#and price's spanish?? fucking delicious

[buttdumplin]

A John Price meet-the-fam special!! This is pure, indulgent fluff.

cw: gn!reader, latine reader word count: 1.2k

When Price first meets your family, it goes over smoother than fucking water over a polished worry stone. It just is. You thought it might go like that, knowing that he’d do practically anything to make himself fit in as seamlessly as possible. But you also knew that bringing home a white guy always comes with a very specific brand of first interactions.

You prep him for the teasing that’s to come, about his accent, about his complexion, about the food he eats. John takes it all in very seriously, nodding along and asking probing questions. It’s all for your benefit, and he’s incredibly mindful of that. You don’t necessarily need to know he’s already got a plan of action, though.

By the time you arrive at the family home, you’re a little stiff, braced for the barrage of probing questions that’s to come. You can tell the family is curious, you see the tías eyeing up and down. But there’s no interrogation this time. Because John beats them to it. He’s polite and answers all the niceties as respectfully as he can. And then he immediately launches into offering up information, as cryptic as it may be. He dons that dimpled smile of his and tells them what he can.

“I’ve been at this job for a while now, but I’m retiring soon. It’s actually my personal life that I'm more invested in improving now.” 

“I’m hoping to buy a home in the very near future. Maybe like this one, a big family place. I’ve been tucking away money for it for a while now.”

“I’ve had to spend a lot of time away, but I’m really looking forward to staying home with this one.”

The tías are swooning when he makes intense eye contact with you across the table as he speaks. He’s not hiding any kind of intentions, from you or them. None of the information is particularly new to you, but hearing him say it out loud? In front of all the people important to you? It’s one thing when it’s quietly discussed in the early hours of the morning. It’s another thing entirely to hear it all said in such a permanent way.

At one point, your godmother, as entrometida as she always is, mentions she’s willing to go shopping with him if he’s ever in need of a ring, says she’s always had a good eye for your style.

“Oh, no. Se lo agradezco, pero ya no va a ser necesario,” he replies with an even bigger smile, and it’s got the women hollering. They’d take a bite out of him if they could. John carries himself with the firm confidence of knowing who he is, and they can see that. They respect it.

The tías, predictably, also do everything they can to keep you two physically apart. You’re put on comal duty, keeping you in the deep corner of the kitchen where he can’t reach you. John himself doesn’t try to reach for you, wanting to spare you the godforsaken “chiflando y aplaudiendo” even at your big age. So he keeps busy by setting the table, asking only where he can find the cups and tableware. They all ooh and aah.

“Ven? Ni se le tuvo que pedir,” they shout at the tíos, pointing at John’s busy hands.

A few questions do pop up once dinner is set. Do you eat this kind of food? Have you had this before? Do you like it? Tíos razz him into adding more and more salsa on his food, and John, knowing full well how it all ends, goes along with it. He’s managed to build up some tolerance that he’s quite proud of, but there is no way that’s saving him. He knows what he’s in for. A single bite and his face turns so red it’s almost purple, his coughing making it hard for him to get water down. The tíos laugh and he’s smiling along with them, the tías rushing to get more water and napkins and a cup of milk because “I heard this helps white people?” You swap his plate out for a new one while they’re all caught up with John, taking a few bites of food to try to match it to the dish he had before. 

A bubble of softness blooms in the room. The tías are cooing over him, consoling him after his “brave attempt.” The tíos take turns patting his back, smiling down proudly at him for having met their challenge. He smiles back at you from across the table, knowing full well what you’ve done to his food, spotting a few more veggies than he’s originally served himself. The tablecloth is long, surely they won’t spot him gently nudging your foot with his own. 

When your godfather invites him out onto the porch for a smoke, John knows it’s his time to shine. He asks you to stay inside with a wink. He brought those Cuban cigars with him for a reason, he’s sure he’ll make it through. You hold him at the door for a second longer, just enough to give him a tender kiss before sending him along. Neither of you missed the way your godfather so clearly recognizes the way John moves, his own military past helping read further into the man you’ve brought home. You know there’s a good chance of this not going perfectly. 

Ignoring the calls from your tías, you crawl to sit below the window that lets out right behind them. They both let out soft grunts as they settle into their chairs, a long hum of appreciation from your godfather clearly signaling John has opened the cigar box for him. It’s silent for a while. The only sounds come from the lighter and their soft exhalations. Then a soft rustling begins. It’s not the trees, it’s too muted for that. It’s not gravel, they aren’t going anywhere and they certainly didn’t make their getting-up grunts. No, it’s their clothes. Because they’ve come up with hand signs on the spot, across languages, so you can’t listen in. 

There’s some chuckling, surely that’s a good sign! But the low sigh coming shortly after isn’t very encouraging. You try to make sense of it somehow, but there’s no distinct rhythm to it. And suddenly you’re twelve again and trying to sneak a peek. You may not need a stool to help you, you’re tall enough to see through the window on your tiptoes. Maybe if you do it slowly, they won’t notice. So slowly it goes, your knees creaking as you inch up. Their rustling continues; good, they haven’t noticed. Yet as stealthy as you try to be, they’re both looking directly at you as you finally get eyes on them. Their smiles all too knowing. You godfather winks at you, clicking his tongue fondly. He holds a hand up before you can say anything, groaning a little as he rises. He takes a beat to look down at John. You’re all frozen for a moment. And then your godfather’s hand comes down firmly on John’s shoulder, giving him a sturdy shake. 

“Me meto antes de que la vieja huela todo este humo,” he says. It’s done. No disaster, just acceptance.

When you turn back to John, he’s already got a mad grin on his face, “See? This old white boy’s still got some moves.”

AN: I am buckled the fuck in for all this latine reader content, so yall will be seeing a whole lot more of it. Thank you again to @mikichko!!! For your support and encouragement, and your incredibly generous feedback. I'm doing this to feed us both.

Let me know if yall wanna see anything with latine reader in particular!!

[hahaifolded]

Close Friends - Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x POC!Fem Reader

Summary: Gaz has a huge crush on you but is too scared to talk to you. You, accidentally, give him a way in. Tags/Warnings: MDNI. Fluff, Suggestive Themes, Military Inaccuracies, Technically Internet Stalking, Lots of talk of Social Media, Dancing, Reader knows Spanish and listens to Karol G (trust me, it'll make sense) Word Count: 4036

"And that's everything I found. Any questions?" you asked as you reached the end of your slideshow. Immediately, Captain Price raised his hand, eyes looking down at his notepad. Kyle knew that he should be pay attention to the conversation but he couldn't help but stare at your lips. He wondered what those lips shared when not at work, when you were not being a active member of the SAS intelligence team.

He still remembered the first time you presented an intelligence brief to the Taskforce. You were confident and certain of your findings. When Price began to question your information, you snapped back and held your ground. And thank god, you did, because if Price had his way, that mission would have been devastating for the team.

Since then, Kyle took a liking to you. And it seems that many on base did too as many people naturally gravitated towards you. On many occasions, he saw people enter your office with a scowl and leave with a smile instead. He's even considered going into your office a few times to see what he would leave with.

However, despite constantly being at death's doorstep, Kyle found himself unable to talk to you. Every time you looked at him with those kind eyes, his mouth would run dry and all words would escape him.

How he wanted just one chance to get to know the real you. The you that after 5pm goes off to do whatever they want. The you that probably has interests and passions outside of work. The you that lets loose and shares her infinite love with the world. The you that would look perfect wrapped about his arm, making Gaz the luckiest man alive. The you that would look sinful under him. The you that would moan his name over... and over... and over.

"Kyle... Kyle..."

"GAZ!" Soap's voice interrupted him from his thoughts.

"Yeah. I mean, yes," he said, trying to mask the fact that he was lost in his thoughts.

"Our little spy here was trying to ask you a question," he said with a small smirk on his face. Soap knew exactly what Gaz was thinking. The lovestruck sergeant sheepishly looked at you, ashamed that he missed your question just because he was too busy thinking of you in such a delicious position.

"Yes (Y/N)?" he asked. You repeated your question but once again Gaz didn't hear it, too focused on your lips again. Fuck was he screwed.

-- -- --

Boisterous laugher filled the sergeant's shared room.

"I can't believe you. The poor lass had to repeat her question 3 times until you finally heard her. I know you like her, but get it together," said Soap through broken laughter.

"Shut up," whined out Gaz. He laid on his bed, face covered by his pillow. He felt horrible. You probably thought he was a weirdo or worse, incompetent.

"And the worst part here is that you've never spoke to the lass."

"That's not true!"

"Mission briefings don't count." Gaz let out a huff as he knew the Scot had won.

"But, as the best sergeant on this team, I have decided to help you out," proclaimed the mohawk-wielding soldier. Gaz felt his bed dip as Soap sat on the edge of it.

"Woah, get off! Your thick arse is gonna break it," fought Gaz.

Soap told his teammate to calm down as he threw the lovesick man's pillow to the floor. Before Gaz could retaliate, the Scotsman shoved his phone into his face. With a quick glance, Kyle recognized it to be an Instagram profile.

"And how is this going to help?" he asked with annoyance in his voice. Soap was really testing his patience today.

Soap rolled his eyes. "Well, if you looked closer, maybe you'll see how." Gaz looked at it again and shot up in bed, snatching the other sergeant's phone. He couldn't believe it. On Soap's phone was your personal Instagram account that so happened to be following Soap and some other account he didn't recognize, but Soap followed.

"How?" Your username wasn't a version of your name so obviously Soap had to do some digging.

"Asked her after you ran away from today's brief." Gaz quickly scrolled your profile. It felt wrong to see you outside of work. He's never seen you so carefree. Your profile was littered with pictures of you with friends, food, and your interests.

However, before Kyle could really get a good look at your profile, Soap took his phone back. Kyle called him out in frustration. "Ah, ah, ah... if you want to stalk, follow her on your account." Gaz felt his stomach sink. Soap sensed his hesitation. "And before you say anything, Ghost and I already follow her so it won't look weird if you do too."

Kyle pulled out his phone and slowly typed your username in the search bar. You immediately popped up. He felt his throat dry up. He looked up to see Soap's wide grin right in his face, egging him on. With a rush of adrenaline, Gaz clicked follow and immediately locked his lock screen.

If Soap wasn't in the room, he would have squealed like a school kid. However, his excitement immediately turned into anxiety as he started to doubt his action. Should he have followed you? Sure, Soap and Ghost follow you, but you talk more to Soap and honestly who wouldn't let the scary lieutenant follow them back?

Before Kyle couldn't really spiral, his phone lit up with an Instagram notification. You just followed him back. He stuffed his face into his bed, in the hopes that it would muffle his squealing.

-- -- --

Since you accepted Kyle's follow request, the lovestruck fool found himself obsessed. On a regular basis, he would check your account, waiting for whatever tidbit of your life you were going to share with him.

However, very early on, he realized you uploaded more on your stories than on your actual dashboard. It was really refreshing to see you go on with your day and post the most mundane things. It was fairly normal, very reserved just like you at work. Until one day, you posted something much more personal.

Gaz had just finished eating breakfast. As he took his last bite, he decided to scroll Instagram for a bit to pass the time before today's briefing. Which was perfect timing as it looked like you just posted on your story. He opened it and was greeted to an unfamiliar sight. Instead of a picture of your smiling face, it was a photo of you in the bathroom with tears running down your face.

Kyle's chest tightened. What happened? Who did this to you? He recognized those bathrooms. They looked like the ones that were here on base. He gazed down and saw your caption: boss just yelled at me and said im useless. does this mean I should look for a new job? Kyle was ready to start a war in your name over this.

However, before Gaz could declare war, he took a moment to think. You never post such vulnerable things on your Instagram. Maybe a dumb selfie here and there, but never anything too personal. He looked at your story one more time and noticed the green icon in the corner. It finally clicked. You must have added him to your Close Friends by accident.

As Gaz left the mess hall, he contemplated on what to do. You two were not 'close friends' by any means so maybe he should tell you. He could even save you the embarrassment and avoid mentioning how he saw your post this morning. Set on telling you, he made his way to the intelligence team's offices.

However, before Kyle reached your office, he found himself face to face with your direct superior. He saw red as he recalled your teary face.

"Hey!" he called out with some gruff in his voice.

"Gaz, what do I owe the pleasure?" your superior asked with bright smile. How could he smile like that after making you cry?

"It's Sergeant Garrick to you," Gaz barked out. Kyle wasn't one to bring up rank, but for you, he would make an exception. "I have a question for you." He was now standing in front of your boss, completely towering over him.

"Yes, Sergeant Garrick. My apologies. Um, what can I do for you... sir?" rushed out your boss, all flustered.

"What can you tell me about (Y/L/N)?"

"Well... she's been on the team for about a year now. Has a decent work ethic. Seems to get along with many members on the team... ummm. Is there anything you specifically want to know? We can step into my office and I can pull up her fi--"

The sergeant interrupted him. "No need." He moved further in your boss's space, pushing him back a bit. "Just wanted to make sure you knew who the 141 will be advocating for promotion on the intelligence team."

"Excuse me, sir?" your boss squeaked out.

"(Y/L/N) has been nothing but vital to the Taskforce's recent successes. Without her and her work, we would have failed to complete our objectives or worse, lost men." Now the next part was not a complete lie, as Price had offhandedly mentioned it the other day. "That's why we're recommending her for the supervisor position that just opened up on your team."

Your boss feebly spoke up. "No offense at all, sir, to you or the 141, but it's in my professional opinion that I believe that position should be filled by someone with a little more experience."

"You mean a muppet like you?" Gaz spat back. He got in your superior's face. "Let me make this clear, (Y/L/N) has proved to be much more useful to this base than you ever have during your entire tenure here. I'd advise you to step aside and make sure that (Y/L/N) gets that position, understood?"

Your boss immediately surrendered. He nodded his head furiously and asked the sergeant if that was all. As soon as Gaz let him go, your boss scurried off. He was in such a hurry, he nearly crashed into Soap.

"Knew you'd be here!" announced Soap as he saw Gaz near your office. "Let's go! Meeting is about to start."

With the meeting and subsequent training, Gaz forgot about the close friends debacle. As he returned to his room and opened his phone, he suddenly remembered why he went by your office today.

"Fuck!" Gaz yelled out. He opened instagram, opting to just send you a quick message about it. Again like this morning, your story was the first on his feed. Letting his curiosity get the best of him, he opened it and saw a picture of your office. The caption read: my boss apologized and I might get a promotion now. don't know what happened but thank you universe.

Gaz couldn't help but smile. You thanked him. Well, technically, you didn't thank him necessarily, but his actions made your day. Kyle realized that maybe his promotion as your 'close friend' might prove to be useful to him. So like any good soldier, he was going to use his resources to the max to accomplish his goal. And his goal now was to get to know you.

