤭😂

10. last movie: last night I watched Avengers: Infinity War before I went to bed and I legit had a dream about that 🙃😂

11. last show: Lizzie McGuire, I’m actually watching rn ❤️😌

12. when did i create this blog: don’t remember, like, two years ago? Kinda...

13. what do i post: it’s usually me simping over fictional characters and some of my personal tragedies from time to time😬

14. last thing i googled: “nyx lingerie swatches” and no, it’s not underwear, they’re lipstick shades 😂

15. other blogs: don’t have any 🙃

16. do i get asks: a couple of them👀

17. why i chose my url: bc I’m a clown, and like, my clownery levels usually makes me the queen of clowns lol

18. following: dunno🤭

19. followers: dunno again, but I love everyone❤️😊

20. average hours of sleep: funny bc I’m on the nights shift, to the nights I work I sleep around 3 hours in the afternoon, but the days that I don’t, I totally can sleep around 12 hours non stop...

21. lucky number: usually go with my brothers bday or my birthday so, 17, 14😬

22. instruments: I used to be a drummer in the marching band so dunno if that counts lol, uh I kinda can play the flute and a little bit of guitar...

23. what am i wearing: my super fashionable, sexy and completely cozy Winnie the Pooh purple pajamas, bc a bitch it’s cold af!😂

24. dream job: being a royal or a kardashian, but like, being a nurse it’s been pretty cool too😌

25. dream trip: I want to travel the world honestly, starting with Paris, cliche af I know lol

26. nationality: American and also Mexican according to my mum😌

27. favorite song: photograph by Ed Sheeran is one of my favorite songs ever🥺

28. last book read: finally bought the entire Red Queen saga so I’m re reading the first book, catch me simping over Maven a-fucking-gain 😫

29. top three fictional universes i‘d like to live in: Harry Potter (being a wizard obviously), A song of ice and fire (part of a great house even if that means I’m half dead already😂) and Marvel bc I’ve always wanted to be a fucking superhero and like have powers and shit 🦸‍♀️

30. tagging: i’m not tagging anyone specifically but if you’re bored and feel like doing it, pls do😉

[kindahoping4forever]

Obvi imma ask about these three: Sex tape, This is me actually having a breakdown, and Untitled Late Night Clownery

Excellent choices, as always, Blanca. So excellent they need to go under a cut lmao 😂😌

Sex Tape - I've had multiple requests for a sex tape fic ever since I briefly mentioned one in Watch Me Bloom but I've never found the right spin on the concept. This WIP is the furthest I've gotten in writing a take on it, Ash finds an old tape of his girl and her ex and instead of being jealous, gets competitive about it and is like "bet we can do better" 😏. I ended up deciding the story was a bit too convoluted for what was supposed to be a PWP (I also got wayyyy distracted writing a scene of him jerking off to the tape which was hmm... questionable judgement on both his and my part 😂😂) and I abandoned and never went back. Def still interested in a sex tape fic in general, just not this one probably.

This is me actually having a breakdown - This doc is actually the first thing I ever wrote 😬Christmas night (lmao) 2019, Cass and I were having a clown discussion and I couldn't stop thinking about a few points I'd made so I ended up staying up all night jotting down a quick draft of the picture I was trying to paint to her. It was basically a 2k unformatted smut scene (I don't even remember if there were like quotation marks or anything tbh 👀) featuring Ash playfully discussing/negotiating with his girl about letting him try some anal play with her. (So now my true clown origins are known and for some reason, that's the topic that got me writing 🤡🥸) It's funny bc a lot of what I think have become my signature elements are there (a lot of banter and loving dirty talk) but it's soooo clearly amateur. I've always intended to clean it up and actually make something out of it but that's yet to happen.

Untitled Late Night Clownery - One late night (evidently) I snapped and wrote a couple thousand words of some good old fashioned dom!Ash 😌 She's having an awful week, super stressed and wants to give up total control to him as a means of letting go and releasing the tension of her everyday life. He gets her tied up, there's overstimulation, there's denial, there's obviously spanking, some toys. It's a clownfest of a PWP and I wasn't used to writing without a full story yet (I think this WIP started in fall 2020?) so I kind of lost confidence in it and moved on. I've started working on it again at a few points since and I would still like to finish it but it's never been a priority.

Ask me about my WIP list!

[astroboots]

Versus: Chapter One

FRANKIE MORALES X F!READER + DAVE YORK

Warnings: angst, graphic violence, murder, swearing (more warnings in the tags)

Word count: 4.9k words 

Summary: When Dave York is assigned with a name on his list to take care of, one that hits a bit too close to home for Frankie, you, it forces him to tap into a dark part of him that was supposed to be a closed chapter of his life.

Photo by Mariana Beltrán on Unsplash

Dedications: This is wholly dedicated to my actual co-writer @thirstworldproblemss, who's co-written, brainstormed, beta-read and held my hand throughout. I'm just a dummy clown but I love you ever so much. 📲 🤡 is the highlight of my day, every day. 🤡 💖 🤡 > 🚁🍆 & 🤡 💖 🤡 > 🍤 In fact 🤡 💖 🤡 ∞ until we're both 👵🏻 💖 👵🏻

Thanks to @songsformonkeys for beta-reading. & @loversandantiheroes brilliant analysis of Dave/Frankie that gave me this idea in the first place.

Chapters {01} {02} {03} {Read on A03}

[Masterlist] | {Playlist} | [Tag sign up]

It’s dark outside with no visibility ahead as he drives on a small dirt road leading up to the wetlands. The only sounds, the slosh against the tires; The rain pelting the windows; The occasional thumping sound accompanied by muffled screams from the trunk. After so many hours of driving, he has learned to treat it as white noise to the backdrop of the audiobook he was trying to listen to. A pulpy crime thriller for his wife’s book club about a P.I. hunting down a contract killer that is out to assassinate the president. Convoluted and contrived, which means at some point Gerard Butler is probably going to be cast in the straight to DVD film adaption.

The work of a contract killer is simpler and more straightforward than one would think.

They give him a name on a piece of paper.

The way it works, there is no digital trail. He is handed a manila folder, sparse in details, just enough for him to correctly identify the target, but not enough to connect anyone to anything if any of them were stupid enough to slip up and let an outsider see the contents of the folder. It's for him to fill in the blanks.

It is his job to put one and one together. The target’s occupation. If you were the name on his list, the first thing he’d find out is the name of your spouse, your parents, your children. Your daily schedules and habits. Little pieces that form who you are, where you will be, and when you were at your most vulnerable and exposed.

The people on his list don’t always deserve to be there. Sometimes they’re just unfortunate. Like a 22 year old banker that ends up with a price tag of $150,000, because one of the bank’s clients held money in their account that didn’t belong to them.

The reason doesn’t matter. He didn’t go to law school, he isn’t a judge, and he isn’t being asked to deliberate if it is fair or unfair for someone’s name to end up on his list. A lifetime in the Marines had trained him to take orders, not to question them.

But here is what he knows: If he said no. Someone else would say yes.

The way he views it, assassins don’t kill people just as guns don’t kill people. Spoons don’t make people fat and pens don’t misspell words. They’re just tools used to achieve a goal and like any tool can be thrown away and easily replaced. The job still gets done either way.

The view of the road recedes in the rearview mirror as the thicket of trees begins to surround the car on all sides. The rising water eats into the muddy road. Any further and he might actually have difficulties reversing the car out afterwards.

He stops the car, grabbing the flashlight from the glove box and the rifle from the passenger seat. Stepping out of the car, his boots squelch against the wet mud underneath. He points the flashlight to the back of the car and opens the trunk. Inside, a man in his early twenties is lying on his side, clad only in boxers and sweat-stained dress shirt, hands tied to his back. The kid wiggles further inside, as if this is Narnia and if he crawled far enough into the car’s trunk he'd somehow end up in a different realm.

“Ple-please, you don’t have to do this.”