-- -- --

Sunday Night

Sunday night comes around and Gaz is tired. He's ready for a good night's sleep. However, that little itch to see you started to flare up the minute he laid on his bed. Assuring himself that a little peak wouldn't hurt, Kyle grabbed his phone.

Almost like you knew he'd be on, you had just posted a story. It was a picture of your laptop with a picture of some new show that Gaz had seen some clips of. Next to your laptop was a bowl of popcorn and your water bottle that you would always carry. The caption read: new season dropped! I have no choice but to binge watch it all tonight. Will probably regret this in the morning :D.

That's cute, thought Gaz. You looked so cozy as you got ready to watch your show. And just like that, Kyle had an epiphany. He grabbed his laptop and got to work

Monday Morning

Gaz walked into the conference room with a little less spring in his step. However, as soon as his eyes hit you, he immediately straightened his posture and shot you a warm greeting.

"Hi Gaz," you shot back with a genuine grin. You quickly focused your attention back to your laptop as you prepared for today's intelligence briefing.

Kyle took the seat closest to you with the goal of putting his plan in motion. Pretending to not notice his fellow sergeant or lieutenant, Gaz began to yawn obnoxiously loud. He had to do it a couple of times as you failed to notice each time. As he started to get embarrassed by the exaggerated yawning, Ghost spoke up.

"What's with you?" asked the lieutenant with an unamused tone. This would have to do. The yawning sergeant apologized and blamed it on the fact that he stayed up watching the newest season of a show, your show to be exact.

And just how he planned it, your attention was piqued as you stopped what you were doing and joined the conversation.

"Wait, you watch it too?" you asked with a glimmer in your eyes.

"Of course!" replied Gaz as if he had been watching this show for years, instead of just last night. You were about to say something else, but to Kyle's luck, Captain Price walked in, signaling it was time to start the meeting. However, before things officially started, you assured him that you two would talk later.

One point for Kyle.

Tuesday Morning

With an hour before lunch, you ranted a bit on your story, complaining about how you forgot to bring lunch and you were now craving for Indian food. Once again, seeing an opportunity, Kyle made a quick phone call.

Now with a bag in each hand, Kyle made his way to your office. Using his feet, he gently knocked on the door. Hearing you yell a come in, Gaz walked in with his winning smile.

"Hey, I am so sorry to bother you," Gaz sheepishly said.

You rolled your eyes. "Oh please, as if my favorite sergeant on base could ever bother me." Kyle nearly kissed you.

After stabilizing himself, your favorite sergeant spoke up again. "You wouldn't happen to know anyone who likes Indian food here? I ordered some for lunch and they accidentally gave me more than I ordered. No one on the team likes it and I would hate to see it go to waste."

He didn't think it was possible but your eyes lit up even more. "You're just in luck. I love Indian food. Take a seat!" And with that, Kyle was able to have you for an hour all to himself. The conversation ranged from work to food to wild stories of things you've both witnessed out in the field. Gaz doesn't think he's heard you laugh so much before. How he wanted to hear it everyday.

Feeling like the lunch went great, Kyle deemed it perfect to ask you on a dinner date. However, before he had a chance to open his mouth, a curious Scotsman opened your door.

"Hey (Y/N), have you seen-- oh, there you are. I've been looking for you," announced Soap without a care in the world. The other sergeant's eyes scanned your desk and caught sight of the takeaway containers.

"Did you get Indian without me? You know how much I love Indian," he whined. Gaz was going to kill him.

-- -- --

Wednesday Night

It was nearly 2am and Kyle found himself unable to fall asleep. His mind was filled with thoughts about you and this little plan of his. He wasn't sure what the end goal was. Would he stop after he asked you out or keep it going until you notice? And if you notice, would you figure out what he's been doing and confront him or in a weird, twisted way maybe be flattered? With all of these questions, Gaz found himself unable to sleep.

Seeing that his mind wasn't going to let him rest anytime soon, he grabbed his phone and decided to scroll that cursed app once more. After mindlessly scrolling for a bit, he noticed your story light up.

Oh shit, she's awake, he thought, surprised to see you active. Not wanting to look like a creep, Gaz decided to lock his phone. Or at least tried, as instead of locking his phone, he dropped it above his face. He quickly grabbed it to save his face but accidentally opened your story. Seeing it was now open, he decided to take a peak. And thank God he did.

It was a picture of you in front of your bedroom mirror. The lights in your room was off so you were mostly a silhouette. Your back was to the mirror and completely bare. Your face was slightly turned to the side, neither facing forward or backward. You were sat on your knees, your pajama shorts leaving absolutely nothing for the imagination. You had one arm on wrapping the front of your chest and another holding your phone. The picture had Kyle's head spinning, but the final nail in the coffin was your caption: fuck I really need you right now.

Kyle almost screenshotted your picture... almost. He couldn't believe it. There you were, gorgeous and clearly in need. Has he imagined you in similar positions? Of course, but actually seeing it was so much better. It must been even better, nearly divine, if he saw it in person. Gaz read your caption once more and it hit him like a bucket of ice cold water.

I need you. Shutting off his phone, he wondered who was the "you" you were referring to? Did you have a lover? Did someone else have the honor of calling you theirs?

Oh no! This had to be an accident. You probably meant to send this to someone and accidentally posted it on your Close Friends. Now Gaz was conflicted.

On one hand, you're probably going to be embarrassed if anyone else saw this. He should be a good friend and tell you so you can delete it. But, if he told you, you'd find find out about Kyle being on your close friends and maybe remove him. Realizing that your happiness was much more important here, Gaz decided to tell you.

He opened Instagram once more to text you. But before he could, he saw that you had deleted your story. Maybe someone already told you? Maybe that "you" you were referring to did? Or maybe, you noticed yourself which means you probably noticed Gaz see your story? Fuck.

Thursday

Kyle avoided you, both out of guilt and shame.

Friday Night

Gaz had a long day. After finishing today's grueling workout circuit and taking a much needed hot shower, Kyle decided to treat himself with something pretty... your Instagram. It seemed like you had posted your entire afternoon since you got off of work. First a picture of your coffee that you grabbed from some place in town, and then an entire get-ready-with-me spree. Pictures of you getting ready to shower, moisturizing, and getting dressed, because it seemed like you were going clubbing tonight.

And to Kyle's delight, you posted various clips of you, showing off your outfit. It made Gaz' entire body burn seeing you in such a pretty outfit. It was nothing like what you wore to work.

However, the next picture had Kyle seething. You took a pic of the club's entrance, its name in the frame, with the caption: Hope he snatches me up tonight! Gaz was jealous. If anyone should be claiming you tonight, it should be him. Actually, it can be him. He ran to his closet and got changed.

-- -- --

It's been awhile since Gaz had been to a club. He forgot how crowed it can get. Inside, bodies were pressed against one another and the smoke made it hard to see. The music was blaring, stimulating everyone to dance on one another. The entire place reeked of smoke, sweat, and sex. Despite being one of the tallest humans in the place, Kyle had a hard time seeing you.

Feeling like it was a lost cause, Kyle heard a distinct cheering to his side. After quickly glancing, his breath got caught in his throat. You were to his side, surrounded by a small group of people, dancing to the beat of the music. Your hips moving side to side, up and down, your hands gliding across your body sensually. Gaz was in awe.

Suddenly, your eyes met him. You shot him a sly wink and beckoned him over with a nod. You slowly made your way deeper in the crowd, ushering him to follow you. Like any good soldier, Kyle followed.

As Kyle came up behind you, QLONA by Karol G started playing. He gently taps your shoulder to grab your attention. You turn around and wrapped your arms around his neck, bringing his body closer to yours. You started to sway to the music, coaxing him to do the same. He immediately followed your lead and pulled you in closer so your bodies were practically touching. Gaz had to be dreaming.

You pulled him slightly down so your mouth was just at his ear. Singing along with the song, you purred in his ear, "qué hijueputas ganas tengo de besarte. te vi en una foto y te imaginé sin ropa. te mentiría si no estoy loca por verte." Kyle wasn't 100% sure what you or the song was saying, but all he knew was that he really liked you close to his ear.

You flipped around and with one arm still wrapped around his neck, you grinded against him, still following the beat of the music. Not expecting it, Kyle stilled. But quickly realizing this was his chance, he grabbed your waist and danced with you.

At this point, Kyle didn't care if you had someone. He was here now and no one was going to take you from him. You were his.

As the song came towards its end, you turned back around and pulled him down to whisper in his ear once more, "te mentiría si no estoy loca por verte." You finished the line with a giggle. With the song over and the next one immediately starting, Kyle kept you in his embrace, his head resting against yours.

You both faced each other and said hi at the same time. You both laughed as you were both a little shy despite just dancing against one another.

"Fancy seeing you here," Kyle started. He decided to play it cool.

You laid your head on his chest and laughed. "I'm glad you got my message." What. Kyle was confused. You looked up at him with slight mischief in your eyes. Kyle's eyes must have given him away as you laughed again. "Did your really think I wouldn't notice? It's literally my job to notice things"

"So you knew this whole time?"

"No. Not at first. But after the surprise Indian food, I realized my mistake." Kyle froze, feeling guilty for not telling you sooner. You sensed his hesitation and slightly tightened your hold on him. "But don't worry, I'm actually glad it happened. I've been wanting to get to know you for awhile." Kyle relaxed again.

However, he had a sudden thought. "And what about the--"

"The racy picture? I may have wanted to a little more than your attention. So maybe I removed everyone else and tried to tempt you. You're not the only one who knows how to use their resources."

Kyle groaned. You were a clever one. "Fuck, I could eat you up."

"What's stopping you?" You batted your eyes to the sergeant.

Not wanting to waste anymore time, Kyle pulled you in close and asked, "Your place or mine?"

Thanks for reading! - Fold's Page Guide + Masterlist

Author's Notes: I had a little freakout yesterday on this fic cause I was scared it was too long. Personally, I'm happy with it now, but y'all can let me know!

Also if y'all don't listen to Karol G, START! QLONA here is a banger and most of her music too! I considered adding the English translation above but that's gross. So here it is below. Don't kill me if it's slightly off - I decided to translate it. Hopefully y'all get why I included this song!

First time: I really want to fucking kiss you. I saw your picture and I imagined you without clothes. I would be lying if I wasn't craving to see you

Second time: I would be lying if I wasn't excited to see you

Spanish speakers, how the fuck do you translate "loca por verte" cause "crazy to see you" just seems wrong to me?

Also is Kyle out of character? I think he's more jovial here but is that wrong? Do let me know!

Hope y'all enjoyed!

[depravitycentral]

Wait but can i please ask for a darling that can speak a language that her captor( especially Nobunaga or Uvogin) can't ? 🥹

Like she speaks Vietnamese so everytime that dude try to hugs her or random shit and she said "Cút ra coi" ( please fuck off) and he can't understand! Maybe he will be mad since her tone is carrying alot of attitudes.

Since Vietnamese have ALOT of cursed words so i think i can bullied them and get away with it sometime...

You don't have to do this if you don't want to but if you did, thank you alot. I recently go crazy with your blog, you are so talented 😭🙌. Love and support from Vietnam!

As a preface, my native language is English, I speak a passable amount of Spanish, and I'm minoring in German at my university but I'm not nearly proficient, so I'm not exactly the expert in being fluently multilingual, but I'll try my best with this one!

As with most things, different yanderes have different feelings regarding this ability of yours. By and large, they find it wonderful - you're just so smart, so capable and wonderful and hearing the way the syllables and phrases fall from your lips gets them shivering, their heart racing in their chest because god, you sound heavenly. Even if the language is harsher sounding, or isn't considered the most alluring - it's seductive to them, sensual, sexy.

But, of course, you're only supposed to use the other language(s) at certain times. On their terms. When they want to just admire you and not understand what you're saying. When you're just supposed to look pretty, to be gorgeous and wonderful and perfect.

But the rest of the time, speak what they understand, yeah?

Because really, the worst nightmare of most yanderes is to be unable to understand what you're saying - they crave your attention and interaction with you so deeply and desperately that they can't stand not having a clue of what you're saying. Every thought you have feels precious to them, like some sort of cherished, rare commodity that they absolutely can't waste.

But of course, each yandere is different, so let's discuss!

Some are genuinely ambivalent. The lucid yanderes really fall into two main categories; apathetic, and paranoid. The more apathetic, laid-back yanderes think it's good that you're speaking in a language that makes you more comfortable. They want you to feel comfortable and happy around them, after all, and if this is the way to make that happen, so be it. This is a very small price to pay to make you like them more - they can't understand what you're saying, sure, but it's good for you to be able to vent, to be able to speak all your feelings - even if they wish they could hear every single word. Besides, you look nice when you're speaking - they like to watch your lips, the different sounds making them pucker and smack and look soft and warm and delicious. A few yanderes who react in this way include Franklin Bordeau, Pakunoda, Uvogin, Hajime Iwaizumi, Gyomei Himejima, and Shouta Aizawa.

Some of them are paranoid that you're saying things about them, calling them horrible names and expressing your hatred for them. Mostly, this stems from the yandere's own lucidity and shame for how they feel for you. It's wrong to be so obsessed with you, and even further wrong to have kidnapped you and forced you to stay with them for the rest of your life - of course you're angry, and it's healthy to vent your feelings. Except, there's this sense of diminished control when you're ranting and raving in another language, because even though you sound pretty, what are you saying? You aren't using their name, sure, but you sound mad, and they're the only possible cause. Are you calling them a monster? Telling them they're hideous and disgusting and some sick freak? You're well within your rights to do so, sure, but they want to at least know what kind of insults you're throwing their way. Overthinking and anxiety get the best of them, and they start forbidding you from speaking another language - on the grounds of it being unfair or some other horrible, childish excuse. Mostly, they just don't like the idea of you harboring hateful feelings for them without even knowing about it. It's scary, and even if it sounds pretty and makes them gush over you, it's not preferable. A few yanderes that come to mind for this category are Feitan Portor, Obanai Iguro, Tobio Kageyama, Kenji Futakuchi, and Tomura Shigaraki.

Some are utterly fascinated. Watching you speak another language can captivate them for hours, and they'll be bugging you to explain everything you're saying, perched at the edge of their seat because they want to understand this piece of you. They'll want you to teach them a little bit - just a few phrases, to start, but you'll find that they've gone and done some research of their own, quickly getting a feel for the language because it's your language and they want to impress you - and will begin actively trying to use it in their everyday interactions with you. The phrases they prioritize are I love you, you are beautiful, you are mine, and come to bed with me. (And of course, depending on the language, that last one can have a whole wealth of different connotations.) It makes them feel connected to you, like there's some special thing binding you two together - particularly if it's a language that's less commonly spoken. It's like some secret you two share, and for the more possessive yanderes, it's just another claim of ownership over you - they can be involved in every part of your life, slowly seeping their presence into every little thing you do - even something as natural and personal and raw. A few yanderes who take this approach are Chrollo Lucilfer, Kurapika Kurta, Koushi Sugawara, Kyojuro Rengoku, Tengen Uzui, Hizashi Yamada, and Taishiro Toyomitsu.