They always beg. In fairness, people probably don’t have much of an idea of what the right thing to say is, in circumstances like these. That’s probably why they always sound like a stock character from a bad movie. Because it’s their only frame of reference. And so people will beg. They will try to negotiate.

The kid does exactly that, blubbers and begs. Plump cheeks slick with tears and runny snot. An absolute mess. “My family has money, they’ll pay you.”

Yanking the hysterical younger man by the lapel of his oversized shirt, he hauls him out of the trunk.

He points in the direction of the bayou. “Walk towards the water”

The kid stands in front of him, bowl-legged and shaky, unable to support his own weight. “Straight ahead...”

Watery blue eyes look up at him in wide-eyed panic, as they dart left and right.

The idiot runs. They always try to run. This is going to be a pain. Shooting him on land means that he is going to have to wade into the bayou to drag the body down there himself. But he’s in no mood to run after the kid and try to tackle him into the wet mud like some redneck hillbilly either.

Raising the rifle to take aim, he steadies the underside of the barrel with his left hand. The bullet lodges into the back of the kid’s head and the body slumps down against the ground with a heavy thud.

It’s a five hour drive home, and if he starts now he’ll be back right around 0320.

That means another audiobook. It means he has to switch to the pristine family car at the warehouse and a fresh change of clothes that aren’t wet with swamp water, before he sets foot on the front doormat that says “home sweet home”.

Dragging the lifeless body by the ankles, the cold muddy waters come up to his knees and flood the inside of his boots. He grits his teeth. This is taking much longer than he would have preferred.

At home, his wife will be waiting. The kids will be fast asleep, but his wife usually tries to stay up to welcome him home in person whenever he’s been out of town on a business trip. 0320 might be pushing his luck though.

Chances are that tonight she’ll have fallen asleep on the sofa, one leg kicked up like a funny-looking heron. He’ll have to either wake her and shepherd her up the stairs to their bedroom, or if she won’t wake, carry her upstairs as best as he can without banging her into a corner. It’s far easier to drag a corpse into a bayou because he couldn’t care less about how a dead man’s body would fare.

Putting weight behind his kick, he rolls the body away from the bank and watches as it easily sinks into the water. Eyeing his wristwatch, he watches one minute rolls over to two and eventually five. When the body doesn’t reappear above the surface, he climbs back up onto slippery muddy land, gets back into the car then reverses back until the car reaches the main road.

It should take three or four days before the body floats back up the surface, and with a little luck, it will be another day or two before it’s discovered, unless some random jogger happens by.

When he finally steps through his front door it’s 0326. The family cat, Mr. Belvedere, slinks by and wraps itself around his legs. There’s only the small table lamp still glowing from the living room when he walks in.

His wife is still awake, fighting sleep on the couch. She smiles at the sight of him and greets him with a sleep-laced, “welcome home, Dave”.

It’s good to be home.

There is a scrappy-looking piece of paper hiding away in Frankie’s sock drawer. On it are 15 digits right of the decimal points scribbled down in Will’s neat handwriting that pinpoint the location of a ravine in Peru where $250 million is buried.

It was given to him by Santi after their failed reconnaissance mission in Colombia with an apology that was too little too late. “I shouldn’t have forced your hand to come,” he had said. “I owe you the choice this time.” He left again two days later. The two of them don’t speak anymore.

The note has been sitting there ever since, tucked underneath rolled up socks so Frankie doesn’t have to look at it every time he opens the drawer.

It’s also why he skipped packing spare socks this morning, despite the warnings of the weather forecast. The drawer was running low, and he didn’t want to see that note first thing in the morning before work. Now he’s sitting in his car, boots and socks drenched, water dripping down his bare neck, after ending a 12 hour shift that was only meant to last 8. It meant he was four hours late in picking up his daughter, and traffic is crawling at such a pace that time itself seems to have stopped moving altogether.

He shouldn’t complain. Things could be worse for him.

They’re certainly not ideal. Being a divorced single dad, with a revoked pilot licence because he tested positive for coke was never in the plans. Neither was working as an aircraft maintenance technician and having to stand outside on the landing strip during the middle of the rainy season in Florida.

But things could be worse.

At least he gets to have Mireya on the weekends now. Not a monitored visit, with a social worker hovering over his shoulders, dissecting his every interaction with his own daughter for evidence of poor parenting.

Now, when he shows up at his former home to pick up Mireya for the weekend, it doesn’t hurt him to breathe when there’s eye contact with his wife ex-wife. With you.

Most of the time when he shows up now, you both manage to politely smile at each other and make awkward small talk like you’re distant acquaintances.

The familiar outline of the small wedge blue house comes into view. The lights are still on from the kitchen window and it makes for the picture of a cozy dollhouse when he parks the car on the driveway. It doesn’t matter how many times he’s done this each week, when he stands on the front steps, the split second instinct is still to reach into his pockets for his own keys. Instead, he knocks on your front door, which is no longer his.

There’s no shelter on the front steps and the rain is pouring down his collar and onto his bare skin. He tries not to squirm, ignore the prickling discomfort under his skin as he waits for the door to open. Trying to ward off the memory, smelling of wet soil, and decaying plants that’s trying to drag him under.

The lock unlatches as the door slides wide open, and amber light filters through from inside the house. You look soft and warm, a perfect contrast to what he is right now.

“Sorry, Mireya fell asleep watching Lion King again. Just give me a minute to wake her up.”

Frankie frowns, he was hoping that he’d be able to make it before she fell asleep. “No, don’t wake her. It’s my fault I’m late. I’ll come back and pick her up in the morning instead.”

“Frankie, I’m not making you drive all the way back just to drive down again at the crack of dawn. She’ll fall right asleep in the car anyhow. Let me wake her up for you.”

You half-turn go back inside but stop to eye him and then the pouring rain behind him. “Do you want to come in and wait?”

“I don’t want to get the floor wet.”

“It’s fine.”

You gesture for him to come inside, and Frankie takes off his wet boots, leaving them by the hallway so as to not track in rain and wet mud. But with every step, his socks are leaving an incriminating trail of water against the clean wooden floor.

You hand him a towel and then head into Mireya’s bedroom.

He stands around awkwardly in what used to be his old home. Nothing’s changed, all the furniture remained the same. The sofa even carried the same indentation from wear.

Last time he stood in this living room by himself was three years ago when he came back from Colombia to an empty home, greeted by a process server and divorce papers instead of his wife and daughter.

Not that he didn’t deserve it.

You don’t leave your wife of 14 years with an 8 month old baby on her own because your former military buddies decided to play team Rambo in the middle of Colombia and rob a drug lord, and expect everything to be fine.

Instead of being gone for a week like he promised, he was gone for a month, and three weeks out of those four, he wasn’t even able to contact you. Worst of all, there was not even any money to show for it when all was dusted and done. In their “brilliant” escape, they had to dump the better part of 250 million dollars down a ravine somewhere between Peru and Colombia. In the end, the only thing he got in return for squandering your life together was $17,000, and the divorce lawyers ate into that in the blink of an eye.

The door to Mireya’s bedroom is ajar, and he can hear your voice spilling through. “Possum, daddy’s here.”

There’s a pause and another rustle of the quilts, before he hears the quiet whine. “But I’m sleepy.”

“Mireya, daddy drove all this way to pick you up.”

“Sleepy.”

Your voice comes out sterner now, curt. Not cajoling anymore. “Mireya.”

A frustrated whine sounds out.

He can’t blame her. He’d be pretty crabby too if someone tried to kick him out of bed when he was sound asleep.

There are more hushed whispers and negotiation, then silence, but ultimately you come back out into the living room defeated.

“I’m sorry. Let’s give her a few minutes, and I’ll try again… If not, we can always just carry her to the car.”

In your arms, you’re holding a stack of clothes. At first he mistakes it for your laundry until you’re shoving it at him, and he realizes he’s staring at his own clothes. He’s not sure what he’s more surprised by, that you’re offering him clothes so he can be more comfortable or that you’ve kept some of his old things around.

“You’re soaked, you’ll catch a cold if you stand around like that.”