By and large, most yanderes have positive feelings towards your ability to speak another language - it just makes you more special, and convinces them that you're even more worthy of their attention and attraction.

Besides, when you say their name with the accent it would be spoken in your language?

Well, it's your fault when they're throwing you onto the bed and kissing you like they'll die without you.

(Also I am sending you hugs and kisses, thanks for supporting my blog from Vietnam!! As for Nobunaga, I have mixed feelings about where to place him on this listing - I think he'd like the idea, initially, because you just look so damn cute when you're speaking your language, especially when you're cursing or frustrated. But the moment that you say something he thinks might be about him and might be even a bit negative, suddenly those endearing feelings are changing. Suddenly he's growing defensive, hostile, suspicious, demanding you tell him what you said and thus falling into the second category mentioned above. I think he's a hard yandere to categorize for most things because his delusional mindset makes him a bit unpredictable, but that would be my guess!)

[richeeduvie]

The only time Lalo came close to liking Diablo was when Eladio showed up out of nowhere for dinner and started trying to feed Princesa (again). Eladio was trying to give her dessert and Princesa... poor thing didn't know what to do. Then, from under the table, Diablo attacked Eladio, and it was the only time Lalo actually found the dog useful

He would be the type to just show up. Talk to friends, but Eladio also has the excuse to talk to Lalo about business. Princesa's awkward about it. Always. Nacho watches intently, but not so much as to look like he's leering.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

She says it softly. Lalo and Eladio talk, they laugh. Princesa finishes off the rest of her dinner quietly and Nacho can't fight the way she takes his plate to wash when he's finished.

"You didn't have to do that-"

"Ah! Princesa! Finished already? Time for desert!"

"...I made brownies."

Eladio's eyes widen before he turns to Lalo.

"I have lucky bastards right under my nose. She's beautiful, she bakes, she dresses so...so cutely. She's a good friend."

He turns back to Princesa.

"How much does this guy pay you?"

Princesa's awkward, small smile falters. She can't see the way Lalo glares black eyes at his boss through the fog. But Nacho does, Nacho feels the heat in the flex hand of Lalo, with the nothing on his face.

"Oh-"

"I'm playing! I joke! You," He pats her bicep. "There's no price on you. Not a woman as special as you are. You can always throw one at me, you know-"

There's a growling they all turn to.

"Diablo, it's okay."

Eladio lifts his head slightly. "That bitch. Boy bitch, from that guy, no?"

Lalo shrugs. "Yeah, you remember. Her heart is too big, we just had to take him. You begged me, Princesa. Remember?"

It was more of a soft please and a sad face before they went. Lalo can never say no to her. But Princesa nods as if she does remember.

"Well, stay a good boy. You mind if I talk to my friend here? Let's eat some of your baked goods, Princesa!"

And so they do, awkwardly. Lalo does it angerly, picking at the brownie, which he knows is delicious. But this is not the day he wanted. He likes Princesa to himself. He likes Princesa away from Eladio. From the business. And Eladio as a person.

Bastard. He thinks of blood. Maybe not think, but he sees it.

"Oh, Princesa - you gotta try your own stuff. I think this piece is extra gooey."

"I think I...I-"

She can barely glance at Lalo for help, or a plea - or an apology before Eladio scoots closer to push the brownie against her lips. But then, it's a growl and he can't do anything before he almost falls out of his chair. It squeaks and screeches and he curses out.

"Damn it! Fuck!"

"Diablo! Diablo! Get off of him!"

Lalo watches silently before he remembers he realizes he's supposed to help. Nacho helps before he does.

"Hey!"

"Fucking bitch! Damn!"

It takes Princesa pulling the dog back before. He pants, then butts his head against her leg. It takes awhile before things can calm.

"You'd be a smart guy to put that mutt down." Eladio mutters something harsh in Spanish, eyes peering at his leg. "Eating at my leg like it's uh...it's a chicken bone."

He turns to Princesa.

"There are humane ways, you know. But I'll go, Princesa - before your friend tries me again. I don't want to get...a type of way in front of you."

And Eladio smiles. Something thin, odd in the eyes.

"What will you think of me then?"

It's all before he leaves. Lalo hems and haws apologies and small talk without the thought that he is hemming and hawing.

He comes around to the rottweiler. His tail wags and Nacho's trying to calm Princesa down, to try and convince her it wasn't her fault.

"I know it wasn't...I didn't want him to do that but Diablo shouldn't-maybe I need to train him more-"

"It wasn't your fault."

Lalo watches that sight with small eyes before kneeling to the Diablo. He scratches.

"Good boy."

He'll feed him steak tonight.

Lalo takes to Princesa, takes her away from Nacho. He pulls her body, soft and perfect and needing him into his arms.

"You know how to pick your guys, Princesa. You see? At least the stink ass did something. Gato gordo wouldn't even have blinked an eye."

There's a meow.

"Ay, go away."

[h-f-k]

*(but can be public too if you want!)

hi love ! you're from argentina right? i thought i'd seen posts about it. anyway, maybe a weird question but i'm going to argentina in a month. do you have any tips, must-sees, good restaurants you'd like to share? i always trust people who live(d) there a lot more than, like, tripadvisor. if you don't want to share or if this is weird that's fine too !! either way thank you <33

hi love!! sure, absolutely. I'll answer it publicly in case people also want to know about what to do in buenos aires. okay, i'll try to keep it short. idk how many days you'll be visiting but:

Long Post under the cut lmfao

must-sees:

Caminito (this is located in the neighbourhood of La Boca)

Teatro Colón

Avenida Corrientes and surroundings (Corrientes Av. and 9 de Julio would be like our times square lol)

Palermo Soho (this is a neighbourhood that has a lot of clothing stores, cool restaurants and caffes and from thursday to saturday night there's always a good plan waiting for you)

Jardín Botánico (this is in the neighbourhood of palermo which you'll see is divided in different names, Palermo Soho, Palermo Chico, etc etc so it might be confusing at first lol)

Recoleta is another neighbourhood that's nice to walk around, especially the area that's close to the cemetery and Plaza Francia. If you walk through Libertador Av. or Figeroa Alcorta Av. you'll see pretty buildings and museums. Here you can also see 'The Flower' as we call it lol, which is an artistic sculpture that opens its petals by day and it closes them by night.

San Telmo is a must for tourists but as someone who was born and raised in the city i fucking hate this neighbourhood lmfao, it's filled with people. bUT it's cute, you have like a street market where people sell their crafts and you have cute caffes and restaurants.

Puerto Madero is also a nice place to walk around as well

If you have time you can travel by bus to Villa Ocampo, a beautiful house owned by Victoria Ocampo who was a writer.

Tigre is a neighbourhood outside of Capital Federal (as well as Villa Ocampo) and it has a cute outdoor market filled with caffes, restaurants and shops. You can travel there by bus but it's fastest if you take the train.

For Food:

Petanque is a french restaurant, CARNE is good for eating hamburgers and Sagardi is a spanish/basque place. All of them are in San Telmo.

In Palermo Soho you have a shit ton of restaurants/bars so you can truly pick the one that stands out the most but my faves are: 1) Overo Bar 2) Club Eros (you might not give 2 cents for this one bc it might not look so aesthetically pleasing on the outside but my god they have the best milanesas ever) 3) Local Support (it's like THE place for all the indie and sad boys/girls wannabes of the city, the vibes aren't my cup of tea but the pizza is DELICIOUS) 4) Rey de Copas 5) Soria Bar "

Pizzería Güerrin, best pizza ever.

Il Quotidiano is my favorite sort of "mainstream" italian restaurant, the food is incredible and the prices are quite good honestly.

Presidente Bar if you feel fancy

Dadá Bistro for another fancy night but this one is smaller and usually there's also a shit ton of tourists lol. It's one of my favorite places even tho my friends say that it's for older people u.u (what does that say about me lmfao)

For something even more fancy you can enjoy a delicious merienda or dinner in Palacio Duhau

El Mirasol is one of my favorite places to eat asado, it's quite expensive tbh but the food is delicious

i Fresh Market is one of my favorites bar/restaurant in Puerto Madero

Sifón Sodería for a good vermut

Buenos Aires is FILLED with birrerías and my favorite ones are: 1) Patagonia (this one is quite mainstream but the beer is good) 2) Hormiga Negra... and i can't remember more LMFAO, if i remember i'll definitely let you know

Cuervo Café and The Shelter have delicious coffee. Cuervo is in Palermo and The Shelter is in Retiro.

Birkin is another caffe and it's also quite good, you can also have lunch/dinner here

and that's what's at the top of my head for eating, i know there's more in my brain but i can't remember lol. again, if i remember more places i'll definitely let u know!!

[benbarnesescape]

Part 2: Co-Ed Problems

AU!Frat Billy Russo x Reader 

Warnings: Language

Let me know if you want to be tagged! Also banner created by me so please don’t use for your own.

The place Billy takes you is on the Upper East Side, miles from the two bedroom apartment that you and Dinah rented in Harlem. You feel under dressed in your workout leggings and sweatshirt that you had thrown on after the intense HIT cardio workout you had taken before hitting the library.

Everyone in the establishment was New York chic - sparkly dresses and stilettos and smokey eyes that flickered over to Billy as he looked pointedly down at his menu.

“This place is nice.” you clear your throat as you cross your legs on your chair, bite your lip and look down at the menu.

Too nice.

The bottom end price for an appetizer was what you contributed to groceries each week.

“I can’t let you pay for this. Lets just go to a pizza joint - I know a great place on the other side of the park where we can get a delicious slice for five bucks.”

Billy watches you carefully, a knowing smile on his lips before he shakes his head,

“Don’t worry about it. I said it was my treat and besides, I’ll charge it to my dads account.”

His dad's account? Who the fuck was Billy Russo?

“Okay - remember how thirty minutes ago I was like not about knowing anything about you? I take it back.

Who are you and what have you done with the Billy who liked to sneak candy out of Mr. Garcia’s bodega?”

Billy laughs, shrugs.

“I’m still here. I’m just……………..adopted.”

“Who adopted you! Chuck Bass?”

He laughs, shaking his head,

“Chuck who?”

“From Gossip….doesn’t matter. He’s a really rich dude from a TV show who lives on  the Upper East Side and would have an account at a place like this.”

“Ah, that’s fair,” the waiter comes by, a smile on his face. “Can we have the pork, beef and vegetable dim sum, miso soup to start, a seaweed salad and a bottle of your finest sake.”

“Of course Mr. Madigan. Anything for you and your beautiful guest.”

You don’t catch anything that either men say, outside of sake. There both speaking in quick fire Mandarin and you try to catch your mouth from snapping open as the waiter walks away.

Billy turns to you, a sheepish grin on his face as he drinks in your void facial expression,

“What?”

“What? What? You speak Mandarin now? Just casually whilst ordering dumplings. And you’re Mr. Madigan now?”

Billy clears his throats, takes a sip of water. His eyes avoid you as he shrugs,

“My stepmom made me learn. Along with Spanish, Latin, and French.”

“Right,” you say, taking a long sip. “So you were adopted by Richy Rich?”

Billy shakes his head and laughs,

“No not at all,” he leans in and clears his throat. “I just got adopted by this nice family that also happened to be a part of generational money. I don't know….it feels a bit surreal but...I guess they knew my Ma before she got sick an died and heard what my dad had did, you know, kicking me out and so I guess they felt sorry for me and adopted me.”

You’re trying to capture all the information he’s telling you but it all feels bizarre, like something scripted from a movie,

“So you’re mom knew super rich people who decided to adopt you after they found out that Mr. Asshole Russo kicked you to the street?”

Billy nods, his brown eyes watching you carefully and you nod, taking a deep breath before you lean over, grab his hand,

“I just one have question.”

His eyes furrow together as he leans into you,

“Yeah?”

You take another long, dramatic breath,

“Are you,” a pause, “Are you the Batman?”

He looks at you, before breaking out in laughter and shaking his head.

“What?! No!”

You give a sigh of relief, pulling away from him and wiping your forehead,

“Thank god. Don’t know how I’d explain that to my mom. Nearly knocked over THE Batman in the library.”

He can’t help the laughter that takes over him as he shakes his head. He forgot about that about you. That dry stick humor that could make a room ignite in laughter.

Didn’t realize how much he missed it.

Over the course of dim sum and sake you both rediscover the other.  Billy was studying Architecture and Design with a minor in business while you had finally committed to Theater with a minor in Astronomy to your moms dismay.

“I started with astronomy but….stars and science don’t call to me like drama. Besides I know my mom is worried but I got a great scholarship….which is why im an astronomy minor. Got in through science so gotta stick to it in order to get the large chunk of change that pays for my education.” you had slurred into your second glass tipsy, shaking your head at yourself.

He talked about his stepparents, the schools he had grown up in, the opportunities to travel across the world. How his father was an architect and how it felt natural to follow that path,

“I started doodling, re sketching his designs. Adding on new parts I liked. Robert, my dad said I had the eye so I committed. Started at Yale but….I missed New York. So I transferred here this past winter.”

You had been playing with your straw, hand cupping your chin as you looked at him intently. He found it cute, like a lot of your other quirks. Like the  way you kept pulling your hair into a bun on top of your head. The way you nervously bit down on your lips before asking verification questions. The curious glimmer in your eyes as he spoke more of his life once he had moved off of 146th St.

The way you spoke endearingly about your mother, Frank & Curtis the protective surrogate brothers who always had your back and Dinah.

“Dinah goes to Columbia too?” Billy asks as the bill gets served at the table. You both had been sitting at the table for two hours now and you had defeatedly admitted you needed to head back home, get some work in before getting ready for class.

“Yeah. She wants to work in the FBI. Lucky FBI - that girl is tenacious as fuck.”

He nods as he places his dad’s black card with the bill and you fall back in your seat, smiling at him sheepishly.

“What?”

“You’re different.”

Billy nods,

“Ah. I know - Clearasil works miracles.”

You laugh as you lean into the table, crossing your arms as you shake your head.

“No,” you flicker your eyes back up at him. “It's not physically. Like yes you’re different and mature but so am I. You are different. You know, mature and like not annoying and interesting. Maybe you always were and I was too distracted by the way you liked to annoyingly pull on my braids.”

“Hey! I have a fondness for those brands.”

“More like a weird braid kink.” you joke and he smiles, leaning into you.

“No I was just...trying to fit in and belong and didn’t know how to back then. Moving in with Gale and Robert kinda changed that.”

“That make sense.” you comment and he nods,

“Anyway - I tugged on your braids because I thought you were cute. I didn’t think I had a chance so annoying you was my out.”

“Of course it was..” you laugh, biting down on your lip. You hesitate.

“What?” he asks and you shrug.

“It doesn’t even matter….not really anymore but….you know I thought you were cute too.”