“Thanks.”

You stand rooted on the spot, and Frankie’s not sure if you’re expecting him to go use the bathroom, or unbutton and peel off his shirt in front of you. He looks at your face, drawing his eyes to the items of clothes and back up again, and then it clicks for you.

“Sorry. Do you want me to—” You gesture behind you. Already taking a step back.

“Or I can go.” “I’ll go.”

You both speak over each other, then laugh quietly, as if you’re both in on the joke of how awkward you are. In normal situations that should be enough to break the tension. But the icebreaker doesn’t take and the claustrophobic quiet returns.

He sticks his hands into his pockets.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other.

He looks at you, and when your eyes meet his, you look away.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” you tell him.

Frankie bites down the instinctual I know. But you save his restraint by quickly correcting yourself. “You obviously know that.”

Closing the bathroom door behind him, Frankie takes a deep frustrated sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. What the hell is wrong with the two of you that you can never spend more than 60 seconds in a room by yourselves?

Undressing quickly, he strips off the clammy fabric and pulls on the clean clothes. Despite the fact that he hadn’t worn them for three years, it didn’t have that musty in-the-back-of-the-wardrobe smell. It still smells fresh, like your fabric softener. The same one he still uses for his own laundry because it reminds him of home. If he didn’t know better he’d think they were newly washed.

Standing with his hand hovering over the handle of the door, anxiety gnaws at him at having to go back out there, not knowing what the hell to say to you.

His therapist had asked him in the early days, what he’d found to be the most difficult adjustment after the divorce. The answer was simple. Losing your friendship. Because you hadn’t just been his wife. You were also the person he would stay up late at night watching reruns of Columbo with when nightmares kept him up. The person he had so many stupid inside jokes with that other people used to assume the two of you were speaking in code.

Frankie has other friends. Close friends. The kind that were forged while submerged in wet cold mud surrounded by the smell of napalm burning in the air. But no one's ever come close to the friendship he had with you. Even now, when he spends most of your time together standing there awkwardly without anything to say, you're still the person he feels the closest to.

When he comes back out, you’re smiling at him in the polite way one would at an acquaintance. “Are you coming to Molly’s housewarming next Saturday?” you ask.

“Probably not.”

“Why not?”

“I won’t really know anyone there besides Benny.”

“Neither do Molly or I. That’s the purpose of a housewarming party.”

He doesn’t know why you seem so irritated at him. It’s become an unspoken rule between the two of you. You got Tess’ graduation. Frankie got Will’s going away party. The only event you’ve attended together in the last three years was Tom’s funeral.

It’s one of the things no one ever tells you about divorcing, that you’ll end up having to share custody of your friends.

“Molly’s things are yours. I shouldn’t crash it.”

“We don’t have to do that anymore, Frankie. It’s been long enough hasn’t it?”

This time it’s his turn to look away. There’s another stilted silence that drags on the ground like a limp leg with an open wound. With each passing second and step, the infection seems to be getting worse. Frankie’s racking his brain for something, anything to end the excruciating silence.

“The Kuchen for the bake sale you made were really good.”

“Thanks?” You shift your feet pointed away from him. “They were your mom’s recipe.”

You open your mouth then close it again. He half expects you to make a teasing jab that those cookies are meant for the bake sale not for him, like you would have done before. You don’t.

“I think I still have your tupperware at my place,” Frankie says.

“That’s ok.”

Frankie lets it end there, giving up. The more he pushes this conversation the worse it gets.

You fiddle with your now bare ring finger. A nervous habit when you were uncomfortable.

“Oh,” you pipe up, as if you finally thought of a topic, “Do you have any old socks?”

Frankie blinks, confused by your question. The two of you sound like you’re two people in different rooms having two entirely separate conversations. Is this how two humans talk?

“They’re asking for donations at Mireya’s school to make sock puppets for a play,” you clarify.

“I should have some at home, I’ll check tonight.”

You nod, an almost relieved expression on your face. But as silence settles in for the fourth time in the timespan of ten minutes, he can see you dying inside. Or maybe he’s superimposing his own discomfort.