“I know.” he doesn’t hide the cockiness behind each word and you scoff,

“You knew?”

“Yeah. Franks 11th birthday party, truth and dare in his backyard. We went in a circle and Dinah had asked you…..and you did that thing you always do when you lie. I didn’t want to embarrass you but yeah, I knew.”

You slap your hand on the table,

“Of course you did. Because beyond catching me on every embarrassing moment I had in grade school knowing my crush on you would be the top of the list.”

He laughs, reaching over the table and grabbing your fingers. The action takes you off guard and you snap your head to him as he mutters,

“Yea - you were always just easy to read to me. Kinda like now.”

“Now?”

“Yeah….” his voice is low, husky, “you still think I’m cute.”  

He states it boldly, matter of factly and you roll your eyes,

“Oh don’t flatter yourself. Just because you have every other woman in here giving you a second look doesn’t mean I’m one of them.” you try to fight the heat coming over your face, the shy way that you want to fall into yourself.

He shrugs nonchalantly, still idly playing with your fingers,

“Maybe. But doesn’t hide the fact that you do. No need to be shy babe, I think you’re pretty hot yourself.”  

His eyes are lidded as he looks at you, a smirk on his face, his fingers intertwining with your own.

Oh fuck.

He knew what he was doing.

Tag List:

@ rockintensse @missphanosaur18 s @ninjathrowingstork@charlieimaginesstuff @ benbarnesfanforever @ladyblablabla @deerprongs@ugh-my-back @padfootagain @aylinnmaslow  @ marauderskeeper@caitlyn-blackwell  @princessderavenclaw @starlesskyox @thesandbeneathmytoes @ marauderskeeper @ youveseen–thebutcher@geminimoonbeamx @iheartbinbons @just-nikkii @katbernoulli @suchatinyinfinity

[docholligay]

paksenarrion-reader replied to your post “Smoke and Ashes”

sorry, not Ashe, Bitsy

THE MOOD FOR ALL THESE COMMENTS TBH

paksenarrion-reader replied to your post “Smoke and Ashes”

god I love how absolutely Ashe doesn't get anything, how ARROGANT she is, I dislike her intesely and all I can ever do is just grab popcorn and wait for you to write more

I think I didn’t want to write Ashe because I somehow felt I had to write her as good? When, I think, it’s much more fun to write her as a rich piece of shit? Who thinks she can ever really identify with the life and struggle she’s trying to emulate? I mean she’s essentially someone raised in suburbia thinking she’s a rap god with street cred. She doesn’t know what it’s like to see beef prices fall and wonder how many new pairs of pants you’ll get this year, she has no idea what it is to calve in February when it’s -15 and you have to keep the calf from freezing to death, and I also know that I am in a unique position to write a cultural conflict that actually happens in my community about rich Texans coming in and thinking They’re Cowboy hi no one cared about all that sry. 

paksenarrion-reader replied to your post “Smoke and Ashes”

I third the immediate interest in Jacintha and everything we might ever know about her and what she knows about Ashe, but also, is that name the Spanish and feminine version of Hyacinth, the dude who had gotten woo'ed by Apollo and Zephyr at the same time, I'm in tears

YES JACINTA IS THE SPANISH HYACINTH. I wish I had meant anything deep by it, but I was literally looking for a semi-common Mexican name that had a cute nickname and would have a pronunciation in Hebrew that was slightly different because reasons. 

paksenarrion-reader replied to your post “Smoke and Ashes”

"Yael had three beers so it's ten minutes tops before she shoots the rich girl" and I am instantly reminded of your OK Corral talk

ahahahahah SO MANY THINGS HAPPENED BECAUSE EVERYONE WAS HOT, YOUNG, AND DRUNK. 

paksenarrion-reader replied to your post “Smoke and Ashes”

ahahaha oh my god, the entire thing with Ashe walking in, what an exercise in humiliation.  so used to being a show pony that she doesn't know what to do with being nothing, eh

So much of this is drawn off of experiences I’ve had in my own life and the building frustration with rich rodeo girls who don’t have to work winning all the barrel stuff and the divide there, and so I didn’t know if it would work outside of my sphere. Anyway it makes me happy to feel it work elsewhere. 

paksenarrion-reader replied to your post “Smoke and Ashes”

I am ALIVE for baby McCree's gay panic, holy heck

The idea of McCree being a Confident Gay as a youth makes me howl every time, I’m sorry. 

paksenarrion-reader replied to your post “Smoke and Ashes”

"a connoisseur of people who survived when they weren’t meant to" -- fuck me, DELICIOUS

THANK YOU I WAS IN LOVE WITH THAT LINE

paksenarrion-reader replied to your post “Smoke and Ashes”

and the sudden big-picture McCree, like, he's not wrong in any larger scope, but then Yael doing what she does not because there's illegal arms trade to be stopped but because some fucks are still buying illegal arms and it's not to hang them over the fireplace

she ain't wrong either

Yah for me Yael is a complication. McCree isn’t wrong here--they sell arms to people who well sell them down the line, and who knows who they’ll go to, but I think Yael knows she can’t stop that, and so she’ll just kill whoever she thinks needs to be stopped and make a living along the way. is it “right” I don;t think so, not especially. Is it “pragmatic and understandable” absolutely. 

paksenarrion-reader replied to your post “Smoke and Ashes”

"oh yeah that bitch thinks she's special" -- that bitch's wife

I'm fucking cry-laughing

Listen Gays are Known all over. 

tymp3st replied to your post “Smoke and Ashes”

I am deeply curious about what Jacinta knows. But also, the way the Dealock gang feels so entirely, solidly built up is fantastic. This also makes for a version of Ashe I could get invested in pretty easily, since she has to deal with all the things that work as status symbols in her regular life just get her laughed at here. An Ashe who had to work for her place instead of seeming to start there is just a cool idea.

Thank you so much! Yeah, so much of this was just an attempt to get Ashe to “work” for me, a way to try and dovetail together the Deadlock Gang we originally heard of with McCree and ~Deadlock Rebels~ motorcycle thing we find out with Ashe. (And I can’t wait to write Yael Taking Umbrage at what Ashe’s done with it) 

rosepetalrevolution replied to your post “Smoke and Ashes”

AND I AM ALSO INCREDIBLY INTRIGUED BY WHAT JACINTA KNOWS, and just Jacinta generally lol

IT WILL COME OUT EVENTUALLY I PROMISE

rosepetalrevolution replied to your post “Smoke and Ashes”

And your take on young Jesse, who knows enough and nothing at all, is so rich and warm and good. And for all that she is and isn’t, you’ve given us an interpretation of Ashe that is so compelling

Thank you! If I am going to be invested in Jesse, I need him to be a complicated man who doesn’t often know what the fuck he’s doing. For me, a lot of his grey morality doesn't come out of self-interest but absolute confusion. He’s a lost boy, you know? 

rosepetalrevolution replied to your post “Smoke and Ashes”

The way you’ve been so thoughtful and intentional with the gang’s history, then connected that so deftly to this moment in its present that it is so much more than backstory exposition for its own sake, and then every reference to what Ashe will learn in her future and the gang’s future as they become one and the same, for better or for worse - it’s all just so well crafted

Thank you! I sat down and thought really hard, with ages, and happenings and stuff, as to everything I think happened, in ways I could make work and feel for. It makes me so happy that it worked for you! 

rosepetalrevolution replied to your post “Smoke and Ashes”

I LOVE THIS

THANK YOU I HOPED YOU WOULD

themiscyra1983 replied to your post “Smoke and Ashes”

I AM curious as to why Jacinta was so keen to take her in, and one of these days I really need to read the entire timeline.

YES YOU DO BECAUSE I’M SELFISH

themiscyra1983 replied to your post “Smoke and Ashes”

Interesting. I'd honestly figured you were just going to ignore Ashe, probably because some days I don't pay close enough attention, but man oh man do I love me an entitled little rich girl getting told no, and no, and fine, yes, but also no. I do not feel one little bit bad for Bitsy, she ought to have known what she was getting into, and maybe she's got Rei Hino-level reasons for breaking with her family but she's still got to learn what's what.

For a long time I did, because I couldn’t buy what they were selling, but the more they eked into the ‘debutante girl wants to play cowboy’ the more I could get into the idea of her trying to prove herself and having a difficult-ass time of it.. 

[nataliasecombe-blog]

The Fashionable Pop Music Sounds Rubbish But Nonetheless It Is The Most Profitable Genre Why

Initially of last month, an impressive assortment of standard music entitled Now That's What I Call Music! 9. The 60s !1960: Pete Greatest joins the Beatles, The group invited Pete Greatest tobecome their drummer on 12 August 1960. 4 days after hiringBest, the group left for Hamburg. The Beatles started a 48-nightresidency in Hamburg at Bruno Koschmiders Indra Club.1961: American country singer Patsy Cline becomes a mainstreampop music hit.Cline was the first feminine vocalist who adapted to thechange and have become a profitable pop singer.Ziggy Marley is born: David Nesta "Ziggy" Marley (born October 17,1968, Trenchtown, Jamaica) is a 4-time Grammy-winningJamaican musician and chief of the band Ziggy Marley and theMelody makers. Canada has an extended custom of singer-songwriters and that's partly in because of its own folksong laureate", Gordon Lightfoot. Coming out of the Toronto 60s folks music scene, Lightfoot's native country would become his lifelong muse, penning such classics as ‘Canadian Railroad Trilogy' and ‘Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald' and yet common sufficient to appeal worldwide, turning him into Canada's most profitable modern people artist. A beloved cultural icon, he's been the beneficiary of numerous awards and honours together with the Companion of the Order of Canada - Canada's highest civilian honour. Other issues are actually extra speaking factors than criticisms. What's of a greater worth, an overview or the near microhistory of one thing like Jon Savage's 1966: The yr music exploded. You want each after all, although the hazard with a survey is that it may possibly seem to shape history to its narrative. So for instance Andrew Loog Oldham was instrumental in getting the Stones rolling, however they didn't suffer as a result of leaving him as instructed here. They want on to report their biggest albums, and a number of the greatest in the style. I exaggerate, of course. No historical past can wholly keep away from classes. But Ross's place to begin is novel all the same. In Paul Griffiths's "Concise History of Trendy Music" (1978), fashionable music begins with the delicious flute solo that opens Claude Debussy's "Pr¿lude ¿ l'apr¿s-midi d'un faune" (1894), simply as for Griffiths the theories of Boulez (who first touted the idea of Debussy as founding father of modernism) are the important thing to music since World Warfare II. But Ross makes gentle, to not say enjoyable, of the "pseudoscientific mentality" of the Darmstadt summer colleges in Germany, the place Boulez and Karlheinz Stockhausen held court within the early '50s, "researching" ever more cerebral ways of writing music. Instead of Debussy, he opens twentieth-century music with the Austrian premiere in Graz in 1906 of Richard Strauss's "Salome," a piece subsequently admired for its daring and also hated for its vulgarity. As for "bad" pop, for me, there are multiple reasons. When you may have a first-tier pop artist they usually deliver a dud at the start of their album cycle (Ed Sheeran), that's an unforced error. There is also earwormy songs that quickly become tiresome, the "MmmBop"s and "Shots"s of the world, that start out annoying and get an increasing number of annoying the more it airs. Some music is just shit, there is not rather more you possibly can say about it. "Battle Track" is a pile of garbage, however it has found its area of interest viewers (divorce parties; ineffective political campaigns). More than 230 music genres is still too abundant to create a comprehensible structure that permits straightforward orientation. The necessity for a overlaying framework is a matter that can be addressed in this chapter. Certain (although few) visual genealogies choose not to implement such framework, and don't (or vaguely) display clusters of associated music genres. When coping with quite detailed genealogies similar to musicmap, omitting a visible framework would seriously hurt any sensible use the map may need. Thankfully, this framework already exists as almost all genres belong to higher, properly-known areas" in the musical community, what we will name super-genres. Super-genres are merely the mum or dad style of any given style; the next-level, overarching family. Pop music is the style of standard music that produces the most hits. Successful is a tune that sells many copies, and the latest hits are listed every week on the charts. To get on the charts, a music must be released as a single, magicaudiotools.com although most singles are additionally launched on an album. Songs that become hits almost at all times share sure features which might be generally known as the pop-music formulation. They've a very good rhythm, a catchy melody, and are straightforward to remember and sing along to. They usually have a chorus that's repeated a number of times and two or more verses. Most pop songs are between two and 5 minutes lengthy, and the lyrics are usually about the joys and issues of love and relationships. Pop songs are produced by groups like the boy band One Course and the lady group Women' Technology, and by pop singers like Justin Bieber and Madonna. It takes a strong debut track to knock the Queen of Pop, Taylor Swift, off the highest of the pop charts. And that is what Cardi B did with the historically profitable "Bodak Yellow." The swaggering hit marked the primary time a female rapper scored a solo No. 1 song since Lauryn Hill in 1998. It makes complete sense, too, as the music takes Cardi B's no-fucks-given approach to life that made her an Instagram and reality star. If that is not the right encapsulation of in style culture in 2017, then I don't know what's. You will have seen the popular video four Chords" by the Axis of Awesome wherein 4 guys cycle amusingly by means of 50 pop songs in six minutes, interweaving recycled harmonic constructions to nice impact. At any price, you've actually heard these chords earlier than, again and again. Utilizing the Roman numerals of music concept, we could label them I, IV, and V, the bread and butter of the blues, along with the minor chord, vi. In the key of C, that might be C main, F main, G major, and A minor. The 4 chords will be arranged in a number of methods, and the Axis of Awesome make use of this by shuffling by songs which include completely different orderings, using their widespread chords to pivot.

Based on a crack group of Spanish philistines (using a complex snarkhive referred to as the Million Music Dataset), over the previous 55 years there has been "a progressive homogenization of the musical discourse." Which means transitions between combos of notes and chords has diminished: songs have much less modifications in them, and are less completely different from one another. As well as, the researchers used sophisticated algorithms to prove that pop music has change into considerably louder than it was in the course of the first half of the twentieth century, as record producers ramp up the quantity throughout the recording process.

[judeonthemove]

One Hundred And Nine Beds

We loved Ecuador so much we stayed an extra day. Although that's not strictly true, it sounds much better than: despite having a bulletproof plan for getting to the airport, arriving there four hours ahead of our flight, and sitting for two hours at what was initially promoted as the correct gate, we somehow conspired to miss our flight. We still have no idea when they changed the gate, why we didn't notice, or what on earth happened to their customer service announcements. Tiredness, relaxation and misplaced trust lulled us into false sense of security and we were rewarded with a monumental fuck up and no hint of an apology. There are few things you want to experience less at a foreign airport than the icicle stab in your guts of realising you are stuck in a territorial no-man's land, on the wrong side of a continent, facing a temporal and financial haemorrhage that you have to resolve in another language. There are the immediate practical problems to deal with of course, but also the wave of humiliation and self-recrimination. How on earth did we manage to make their mess into our problem? Staff members trooped us off around the airport getting our exit stamps annulled, and down to the basement where our rucksacks lay unceremoniously dumped by a door next to the tarmac. Just to underline our misdemeanours the narcotics police then proceeded to dismantle our bags. It was surreal and strangely violating to see your sorry pile of belongings through a stranger's eyes; that the backbone of your life for ten months is nothing but crap. Given that we weren't drug smugglers, we were allowed to proceed with our walk of shame back through security and baggage reclaim before facing the inevitable at the airline ticket desk. Mercifully the woman on duty had fluent English and quickly reassured us that for the bargain price of a lost day and $198 we could still get to Rio de Janeiro. Painful, but nothing like as wounding as I'd feared. There was nothing but a web address to consult about our complaints, and we were sent off into the night.

Reluctant to bankrupt ourselves further and urgently feeling in need of some control we found a nearby town on the map, jumped on a local bus, and hustled down a dark, desolate road in search of accommodation. Our hunch that anywhere that close to an airport would feature hostals was correct and we holed up for the night, spending our last few dollars on pizza and beer, and hurriedly trying to make contact with our hotel in Rio. It was a prime case of sod's law that having decided to blow the accommodation budget on our final lodgings (a whole £30 a night, woooooooh!), we wantonly discarded a night of our booking. So here we are, back at Quito airport, paranoidly sat below the departures board at our supposed gate. Three hours should do it today.

...

Shortly after dawn we were hurtling through the streets of Rio on a transfer bus, astonished at seeing a huge high rise city again. Rio was covered in simple black graffiti tags at street level and at impossible heights all over tower blocks, bridges, and industrial buildings. The city had the appearance of having been infected with a rash of kanji. Delivered just a block from our hotel, we weaved around encampments of rough sleepers. At six in the morning it was already hot, and the bracing smell of human waste and desperation competed with the tropical plants of the park. While we might have been late, at least we had a bed to sleep in and a home to go back to. The kindly night receptionist was waiting for us and pointed out that the breakfast buffet had just opened. A quality breakfast was one of our pre-requisites when deciding where to stay so there was quite a weight of expectation upon it. Still wired from the events of the previous thirty-six hours, and suffering from no sleep and another two hour forward time jump, we were a bit over-excitable. There was a lift, carpeted hallways, key-cards, and a great room with a massive bed and powerful, hot shower. It could have been the Ritz and not felt like a better treat. We fell on the breakfast buffet like vultures then passed out until the late afternoon.

Other than for references to the quality night life, ‘sketchy' was the main adjective we’d seen used in relation our new neighbourhood of Lapa. We divested ourselves of valuables and ventured out on a quest for orientation, dinner and some good old Brazilian beer. Finding ourselves in a sports bar we utilised our best pointing and smiling technique in the acquisition of some tea. Portuguese might look like Spanish, but it sounds like Hungarian and we were utterly clueless once more. After fuelling up, some more beer was in order and it just so happens that Rio is full of actual bars, not cafes that might serve beer, but beer emporia that might serve snacks. Yes the area was a bit moody in places, but not to the extent that you'd hide in your hotel, and there was more than a hint of promise for the weekend. We soaked it up for a while then headed back, detouring by the hotel roof to survey the scene. We were surprised to find the view dominated by a terrifying Mayan temple-style ziggurat in brutalist concrete. Behind the local aqueduct-cum-tourist tramline it lurked, gigantic and awful. A swift search revealed it was a cathedral, possibly the most dystopian fantasy cathedral ever.

Rio being a big city, we had to be modest with our expectations of what was achievable in a few days. We stayed local on the first morning, visiting the bohemian hillside neighbourhood of Santa Theresa via the tram. At the top was a theatre in a ruined colonial villa and an art gallery with marmosets in the garden. The views towards Sugar Loaf Mountain and Christ the Redeemer helped shape our itinerary for the remainder of the week. We picked around the twisty cobbled streets and managed not to punch the army of selfie-takers on the Selarón Stairs. The artist burned himself to death at the foot of his meticulously tiled staircase but this grisly fact seemed to be lost on the crowd as they posed and obstructed on the same spot. Once in possession of the right kind of ticket, we zipped off on the metro to check out Ipanema beach. James is very much a mogwai when it comes to beaches and should never be made wet or sandy, but once installed on a rented chair even he admitted it was an excellent place and suggested we should do some more beachiness. In my imagination, the beaches of Rio are full of impossibly beautiful people so it was encouraging to find all sorts present and enjoying themselves. Beach life is serious business, involving lots of team sports, sexy casual style, and alcohol. Enterprising stalls set up each day supplying chairs, parasols and drinks, and disappear again at sunset spirited away in VW campervans. Despite the breaking waves I managed a bit of a swim in the Atlantic and we chilled out as the sun went down. It was time to get formally acquainted with the caipirinha, Brazil's national drink. I suspect that caipirinha is viewed as some sort of human right in Brazil. It is ubiquitous, and invariably both the cheapest drink available and blindingly strong. It's also delicious of course, which set the tone for the remainder of the week.

Thursday saw us on the cable car up to Sugarloaf Mountain, for a spectacular view of the city and the incoming weather. On the way there we'd walked past the very swanky yacht club and therefore had a second chance to be envious, admiring the miniature yachts from above as they flew across the bay. The irony is there is no ‘January River' as Rio de Janeiro translates, the first Europeans to discover the place were mistaken. Guanabara Bay certainly looked like a mighty fine sailing ground though. We followed the short nature walk at the top and soon became enveloped in increasingly thick cloud. With the wind picking up and Rio now largely invisible, we descended once more. We pursued our plan to visit Copacabana but remained beach adjacent, supping caipirinhas and attempting to understand the rules of the foot/volley-ball hybrid game everyone plays. The sea did not look too safe for swimming, and as the sun went down it started to rain with a vengeance. Lightning pounded the sky above the mountains and ocean. Eventually we had to acknowledge it wasn't going to stop and had to make a run for it. Drenched, but still warm and cheerful we grabbed some food and called it a night. Across the road from our hotel, a mysterious festival was being set up.

We have breakfasted incrementally later as the week has progressed, which may or may not relate to the exponential increase in our alcohol consumption. Getting mobilised eventually on Friday morning, we went to investigate the intimidating cathedral. Like a reverse tardis it somehow seemed smaller on the inside. Smaller but still a vast open space with stained glass streaming down the walls from a glass cross in the roof. It was calm, cool and bold. Arriving at the modern art gallery by a rather leisurely midday was not a problem, as it emerged they only opened at midday, thus giving our tardiness the appearance of planning. Fully arted up we went for a wander round the waterfront and ran into what might have been some sort of naval graduation ceremony. Military bands in full uniform greeted dignitaries while bodyguards watched over the proceedings. We admired the architecture of one of Rio's newest museums but chose Coke and churros outside over going in. Our diabetes-baiting was rewarded with more rain so we trotted back to base for a disco nap as Rio geared up for Friday night.

When we re-emerged, Lapa had transformed itself into party central with innumerable samba bars featuring live bands. Off-licences doubled as bars, with crowds ranged across the pavements or sitting on the city's shared bicycles. Bar stalls crowded in the central reservation, and people with modified bikes and hand carts sold booze on the move. This was not the place for sobriety. While our ruined clothes made us look a bit down at heel inside the hotel, we fitted right in on the street. Urine, drains and cigarette smoke competed with frying snack food and the ever present zing of lime wedges. Groups of friends sang and danced in and around the bars, dodging traffic as the crowds swelled into the road. The mystery festival turned out to be a Christian music weekender. One couldn't help but feel they were fighting a losing battle. We lined our stomachs and got into the spirit of things at a restaurant before going on to a bar. The early hours found us under the aqueduct arches, clutching mind-bendingly strong, half-litre, 90p caipirinhas, and swaying to Christian rock in the rain.

Saturday was a slow start, followed by a restorative breakfast and post-breakfast sleep. We eventually hauled ourselves back up to Santa Theresa for a longer look around and a nice walk in the sunshine. After my ordering error in Baños I finally got stroganoff for my tea, and hoped this wouldn't be an ill-advised choice ahead of another night on the beers. We'd noticed protesters gathering earlier in the day, and many of them were partying in Lapa. Clearly it was something to do with next week's general election. The reported front-runner, representing the hard right, is currently recovering from being stabbed. These cheerful revellers were altogether more peaceful in their opposition to him, choosing stickers, glitter and dancing in the street as their weapons of choice. We steered clear of the cocktails but still made a poor attempt at getting a slightly earlier night. We looked up the hashtag of the campaign stickers and chanting, and discovered that #elenão meant #nothim, a cry of protest against misogyny, homophobia and racism.

Sunday, appropriately enough, involved a visit to Giant Jesus, or Christ the Redeemer as the statue is known to all but me. The figure watches over the city from high above and, while prominent, had seemed smaller than expected from the vantage points we'd had up to then. A Swiss-style train took us from the base of the mountain, up the steep, forested slopes to the undeniably enormous statue. All around the main platform, people lay prostrate at the feet of Christ. They weren't praying, or indeed even looking at the statue, but rather were all busily taking photos of each other; lying on the ground to get the same crucial shot from below. Arms outstretched, their backs to the statue, superimposing themselves over one of the modern wonders of the world. While the sights on the viewing decks were plain annoying, the views from them were superb, taking in the bay, mountains, city and beaches in 360°. We could have happily stayed up there for hours, but we'd promised ourselves a second crack at Copacabana and daylight hours were running short. Arriving on the bus, it was immediately apparent that some huge party was in full swing. The dual carriageway next to the beach was closed to traffic and full of floats and thousands of people. It was a powerful cross between a Pride parade and political rally. The tide was up and the sea so rough that lifeguards were patrolling on jet-skis and preventing people from swimming. My swim kit stayed in my bag and rather than sit on the beach as planned, we grabbed a drink and joined in. While it might not have been our election, it was a great opportunity to show solidarity. We picked a sound system we liked and danced alongside the slow moving lorry down the full length of Copacabana. We arrived several hours later hammered, starving and covered in glitter. Ending as we began in Santiago, our final dinner in this continent involved meat on chips, a South American staple. Clearly we couldn't just leave it there, as Sunday night samba was in full swing back in Lapa. Street-stall caipirinhas in hand we stood on the pavement admiring other people's dance moves and looking back on our trip. Our livers are quietly glad we are not staying longer.

We believe we have slept in one hundred and nine beds over the past ten months. This includes a bamboo stretcher in the forests of Laos, a tent in Thailand, wild campsites in an Australian van, and a boat down the Amazon. It does not account for all the overnight planes, trains and buses that we have variously enjoyed and endured. Thinking of it like this it seems incredible, yet here we are; it's the first of October and we're about to go home. Many of my clothes are about to go in the bin, together with the owl-patterned bag that has been slung across my body almost every day and is a veteran of our Japan our India trips before that. It's like discarding faithful friends. I have no idea what's coming next and am merrily avoiding thinking about it until we're home and the dust settles. As I lie here in Rio thinking of what a wonder, challenge and privilege it has been to do this, our tiny, huge earth rotates beneath me. We will soon be racing back across the Atlantic to the lovely Peels who will await us at Heathrow. For those of you who have managed to read this far, you’ve got through eighteen of these missives and who knows how many tens of thousands of words. Thank you for your interest, it's been lovely to have someone else to talk to.

[ironinass]

birthday - spamano

   Antonio had been waiting all day. Guests had come and gone, cake had been eaten, the sun was on its descent, and Lovino still wasn't here.    He had to come! It was Antonio's birthday, after all, his twenty-fifth. He would at least expect his boyfriend to come and see him.     With a strangled, forced sigh, Antonio slumped onto the couch. A telenovela was on, but he wasn't paying attention. He might as start on the dinner he was planning to make for them, but he was so tired...     The Spanish man rested his head on a pillow and tried to imagine that it was Lovino's lap he was lying in, but damn, the pillow didn't have thin fingers that ran through his hair, or lips that kissed him.       Come to think of it, that would be a little more than creepy, so he was content with that, but damnit, he wanted Lovino! He groaned in discomfort and tried to watch the telenovela.     By the time the fifth love interest had made his dramatic entrance, Antonio's eyelids were drooping. He didn't want this stupid telenovela. He wanted Lovino to tell him happy birthday and to kiss him, and he'd better! He was late!      Antonio sat up and rubbed the sleepiness out of his eyes, but he was still tired. He'd take a nap afterwards- it was cheese time.     His friend, Francis, had gifted him with frankly delicious cheese from France for his birthday. He had wanted to share it with his lovely Lovino, but that lovely Lovino wasn't here, so it was fair.      He smeared it onto a cracker triumphantly, then ate it with a satisfying crunch. "Ha! Peasants miss out on this kind of cheese," he said haughtily to brighten his dismal mood. "Only the noblest of heroes can ever dream of ea- oh, gosh, that's smelly."      He didn't bother with the cheese after that. He put it in the back of the refrigerator, to be found months later, and headed back to the couch.     He changed the channel to Animal Planet and was immediately calmed. Baby sea turtles, oh, how cute...      He was asleep in three seconds flat.

   He awoke to a deep, rich baritone voice. Oh, he knew that one well. He refused to open his eyes. This man hadn't come home on time, so this was his price!     Antonio could just tell that he was frowning, but as Lovino spoke, the affection was clear. "Is my prince ignoring me?"     Oh, pulling the prince card. He saw how it was. He opened his eyes halfway, and was surprised to see a soft smile on Lovino's face. He narrowed his eyes at the Italian man.    "You're late." He spoke sharply, and his eyes were closed again. He felt a gentle hand on his cheek, but he wasn't just going to give up!      Lovino sighed. Antonio could feel his breath on his face as he apologized with the slightest hint of sarcasm, "Well, if I could drop everything for you I would, but I have to pay bills on my apartment, you know."      The Spaniard grumbled, "That's yet another reason why you should move in with me. My apartment is bigger, anyway!" He opened his eyes and pretended to be annoyed with him, but Lovino was having none of it. He sat on the couch and pulled Antonio's head into his lap. Antonio certainly couldn't complain about that.     Lovino ignored the proposition. He had been asked that at least twice, and each time, he'd made an excuse. Antonio knew he'd accept when he was ready, though, so he wasn't too worried.      "It was hard finding a present for you, you know," he stated, running his fingers through Antonio's thick mess of curls. "You're too hard to shop for."      "Because you love me so much," Antonio said confidently, and they both knew it was true. He couldn't help but murmur an affirmative, "Right?"       The Italian pulled at a curl and snorted, "No, I've been cheating on you with both of your best friends and I was trying to find a gift that would basically say 'hey I'm fucking your friends, ciao'." He poked Antonio's nose and growled teasingly, "Of course I love you, you little shit."     Antonio couldn't help it and chuckled, "That's good." He jutted out his lips and asked childishly, "So what did you get me?"     Lovino pulled out a small box and, before Antonio's heart could start to beat faster, he pulled out a small gold ring, much like the ones on his own fingers. He fit it onto Antonio's right middle finger. As Antonio admired it with wide eyes, he shrugged, "You said you liked my rings, so I got you one." His eyes flickered with doubt. "Do you- um. Do you like it?"      The Spaniard smiled and looked up at him adoringly. "Gracias!" He cooed, and used his amazing (according to a certain Italian) abdominal muscles to lean up and press a kiss to Lovino's jaw. He rubbed the ring with his thumb.    He'd always admired Lovino's rings, really. The stories of how he'd gotten them were cool, too! Some of them were old. Antonio liked to kiss them. Would Lovino kiss him? Oh, that'd be nice.    He snapped out of it as Lovino exclaimed with a suppressed smile, "But wait, there's more!" He reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a piece of paper. He handed it to Antonio and watched, amused, as he read it.     "Vacation notice?" He smiled up at him, confused. "You're on vacation for a month? That's cool, but..." He was silenced by Lovino's pointer finger on his lips.     Lovino shifted where he sat and mumbled, "I was thinking, maybe, if you wouldn't mind, I could try the apartment out? Like a test run, you know?"     The Spaniard's eyes grew wide as saucers. "You're- you really mean it? For a whole month?" All Lovino had to do was nod slowly, and Antonio found that his arms flew around him on their own.     Lovino returned his hug and remarked, "Happy birthday, sweetheart."     Antonio could only grin. He'd received the best present he could have asked for this year- and he was staying for a month. He captured Lovino's lips in his own, comfortable.     When they pulled away from each other, Lovino made a face. Antonio frowned, confused, until Lovino asked slowly, "Toni, since when do you eat fancy cheese?"    He could only smile and kiss him again.