“I’ll try to wake her again,” you offer.

“I can do it.”

You hold up the door for him and he walks through. The nursery is about the only thing in the house that seems to have changed. There are still similarities. The walls were still the same pale lavender you’d chosen and he’d painted.

On the toddler bed, the quilts are drawn all the way over her head to form a Mireya shaped burrito. Hunching down by the low bed, he lays a hand on her shoulder rousing her from sleep. “Hi princesa, sorry to have to wake you.”

Mireya whines, shuffling further up the bed, and Frankie feels terrible. It’s his fault he’s this late from work.

“If you’re sleepy I can come back in the morning instead,” he says.

The movement stops. Then a mop of chaotic brown curls pops up from under the covers, along with his eyes and your cheeks. Mireya considers Frankie for a second, eyes bleary with sleep, then shakes her head and stretches her arms out for him. “Daddy, carry me.”

Her hands come around his neck and Frankie wraps his arm around her much smaller body, hugging her close to his chest as he stands up. He carries her through the living room to the outside, where it’s finally stopped raining, thank god.

Then he looks back and you’re standing by the threshold with a soft smile. The light from inside the house glowing behind you. It looks so inviting and nostalgic, his brain glitches for just a millisecond, and it feels like you’re welcoming him home instead of seeing him off.

“You should come next Saturday. If nothing else, you can return my tupperware.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Your smile is still there for him, and he looks back for longer than he should, before it sets in that you’re probably smiling at Mireya, not him.

Mireya falls asleep even before Frankie’s managed to buckle up her seatbelt, so it’s a quiet ride home instead of their usual ritual of car karaoke and her nose squished up against the window, on the lookout for that one house where they never take down their Christmas decorations.

He might only be a weekend dad, but Frankie has Mireya’s nighttime routine down to a science. Brush her teeth, quiet time – read a book, tell a story, sing a song, cuddles. Get into bed, kiss goodnight - Mireya convincing him she needs more bedtime stories. It’s the highlight of his week normally.

Tonight, he only makes her wake up long enough to brush her teeth. The moment he lays her down in the canopy bed, she’s already fast asleep.

Flicking the light to his own bedroom, Frankie opens his sock drawer and rummages around for worn out pairs. If he didn’t find some socks to donate now, he’d probably forget it later. His stomach drops when a bit of starched white against the brown wood catches his eye, and he feels like he can't fucking breathe.

God fucking damn it all to hell.

He picks up the note and stares at it, chest tightening.

Slowly he reaches into the back corner of the drawer to pull out the one pair of colorful socks he owns. It’s a rainbow polkadot pair you had bought him as a gag gift so many years ago. He used to pull them out and wear them periodically, relishing your surprised laughter when you caught sight of them peeking out from under the hem of his pants. Frankie doesn't wear them any more.

He stands there, chest aching, the note in one hand and the socks in his other. The representation of what he used to have and what he threw it all away for. Then he deliberately folds the note, pushes it into the colorful sock roll, and carefully tucks the whole thing back into the farthest corner of the drawer. He doesn't want to come across them accidentally again. Can't bear to think about it or to remember what he's lost. He just... He can't.

Sliding the drawer shut, he lies down on his bed and stares up into the ceiling. He doesn’t know why he keeps that fucking paper. He doesn’t even want the money. Frankie’s done chasing after wild promises of a fortune buried in the jungle. If he had his choice, he knows exactly what he would have wanted.

He wants to still be married to you.

If he could choose again, he would remain steadfast, sticking with the “no” he gave Pope when the man said he needed a pilot, instead of caving in to the misguided belief that if he was there he could keep his teammates safe. God knows it did nothing in the end.

Given the chance to go back, he’d never sign up to the military in the first place. He would choose to be saddled with student loans into his fifties, instead of the life debts he owes for all the people he’s killed in the course of paying Uncle Sam back for sponsoring his college tuition. People whose names he never knew but faces he’d never forget.