[sam-oflaherty]

It’s been a while. So here’s a short story.

It’s something I wrote long ago as a rambling, poorly thought out, quasi-autobiographical piece. It’s called the Wizard and the Wandering Man, or something.

----

CHAPTER 1:

To find oneself on the floor of the aisle

The hum of refrigeration and fluorescent lighting didn’t sound very gentle to him. In fact, he found its insect-like incessancy rather agitating. His state of mind was already relatively unstable.

There was no music – not even the elevator kind. The hard linoleum floor was uneven at the joins and polished to look like marble. And save for the rattling shadow of his trolley, it reflected the artificial lighting with a brightness that made him squint and think of waking up late, drunk, and hospitals, and death. This, inevitably, led him to ponder his own hopelessness. Confusion, self-doubt and rage – directed at himself and the world around him – murmured alongside more practical wonderings. Things like the unnerving realization that he was almost entirely alone in there.

He was just one of those kinds of people.

His moustache was thick, dark and heavy. It dominated the lower part of his face and had even caused, on a couple of occasions, the recently introduced to adopt what could be best described as a Mediterranean accent while talking to him. If it were not for a pair of piercing green eyes, rimmed with dark, long and almost straight lashes that glistened with tears when he yawned or spoke with uncomfortable frankness about his feelings, one might not have noticed that he was, in fact, beautiful.

“Call me Ismael,” he said to himself as he passed the frozen fish. Then he suddenly realized the narcissism of the act, especially considering his solitude. It then occurred to him that he disliked frozen fish simply because it didn’t smell like fish. It worried him for a few more seconds. He passed the loaves of hardening bread, the bundles of wilting flowers and packages of weeping spinach. The cereal aisle was all bright colours and calls-to-action veiled in invented health benefits. He thought for a moment whether the extravagant sugar content in some of them actually caused the labels to shine with enchanting radioactivity.

A couple of deep and thoughtfully miserable breaths whistled through his moustache. He was wandering. Brooding, breathing, and wandering. He wasn’t necessarily lost in there. He knew where he was. But he had no aim. He had touched various things on his journey, even picked up a packet of gnocchetti at one stage and held them to his nose. But his trolley continued the same, weightless rattle over the linoleum joins.

“Ah! There you are.”

At this unexpected interruption of his melancholy one corner of his moustache jumped upwards, quizzically, along with the opposite eyebrow.

A Wizard shuffled toward him, one crooked arm raised, suggesting he wait there. A Wizard? He wondered why such a name had been occurred to him above anything else. He lowered his eyebrow, then his moustache too, and squinted to get a better look at this Wizard before it came too close. After a quick appraisal, he soon decided ‘Wizard’ was not such an outlandish deduction.  

He saw street darkened feet, wrapped in straps of worn leather and buckle. He saw a nondescript grey robe – although it was too heavy and stiff to billow dramatically like in the films. He saw a long, once white beard dipped in ash and beer. And most of all, he saw a hat. The brim drooped and shadowed the Wizard’s soft, wrinkled face and hid the brightness (or madness) in his curiously large eyes. The pointed top was bent to one side. It was a ridiculous wizard’s hat – but one that did not seem so ridiculous on such a man.

He must have just been one of those kinds of people.

“So how have you been doing?” The Wizard spoke with disarming familiarity. He had a thick, closed accent that revealed nothing more than untraceable origins and innumerable influences.

“OK. I suppose.”

“Good. Good. So, old friend, how is it…”

“Hey. Hang on. Who…?” The moustache and eyebrow sprung back into their interrogative positions.

The Wizard simply ignored his question and carried on, uninterrupted. The moustached victim looked around, embarrassed, wondering whether anyone else had noticed this character. But he saw no one else. He decided the Wizard was quite clearly insane. And you never can be too careful with crazy people. Best to hear him out for a bit.

It turned out most of what was said that day made perfect sense. The Wizard was full of friendly chatter, rude proverbs and an impressive array of wisdoms. He spoke constantly, frankly and captivatingly as he led his bewildered companion around the aisles.

The Wizard never actually touched any of the items on the shelves. Nor did he ever place any into the rattling trolley. Instead, with a gnarled and sun spotted hand hooked under his new friend’s elbow, he made small gestures – the vague indication with a crooked, hook-nailed finger, the raised eyebrows and slight upward inclination of the head – and encouragements to his confidante to pick things up himself. The trolley’s rattle softened to a faint tap under the weight.

All the while they chatted – rather one carried on croakily and the other listened and let himself be led – in a dreamy, casual way that beguiled any suspicions the latter held initially. They covered everything from broad concepts of life and death to the just as important minutiae of newspaper prices and the strangely pleasurable feeling aroused by inducing cramps into the bottom of one’s foot.

Abruptly, the moustached man experienced a moment of what he thought was mental clarity and independence of thought. He laughed at the Wizard. He swore at the Wizard and degraded him for the hobo he was. At this outburst of cruelty on his partner’s part, the Wizard wandered off. He waved a hand nonchalantly past his ear as he departed, mumbling something about “get some liquor.”

The trolley ceased to sound when the Wizard left. One wheel, higher than the others, continued spinning, expectantly, slightly off the floor. A reactionary gap opened up just below its pusher’s moustache. He was immediately assailed by a feeling of whose main ingredients could be recognized as confusion, querulousness and outright rage. (Rage was kind of his thing). Within seconds, confusion proved to be the strongest flavour. Sure, this Wizard was probably a hobo. Maybe both. But why was he so cruel?

Then, with nonchalance and a ‘humph’ at the ridiculousness of the situation, he started to carry on his way. It was a vain attempt to shake off the shame caused by his own cruelty. And a sign of sincere, unexplainable regret.

The realization of this regret began to overwhelm him. He stopped abruptly again – after just three or four steps this time. The one, raised wheel spun momentarily, then stopped.

“Fuck.”

With a sigh, he sat down on the cold, hard, shined-to-marble linoleum floor. The artificial light was not so bright down here. He crossed his legs and rested his elbows just above the inside of his knees. He rested his face in his hands. The pressure squashed his cheeks into his teeth.

He realized he was hungry. Hungry for something delicious. He had intended to pick up a couple of microwaveable dinners – he once tested his culinary talents with reasonable success, but laziness and self-pity (and a predisposition of character in which one flaw inflates the other and vice versa) meant beans on toast and other basic, unsatisfying and bad-for-the-soul concoctions had made up most of his diet for the last few years. It was not just a question of what to cook – it was a question of how. He seriously doubted his ability to boil an egg at this stage.

If it weren’t for his moustache right then, one would have seen his lower lip tremble. Only the dimpling of his chin belied any emotion more profound than the blank look in his eyes.

Then, with a rustling of leather on linoleum and wool on old skin, the Wizard wandered past. He carried a bottle of Irish whiskey and a larger bottle of red wine. The man on the floor caught half the label – Campo Viejo… Spanish, he decided.

“So, I was half right” he said.

The Wizard stopped. “Of course. But half wrong too.”

“You’re not just a Wizard, or a hobo. You’re a drunk.”

“Ah.” The Wizard looked away from the pitiful source of this malice, which still sat cross-legged on the floor. He gazed into the middle distance (in this case much shorter than usual, as the distance to the opposite shelf, covered in tinned tomatoes, was not very far). His lips wavered as though he was about to say something. And then he did.

“C’mon” he said, looking the moustached man in the eye. He cleared his throat in what might have been an involuntary expression of awkwardness and continued. “Look at your trolley. You’ve everything you need. And you know how.”

At this, he received a blank, dejected look.

“Oh dear. Alright then, my friend. I’ll help you if you like.”

A twinkle of brightness flickered through the doubt and despair that cloaked the eyes of the man on the floor of the aisle. His moustache began to thin and stretch into an apprehensive, bushy smile.

[abiteofnat]

AVOCADON’T EVEN TELL ME ABOUT WHERE THERE IS GOOD GUAC… 

Because last month in six days I ate Mexican food for dinner six times. That’s right, every single dinner somehow started with a big ole basket of tortilla chips and ended with greasy fingers and 3-6 tacos in my stomach.  I think at one point I just began to expect that my night would end in rice and corn tortillas, and then it just kept happening…

Is this anywhere near a complaint? ABSOLUTELY NOT. Mexican is in my top three favorite categories of food, the other two being Italian and Mediterranean (but bagels always, always coming in first above all), and so I tend to be a harsh critic. There’s also different types of Mexican food: the traditional, authentic type that’s hard to find but life changing when you do, the 3 a.m. places that are the real reason we even go out in the first place so we can end up in front of a chimichanga of shame after a somewhat irritating house party, and then the nearly authentic kind that has a dash of flair added. I LOVE ‘EM ALL. Most of these will be a mix of the first and last kind, as everyone who knows me knows the only 3 a.m. place I frequent is Allende Restaurant even though everyone else is a Taco Burrito Palace bitch. That Allende rice and white tile walls; nothing will comfort you and your premature hangover quite like it. When your friend is crying over that fuckboy and your friend’s friend drank about six beers too many? Take them to Allende! Can’t cry when you’re choking on horchata! 

I haven’t done a good taco roundup in a while and for a city that loovvesss margaritas as much as Chicago does it’s about time. How can I even write this after being up to my ears in salsa verde without wanting to throw up? IT WAS ALL JUST THAT GOOD. I’m living vicariously through my own memories from the past week and I am legitimately excited to write about these tacos.  

HERE WE GO. 

1. Adobo Grill 

On any given menu, there’s about 10% of things I have no interest in eating. Add on the 80% I can’t actually eat due to being vegetarian, and that leaves 10% of a menu that is up for grabs. The fact that the happy hour taco offered the night we went to Adobo Grill was one of the most astounding tacos I’ve ever had literally blows my mind- what! are! the! odds! For $2 a piece you could assume that it’s going to be chicken, beef, or some odd mixture because at Adobo the taco platters come in sets of three tacos with rice and beans for $15-19 so why would they give the good stuff for cheap… AND INSTEAD IT WAS A LUCIOUS FISH TACO, GRILLED TO GOLDEN PERFECTION. Topped with pico de gallo and spicy mayo sauce? Add in some of their fresh to death guac and a little spicy red salsa? It was almost tooooo good. The single corn tortilla held up beautifully against the moist, meaty fish and they did not skimp on anything even though it was 5:30 p.m. and happy hour drinks were flowing and the restaurant could have really taken advantage of that. These tacos have not left my mind, or my heart… 

Another thing so wonderful about this place: the patio! It’s open and covered in tasteful twinkle lights, with the giant mural (pictured) of a happy skeleton man a and some flowers that play off the orange and purple hues of the decor. To sit outside right across from Second City (great date night all in one city block!) and sip a Modelo pretty much means fucking euphoria, and then add in guac that actually tastes like guac and not avocado slime? KABOOM. As much as I want to say all guac is good guac Adobo puts a lot of places to shame (cough cough Chipotle how the frick is that shit celebrated so widely) and gives you a TON of incredible guac for $9. Chip score: 8/10. Guac score: 10/10. Vibes: 10/10. 

Insider scoop: Go for happy hour until 6 p.m., splurge for guac, add the salsa to everything, and order a side of plantains with sour cream. Never had plantains before? This is the perfect place to just trust the food blogger and go for it because you will DIE OVER THEM. 

2. Big Star

BIG STAR IS MY KING, QUEEN, AND THE ENTIRE KINGDOM. If you live in Chicago, and it is above freeze-my-nuts-off temperature, it is patio weather and any restaurant that puts 2 chairs and a table out front will be considered a patio destination. Like Adobo (but even better) Big Star goes above and beyond as it’s a mainly-patio restaurant, with bulb lights lights above every stainless steel table and the warmest, most inviting outdoor seating there is once the sun goes down. You can watch the people, see some street art, watch the Blue Line zoom by, and walk to Stan’s Donuts for a wide array of treats afterward (aka a blueberry cheese danish, YUMBO). 

Located in Wicker Park, a very artsy n’ cute section of Chicago that’s a bit more on the ~trendy~ side since lots of blogged about restaurants have opened up, Big Star offers tacos a la carte and the best chips and guacamole on that side of the highway. I have gone for the past two years close to my birthday to celebrate because the pitchers are insanely alcoholic and also delicious, serving about 6 glasses in each pitcher. With one marg being $9 and a pitcher being $36, it is an absolute steal and even if only two people are at the table it is worth the high price tag. Best part is that the pitcher comes with a wooden ladle which adds to the vibe of Big Star, but is also hilarious to stir your vat of tequila and juice with. Like witch’s potion, but probably even more dangerous! 

Once everyone is seated and with drink, it’s time for the poor waiter to scream over everyone to take the order. While Big Star is mostly outside, it’s verryyyyy loud due to the sheer amount of people and the music pumping from the inside section that leaves the doors/ windows wide open. We were seated near the window and with a group of ten, it was one of those nights that leaves your voice hoarse and your ears ringing but feeling like you had a good as heck time! My favorite vegetarian tacos are the:

- Taco de Zananhorias: try ordering that when you do not speak Spanish and are two margs deep! This taco is the best yet overlooked one on the menu, featuring spiced cooked carrots that are savory and still have a crunch to them, pumpkin seeds for flavor and texture, and an incredible spicy date & yogurt dressing that offers a chipotle kick to offset the sweetness of the carrots and the dates. Wrapped in a corn tortilla, this taco is actually a filling veggie taco that doesn’t just taste like red peppers topped in guac! Which is like 99% of most vegetarian tacos! The flavors in this are worth more than $2.50 a pop, which is what it will cost you. 

- Taco de Pescado: Your typical and delicious fried tilapia taco! Beer battered and with the expected crunch of cabbage, top with some line for a perfect fish taco. This is a good standby if you’re weary of the more creative ones. 

- THE WALKING TACO: Most of the table ordered this one! It’s a DAMN fever dream to eat! Let me preface by saying honey BBQ twist Fritos are my most coveted, most guilty snack that I find myself eating far too often and usually when I’m having a flip off the universe and treat yourself moment. So take the trusted, panty-dropping crunch of the Frito and then add buffalo sauce, beans, cheese, crema, and cilantro? STILL IN THE SNACK SIZE FRITO BAG? AND YOU EAT IT ALL WITH A FORK? FUCKIN NUTS GUYS. I know for a fact this stretches the authentic “Mexican food” title, but man that was a great business decision to include it. Once a year, as a birthday treat, the Walking Taco is my bitch. 

Shoutout to Big Star, the ideal location for any event that needs tequila. 

3. Garcia’s Restaurant 

Garcia’s feels like home due to the amount of times a meal there has included the same group of close friends, emotional conversations about sorority stuff, and late night escapes from boys that don’t understand when they’re ridiculous, we will go get mole and strawberry daiquiris instead of dealing with them. While I have no photos to share, I do have memories and the assurance that this place is truly authentic. From the large wooden chairs to the flags on the wall, atmosphere lacks but the food is absolutely incredible. I always order the Cheese Enchiladas with mole poblano on top, and it is the real mole that makes you warm from the inside out. It’s thick with notes of cocoa, spices, and not too sweet- almost bittersweet in fact, and with the pull of cheese inside chewy tortillas all rolled up underneath it is a rare find indeed. 

The chips & salsa take the cake in my book; they’re perfectly crispy and not greasy, and the salsa will make your eyes water but then before you know it your face is soaking wet because you ate ALL OF THE SALSA ANYWAY. Hurts so good, you know? 

And as mentioned the strawberry daiquiri is DOPE DOPE DOPE. Huge for the price, sweet and sugary with all the spicy food, and perfect for late night gossip. Or pregaming, either one. 

4. Taco Diablo 

An Evanston favorite! The OG Taco Diablo opened a few years ago and was an instant hit in the North Shore as it was a dark, intimate den of Mexican food, a place for casual drinks, and coated in sugar skull paintings and weird demonic creatures dancing around the bar area. Given the logo has little devils in it, it’s fitting that here they take a sultry, somewhat naughty approach to decor and food. We went once or twice a week and craved their guac that has a very specific lime & garlic undertone to it in the best way guac ever could, and the baskets of thin chips with rock salt sprinkled on the sides. 

No one was prepared for the morning we woke up and Beloved Taco Diablo had burned down, along with it’s neighboring restaurant Pine Yard. Needless to say, everyone was SHOOK and really genuinely upset that this tragedy struck such loved, run-by-good-people places. So then even more was no one prepared when the ashes were burried and from them rose A NEW TACO DIABO RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET! The owners of this cantina and the conjoining (long time closed) Asian-influence restaurant Lulu’s bought a double lot across the street and just went gung-ho on giving Evanston two of their favorite places back, which was like Christmas 100x over. The tacos from Taco Diablo AND the sesame peanut noodles from Lulu’s??? Next door??? HECKIN’ YES. I have literally downed a -very strong- marg with friends at Taco Diablo and then placed an order for the noodles to go to enjoy later in bed, and if that’s not employing DEMAND AND SUPPLY IDK WHAT IS. 

Go here for dinner with friends, a second date or a weekly drink date, and to sample every fucking thing on the menu. Especially the chilaquiles!!! 

5. Depot Nuevo

This one is hardest to type because we adore it, cherish it, crave it, owe many years of our lives to it way too much and in fact I will be here this week a couple times already. Depot graced our lives many moons ago in Wilmette and quickly became the neighborhood hub, as it’s downtown and in a real, separate house with a wraparound porch and the same smiling faces greeting you every single time. The menu offers your typical Mexican favorites such as tacos, fajitas, burritos + bowls, and of course guac and salsa, but with a slightly more upscale twist in a casual yet good-enough-for-a-life-event setting. The shrimp taco filled with crispy grilled shrimp, spicy crema, and actual slices of avocado are in my list of favorite foods in the entire world, but order the cheese quesadilla with a side of avocado and rice and holy frickle frackle you will never see quesadillas as a children’s food again. The cheese is juicy, chewy, stretchy, buttery, everything you could imagine and more. House-made corn tortillas and red salsa are impossible to describe, and the pomegranate margarita is the sweet n’ sour necessity to the meal that will linger in your mind for days afterward until you go back. 

Don’t brush it off because it’s in the quiet and sleepy suburbs. It is constantly busy, turnt, and I promise people in my friend group will be there heckling the staff and demanding elite service because we keep them in business. I THANK AND APPRECIATE YOUR WORK, DEPOT! 

That’s all I’ve got for you today friends, I hope this helps shape some weekend plans and gives you some new happy hour spots! What are your favorite Mexican restaurants?? Always looking for new places! 

-Natalie 

[cursedlightwood]

ITS OKAY IVE NEVER BEEN TO ARGENTINA (but I want to go)

Anyways fuCK YES TO THE MACHU PICCHU STUFF!! To avoid the crowds they portal in glamored after it closes and watch the sunset and look at the stars. Also Magnus lying about having been there for the Incan empire is peak BUT actually the last Incan stronghold didn’t fall until 1572! Show!magnus doesn’t have a canon age, and i think sometimes in the show it’s implied he’s a decent bit older. If he was like a century-ish older at least (or even 70 some years) it’s possible he could have at least seen the Incan empire (while maybe not at its peak unless he rly is like, 800). Also he definitely visited Machu Picchu before it was officially “discovered” in like the early 1900s. Warlocks definitely knew about that shit and he totally explored it before it was officially “discovered.” BUT YES Magnus telling him all kinds of dumb facts and making Alec laugh and the two of them just sitting together up there looking over the view, like with Magnus’s head leaned on Alec’s shoulder just like relaxed and happy..ugh.

ALSO YEA THE FOOD!!! Alec dying trying inca kola is. relatable. But also him trying to find drinks he likes in Peru. Magnus keeps trying to get him to try Peruvian wines and they’re all sweet as fuck and it’s ruining his life. Magnus definitely likes pisco sours. Alec likes chica morada a little. I imagine that Magnus eats ANYTHING and while Alec is trying to branch out he’s still a littleee picky because he’s used to eating like the same 6 things at the institute. And Izzy tries to cook so much wack shit that he’s wary of anything else. But Magnus is convincing him to try new things and he likes it a lot bc even if he doesn’t like the food he likes watching Magnus eat food that he likes bc it makes Magnus happy and he’s cute when he’s happy. He probably just orders like lomo salado all the time. Magnus rly likes ceviche and gets Alec to try like 90000 types of it. Also like, choclo con queso and all the different types of delicious potatoes...fuck Peruvian food is so good, dude. Also them shopping at markets together and Alec being amazed with all of the fruits and veggies and foods he’s never seen before. And Magnus haggling his little heart out to get good prices and chatting with all the ppl selling stuff but then giving them extra money anyways. All in like, flawless Spanish.

I probably COULD write a 300 page novel about them in peru. Bc we’re just talking about lima and Machu Picchu and food...but like cusco and arequipa and the whole sacred valley and trujillo and huacachina and puno and iquitos and cajamarca and Peru is just such a like beautiful and diverse country and I think they would both love it fUCK

not to be all like mi latinoamérica querida or anything but can you imagine a malec date in buenos aires? with all these crochet thingies they put on trees and all the street artists everywhere and these cheeky tourist-y tango dancers on the street? magnus being tipped over dramatically and taking pics, smiling delightedly and alec just looks at him like he invented the damn stars. they eat and laugh and of course magnus speaks fluent spanish and alec fucking sucks so bad. he daBbLES but really izzys the one whos good at languages and he struggles a lot and its so fucking funny. and they eat alfajores and magnus' fancy ass is all like ah yes the delicacy of argentinian dulce de leche theres nothing quite like it. and alec is just like hey miss can i buy this in bulk. and its fun because buenos aires is so lively and effervescent and shit and theyre giggling and being dorky and when they get back alec is all like "yeah i loved it. the citys so beautiful, it reminds me of you" like dont touch me okay im very emotional rn

[rayalez]

smut

0I don’t tell him I think handsome guys with heavy Spanish accent always sound like characters from a cheap soap opera. That might be a bit rude. But, to be honest, I think que way every “s” of his turns into a double “s” and some words get misplaced here and there is kind of cute.

He’s very tall, too tall for the tiny couch where we spend the night. I’m not small either, and we try to hug but end up in a mess of tangled limbs. He wakes up in the middle of the night and asks me if I’d like to move to bed with my friend, who went to sleep several beers before us, he says he wouldn’t mind sleeping in the couch by himself. I’m half asleep and snuggle closer to his neck and just say “no”.

A few hours later, I’m the one who wakes up with his arms around me and my back killing me. I turn to face him, deep asleep, and I kiss his neck and run my hands on his chest, his nipples, the front of his trousers. He is awake now, and helps me undress him. I take his cock in my mouth, the faint morning light coming to the living room through the bedroom door. I’m lying next to him, my back turned to him, and he is fucking me as silent as he can, slowly, little moans escaping to my ears.

We fall asleep again, and later, when I check my phone, it’s already 2PM. There’s a message from my friend, the one in the bedroom: “I really really really need to pee but I don’t want to walk into naked people in the couch. Help.” It’s from two hours ago. I show it to him, we laugh and I go make coffee for the three of us.

24

A few hours later, I get a message on my phone:

“I think I left my jacket at your place. Can you check it for me, please?”

“Yeah, it’s here.”

“Maybe I left it on purpose just to have an excuse to see you again…”

“Maybe I hid it.”

“Do you work tomorrow?”

“Yep.”

“Early?”

“Depends on what you consider early. I have to leave at nine-ish.”

“That’s cool.”

“Why?”

“I want to sleep with you again, but I don’t want to be one of those clingy guys.”

He is looking at the ceiling. It’s good to be in a proper bed.

“You know… There was a moment there, when you were on top of me, that it felt really weird. I was looking at you but I was seeing the buildings behind you through the corner of my eyes, and for a moment there it looked as if the whole world was upside down. It was weird, but it felt really good.”

I’m tracing his chest with my hand. He takes it and compares our palms.

“Wow, your hands are gigantic.”

“They are, but they’re also really well-shaped and pretty.”

His hands are pretty, as well, but mine are prettier and bigger, just a little. His hair is longer than my pixie boyish cut, and it spreads all over the pillows, the duvet, the bathroom tiles, the kitchen sink. It’s taking over the house.

He tells me about growing up in the seaside.

“It’s a city made for tourists, all the porteños spend their vacation there…”

“What’s a porteño?”

“Someone who’s born in Buenos Aires. Because of the harbours, portos.”

“Oh.”

“So when it was not hot season for tourists, the town would get kind of deserted and the prices for everything would be really cheap. There was this one bar that had all sorts of pinball machines and arcade games, and for just one peso I could play for hours.”

Then he tells me about his family, about his two younger siblings, and how bad he felt growing up.

“They’re so white. I’m the only one who turned out dark.”

“You’re the lucky one. You look like this cliche hot latin lover with olive-tanned skin.”

“Stop fetishising me. I have feelings. We don’t really have black people where I grew up, so everyone would call me negro and it really bugged me.”

“Does it still bug you? I think you look delicious.”

“A little bit. Only white people triumph in life, you know? I’ll never triumph.”

He sounds resigned.

“So you don’t like people of colour?”

“It’s not that, I just think they won’t triumph. The ones I really don’t like are the immigrants.”

“That’s true. Bloody immigrants taking our jobs.”

“And our women.”

His hands have been between my legs for a while, now, and he slides a finger in when he says that. I close my eyes and whimper, and he starts finger-fucking me while I bury my head in his shoulder. I take his cock in my hand, he moans and I lick my palm and start jerking him off. Then I get him in my mouth again, and he turns me over so he can do me while I’m sucking him off.

“Don’t you ever come?” I ask, pulling away and kissing him while his fingers move back to my pussy.

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to come in your mouth?”

“Yes.”

“Let me fuck you, first.”

When I check the time, it’s 2AM. I need to be up at 7. I’m not sleepy. It’s going to be a long Monday.

I wake up and go make coffee. I take a shower and he is still sleeping when I come back into the bedroom. I snuggle up close to him and wake him up with many tiny kisses on his face.

“You said you were a cat but now you look like a little chicken.”

I smile and continue to shower his face with little pecks. He laughs and rolls me over, pinning me to the mattress.

“Are you a chicken or a cat?”

I meow and hug him, bumping his shoulders with my head. His cock is hard against my legs, but I really need to get to work. I try to push him away, but he whines. “Just a little biiiit.” I get up and tell him to go wash the dishes so I can get us something to eat.

He stares at me.

“What,” I say.

“I was wondering if you’re being serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I’m a guest, how can you make me wash the dishes? That’s so rude.”

“Oh please, you’ve been here for over 24h in a row, you can’t play the guest card.”

“You’re a mean woman.”

“I’m a witch.”

48

“I forgot my headphones at your place. Damn.”

“Poor thing.”

“Or maybe it’s just another excuse to go back…”

“Don’t you have classes today?”

“Just one. I’m free at 8.”

“Gosh, you are clingy. That way you’ll just get tired of my face in no time.”

“Well maybe you will get tired of mine.”

“But your face is so fine.”

I’m lying between his legs, my head resting on his thigh. His cock is hard but I’m just looking at it.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a tiny scar. I had that surgery when I was a kid, you know?”

I slide his foreskin so I can take a look at the head.

“And this?”

“I’ve always had that.”

I count the freckles and spots. It looks good. Very good.

I lick the head and suck his balls. He moans, but I’m just getting to know the new territory. I lick again from base to the head, and he breathes in and grips my hair.

“I think he likes me,” I say.

Later, he opens the bathroom door with no warning.

“I’m peeing! Get out!”

“What? I’ve already seen all of your body.”

“But I’m peeing. I’ve got a shy bladder.”

“Pee on my hands.”

“So romantic. I think we’ll get along just fine.”

We can barely keep our eyes open, but his hands won’t leave my body.

“It’s your own fault for being so damn hot.”

“For Christ’s sake I need to sleep. Get away you filthy Argentinian perv.”

“Let me sleep like this,” he puts his hand between my legs, barely moving. I take his cock in mine.