What he wants is to unlearn the part of himself that can field strip and re-assemble a rifle in 50 seconds flat, even in the dark.

To spend a lifetime rewriting the things he learnt in the military, or the habit of scanning every individual whenever he enters a room, the ability to compartmentalise just about anything, the rigorous training, the exact gasping noise a man makes when his lungs are collapsing, the kil—

“Daddy?”

The voice of his daughter snaps him out of it. Pulls him from the familiar endless spiral of anxious thoughts that so often consumes him.

“Mireya, what are you doing up?”

“Can I sleep with you, daddy?

Stomping towards the bed, she climbs onto the mattress. Chubby leg hiked high before pulling herself up by her arms the rest of the way like a little monkey.

“Come here, princesa,” Frankie grabs her under her arms to drag her further up the bed and settles her against his chest.

“Read me a bedtime story.”

“Ok, but it has to be a short one, it’s late.”

She immediately climbs over him, nearly kneeing him in the groin in her excitement to get a book from the shack on the window sill.

With a beaming smile, she shoves it in his face. It’s The Little Prince, which takes him two hours to read from beginning to end. Given the option, Mireya will always push her luck.

“That’s a really long one, baby.”

She hugs the blue book close to her chest, all big brown eyes, unwilling to give it up. “I woke up to be with you.”

Chalk it up to guilt over the divorce and not getting to spend nearly as much time with her as he’d like, but he always lets himself get tricked into at least one more story, every time.

“Just one chapter.”

Her head bounces with excitement, before she crawls over and settles herself, ear pressed to his chest for a pillow. Surprising to no one, Frankie ends up reading more than one chapter.

Mireya likes him to do voices for each character, squeaky for the rose, rumbly for the fox. If Frankie does the voices wrong she will let him know, giving him firm commands with the visionary of Alfred Hitchcock. “He’s happy daddy. You have to sound more happy.”

By the time they’ve gotten to her favourite part, his throat is scratchy from reading for an hour straight.

“Daddy?”

Pausing, he hums questioningly in reply.

“Te extrañé.” 

His heart blows out at that, smiling so widely that it stings his cheeks. Maybe she’s simply saying that because they’re nearing the end of a chapter and she’s trying to butter him up for another, but he doesn’t even mind.

“Yo también te extrañé, princesa.” Frankie squeezes her to him a little closer and presses his lips to her forehead. “Te quiero mucho, mucho.”

She rubs her button nose into his shirt, then whispers into his chest with a sly smile. “Keep reading.”

“Goodbye, said the fox.”

Mireya shakes her head, disapprovingly. “More sad, daddy,”

“More sad?”

She nods.

Clearing his throat, Frankie tries again in the most dour tone he can manage. “Goodbye, said the fox.”

Tilting his chin to check for approval, it’s only when his girl smiles and nods that he keeps going.

“Here is my secret. It’s quite simple: One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes. It’s the time you spent on your rose that makes your rose so important. People have forgotten this truth. But you mustn’t forget it. You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose... ‘I’m responsible for my rose’, the little prince repeated in order to remember.”

There’s a tiny wheezing sound filling the room, and Frankie closes the book. Mireya’s asleep. Chubby cheeks tucked to his chest. She snores like a little pig and is slobbering drool on his shirt.

And he realizes that he’s happy. Not, happy enough. He’s just happy. Without qualifiers or limitations.

In the small safe space of his bedroom, something clicks inside him. It’s like his brain’s been trapped in an equation that he’s starting to be able to make sense of. Variables and fractions finally slotting into place. Frankie carefully slides his baby daughter off his chest and onto the mattress, slipping out of bed and walking toward his dresser.

Taking care in being quiet when he slides open the drawer, not wanting to wake Mireya, it doesn’t take him long to find the rainbow dotted socks and the lighter in an adjacent drawer. His fingers slide inside the fabric, pulling out the note that he knows would be there,

Then he holds it up in front of the lighter, flicking his thumb on the jagged sparkwheel and with a tiny spark, watches the tiny orange flame light up, consume and erase the 15 digits from existence.

~* Next Chapter *~

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