“Ok. I’ll sleep like this, then.”

We end up fucking again, but I do sleep with his cock in my hand, afterwards. I think I like it, too.

In the morning, I sit on the bed and look at him, covering his head with a pillow and not wanting to wake up. I start bouncing on the bed, saying wake up wake up wake up wake up. He looks at me through a tiny opening under the pillow, and asks:

“What time is it?”

“Eight. I need to leave at nine.”

“It’s early,” he says, and covers his head back with the pillow.

“It’s not. I’m late. Wake uuuup. Go make coffee while I take a shower.”

“Do this, do that…” he mumbles and stands. I think he’s going to the kitchen, but he sits back on the bed, just behind me, and puts his arms around me and his chin on my shoulder. It’s sweet and I’m not very good at sweetness.

“You’re not moving,” I say.

“In a moment.”

I rest my head against his neck and kiss it.

“Ok.”

72

“This is the longest first date in history,” I text, when he suggests he wants to see me again.

“Are you tired of me yet?”

“Yes, but you still need to wash the dishes. Do all of your first dates last 72h?”

“Of course not.”

“I think if we go over this mark we’ll have to see this whole situation as a challenge, see how far we can get.”

“Today I leave quite late. You can go meet my place.”

“I could, but it’s too far from the new office, and I need to be there early tomorrow morning.”

“My house is six minutes away from yours, by bike, but I’m not sure I’m awake enough to take the journey.”

“It’s a pity, for a moment there I thought we could make it to the Guinness Book of Records for dating.”

“You’re going to make me go to your place again, aren’t you?”

“I won’t make you do anything, the human being is an animal capable of free will.”

We’re lying in bed. We’re living in my bed, leaving just to work, eat, shower, take care of our basic needs. He wants to fuck me but I don’t let him.

“I can’t take it.”

“Are you too tired?”

“No, I literally can’t take it anymore. My pussy hurts, I think it’s sore.”

“Can I lick it better?”

He does, and he slides his fingers up my ass and looks up at me, smiling.

“Look how wet you get.”

“It’s because I like it so much.”

Later, he comes in my mouth. We try to sleep but his fingers keep finding their way to keep me awake.

“Stop. You’re going to get me dehydrated.”

“It’s your own fault. Witch.”

“Perv.”

“You like to sleep like this, right? Last night we spent the whole night on this same position.” I’m snuggled up on his chest, my nose buried on his neck. His shoulders are broad and warm.

“I can’t recall.”

“We did.”

I kiss his neck, gently, and his fingers are moving again.

“Stop. Stop. Stop.”

“Such a mean woman.”

“The dishes.”

It’s morning again, he is sitting lazily on the couch and we’ve just finished eating my tapiocas. He throws his head back in despair.

“Stop ordering me about! Do this, do that, don’t fuck me now, do fuck me now… Do you think I’m your servant?”

“Yes. My sex slave.”

“You’re the one who’s my sex slave.”

“Not only you’re my sex slave, you’re my on-call delivery sex slave. I just sit back and wait for you to come whenever I want.”

“Oh my god you’re actually right. I’m so pathetic.”

“Yes. Luckily, you’re good looking enough to get away with it.”

He stands up and gets closer to me, towering over me and looking down, his hair falling on my face, his lips very close. He grips my neck gently with one of his hands and slides the fingers from the other in my mouth. I close my eyes and suck on them. He says, quietly:

“You need to work on improving your submissive ways, woman, otherwise this relationship will have no future.”

I reply, licking his fingers and looking up at him:

“I’ll try.”

I slide my hand into his ridiculous orange underwear and take his cock, brushing his balls and caressing the head with my palm. He moans, and I suck hard on his fingers. He drops his forehead on my shoulder and starts moving his hips. I say:

“I’ll start tomorrow,” and pull away from him abruptly, getting in the bathroom and closing the door. I scream at him: “Do the dishes!”

When I finish my shower and get out, he’s looking grumpily at me over his shoulder, the water tap running and soapy cutlery in his hands.

“Bloody witch,” he bickers.

96

“Gosh I need a massage. My back is still killing me, since that night we spent on your couch.”

“Hm I’m afraid I’m not a massage pro but I could offer a cat massage?”

“That sounds good.”

Later, he’s at my place again and we’re both almost too sleepy to talk. He is lying down on his stomach and I’m sitting on top of him, pressing my hands against his back.

“Would you like me to have a go?” he asks.

We change places and he starts showing me how to find tension nodes. It hurts, but it’s really good.

“Oh so that’s how you do it…” I say, feeling his firm hands pressing against my achy spots.

“Yes. Now you do it.”

He jumps off me and lies down again, and I stare at him, outraged.

“Seriously? You didn’t even do it for five minutes! This wasn’t a massage, this was just a tutorial!”

“Well, you needed it.”

“I can’t believe you! So selfish! So ungrateful! You come to my place, sleep on my bed, leave your damn hair everywhere and still complain about my massage skills!”

“Oh. Don’t be mad. It was cute.”

“Cute?!”

“Try again.”

I do, and he moans deeply when I find the little tension nodules on his shoulder blades. It’s kind of cool.

“You know, I had this yoga instructor, years ago, and once I got to class and he was telling me about this self-massage course he took during the weekend.”

“That sounds useful.”

“But also kind of depressing.”

“Yes…”

I tell him the guy is now a renowned painter, according to his own personal Instagram marketing. He’s even appeared on TV with his colourful splashes, and he’s exhibited in Oslo and won a few international prizes no one’s ever heard of. I tell him that’s the kind of painter I should go out with.

“Have you ever had a solo show?”

“Not really. I don’t try, to be honest. I rarely sell stuff. Sometimes I trade paintings with friends for useful things that I’m in need. I just did a few exhibitions with some friends, mostly for social causes.”

“Why don’t you try selling your stuff?”

“I can’t deal with fame.”

I laugh and fall on the bed beside him, giving up on the massage.

“Because you’re such a talented jerk that if you moved one tiny finger to get your paintings out there, you’d be instantaneously famous, right?”

“Exactly.”

He says, closing his eyes.

“It must be tough being you.”

“You have no idea.”

I look at his peaceful face for a few moments, and before I realize it, my eyes are closed as well. I hear his voice:

“If you had told me we were going to sleep I wouldn’t even bother coming all the way over here, I thought we were going to have sex.”

I open my eyes, his are still closed.

“You’re the one who’s sleeping,” I say.

“You’re the one who’s sleeping,” he replies, barely audible.

“Why are you dressed?” I say, tugging at his shirt.

“You’re dressed, too.”

“I can undress.”

“So do.”

“But you promise we’ll sleep? I’m exhausted.”

“I promise.”

I’m sucking his cock and playing with his balls. One of my fingers brushes his ass, and he arches his back, leaning in to me. I look up and ask:

“Do you like it?”

He nods, breathless, and says:

“Do you like it?”

I smile, still looking at him, my lips touching the head of his cock, and let some dribble fall on top of it. It slides all over the length, and I let some more spit fall on his balls. I jerk him off a little bit, my hand getting moist and slippery, and he closes his eyes. I take him in my mouth again and reach his lips with my wet fingers. He licks them, and when they’re wet enough I go back to his ass. I put a finger in, slowly, and he moans. I keep sucking, watching his face while I curl my finger and feel him getting more relaxed. He’s breathing faster and starts moving his hips to fuck himself against my finger. I move faster and take his cock deep into my throat, letting more spit fall on his balls and drip to his ass. He is moaning and grabbing my hair, and I suck faster and deeper, swallowing as much of his cock as I can, almost gagging, feeling my fingers deep inside him, brushing the sweet spot that gets him over the edge. For the first time, he finishes without warning, filling my throat with a thick load of come. I swallow all of it, his back is arching lifting off the mattress, his body all tensed up, his spine almost bending broken, his hands clinging to my head, his own head thrown back, eyes closed shut. I wait for it to be over, and it lasts a long time. Then I softly remove my finger and let his cock slide out of my mouth onto his stomach, limp, wet and still big. I lick it gently, tasting the last few drops. He is lying on the bed with closed eyes and a satisfied smile. I lie next to him and kiss him, slow and wet. He faintly throws an arm over my body, exhausted, and looks at the ceiling and starts laughing.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing. It was too good.”

I smile as well, feeling smug.

“It’s difficult to find guys who like that.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. I think I’m one lucky witch.”

“It was way too hard waking up.”

“I know. It’s because we went to sleep after 2am.”

“But we’ve been sleeping after 2am everyday…”

“Exactly.”

I don’t tell him it took me a couple of hours to finally get to sleep, listening to his heavy breath on my neck, his warm arms around me. I felt one or two shy tears escaping my eyes, and took a deep breath; I did some quick math on my mind and realised our date had reached 100 hours. The first 100 hours and I didn’t cry once, that must be a record; I didn’t want to ruin it, but I’m so scared I feel like my blood turned into cold liquid.

Now, we’re sitting on the couch and Mitya, the cat, jumps to his lap. He plays with him, his pretty well shaped hands moving softly. I look at him and I don’t feel scared anymore. I feel the shadow of fear but I don’t feel fear. I’m afraid of the shadow.

I consider telling him to run away now, to get away from me, to escape while it’s time because with me there’s no turning backs, nothing is ever light or casual, it only goes deeper. Getting into my heart is a one way road, and it’s a rocky one. I know I’m not easy, I know I’m a leaver, I know I confuse people and scare them off. I don’t know if I really want to scare him away or test him, or if I’m so terrified because rejection always seems the only possibility, so I think it’s better to get rid of him before it happens; I don’t think I’ll be able to take another blow, not so soon, not so soon. This was supposed to be just a date. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

His head is bowed down, his wet hair falling over his face, his eyes looking affectionately at Mitya, Mitya’s neck exposed to him. I lie my head on his lap, beside the cat, and look up at him. Mitya starts purring. He strokes both our necks, and smiles. He looks so damn yummy. I want to keep him.

I’m super late, but I tell him there’s something I need to do before we leave.

I take my tarot deck, shuffle it with my back to him, cut and take a single card:

The Chariot. Number seven.

My lucky seven.

100

“Look, I just got home to realize I left the keys hanging outside the door. For the whole day. Besides, this morning, you remember, I almost left the gas on when we were leaving. There’s only so much coffee a person can take to keep going. I’m on my limit. I can’t take it anymore. This is getting dangerous. I need to sleep. I admit defeat. I think 100 hours is a good enough mark for a date. It’s over.”

“What do you mean by that? Are you dumping me?”

“No, idiot. I mean that tomorrow we can talk about our second date.”

smut was originally published in Fiction Hub on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

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[wishingfornever]

9/21/17 – No Contact:  Wrath of Rando

Yesterday, you finally got around to messaging me.  You probably were curious why I texted you.  It was because I knew I wouldn’t have data so if we were to talk, it wouldn’t be over skype.

You responded more human this time.  Not so cold I think, but not so warm either.  I dropped the fact that I was leaving in ten days to you and you wished me luck.  Not sure how true that is, might have just been acting friendly.  Especially since I had important shorts, probably. You know, I wanted to do something similar.  Say you forgot something.  However, it’d be a piece of lint instead. However, I felt that joke would fall a bit flat.  Maybe soon.  I wish we could talk more.  I would rather talk to you than through this journal.  Idk.  I’m starting to doubt if you’d go to Texas or not.  I guess you will be.  Shane messaged me yesterday asking about your gecko.  He’s preparing I guess.

I’m tired.  It’s almost two in the morning.  My sister kept me up again.  Lost to Rando.  Ain’t that some shit?  Anyways, I’ll message you when I wake up.  Not irl but soon.  Probably a few days before I leave for actual messaging you.  I’m talking about the journal…

Whatever, not important.  Good night; I love you.  I hope you’re safe.

I woke up at 11.  Went to sleep at about 2.  9 hours, basically.  Oof. I was doing really well in waking up early.  Series of dreams last night.  I remembered the dream from the night before briefly and I wanted to tell you, but it’s gone now. The first dream was us in a heavily Halloween’d Susanville.  We were doing some shopping together.  I checked several stores for a specific item and the last store we went to, I asked about it.  I then asked where it was made and he gave me a name.  I reiterate that I asked where and asked if the guy who made it was local or whatever?  Because why the hell would he give me a name?  Then he asked me to leave.  I was heartbroken.

The dream involved a series of unfortunate events for me.  We bumped into this guy who was really nice to us and we discussed how bad of a day it was.  He asked if we were broken up and before I could tell him we were you said you were giving me another chance.  I couldn’t help but smile and tell this guy that today wasn’t that bad, really.

I know… how unrealistic.  What was weird was that it spanned an entire day.  Super long.

The second dream, which came about by me waking up for a split second because I heard an alarm (my sister’s).  I immediately went back to sleep as it blared.  Thus, I began dreaming of the second dream.  It was World of Warcraft.  I wouldn’t play that game again.  I fucking hate the grind.  Too much time, if you can believe it.  But, this was a bit different.  A lot of influences and dumb things.  After a while of playing WoW in my head, my sister ate my leftovers from yesterday and I was so upset. Turned out, she didn’t though.  She just claimed to have eaten it.  I found the box next to her and opened it.  Something you should know is that I carefully packaged it.  But the sandwich came with a large toothpick thing in the middle.  So large that the box wouldn’t close.  My sister said I needed to pull it out or it wouldn’t close.  Then I just rammed it through the box so it had a stick protruding from it.

I found it pretty amusing.  You know me.  I thought about removing it after but then I thought about it some more and figured it’s better to leave it.  Going to have some in a bit when my dad leaves for town.  It was good.  We went to Claim Jumpers yesterday and it was stupid expensive.  Like, $84.  The cost of living in the US is so high when compared to Salamanca.  The food prices for restaurants of the same caliber would be lower as well.  Then again they use the Euro.  I guess I’ll have to learn that as well as metric soon. Still, the waitress was super nice to me.  Called me little names like “Sweetie” and whatever.  She was cute too. Could have been flirting, but I doubt it.  Natural skeptic, amirite? Anyways, I need to do my sets, take a shower, and continue with life.  I’m feeling productive today so I think I’ll work on my book, too.  Until my dad leaves (I hear him talking with someone and my sister just left, so probably Allen) I’ll stick in bed.  I don’t feel like dealing with Allen.  Like ever.  x.x Right now, I’m biding my time and watching airsoft videos from one of the airsoft sites in Salamanca.  When I’m at Adela’s, I’m going to start learning Spanish from Rosetta Stone and I’ll ask her to only speak Spanish to me.  I’m clever and my impersonations are decent. So once I get the hang of it, I have no doubt I’ll figure out the accent and not sound like such an American. I never tried to learn it because I felt ashamed of being Mexican.  I’ve had a lot of issues growing up, but this is my biggest regret.  I wish I took more pride in my heritage.  Now I do, but it’s a bit late for that, eh? Ironic that now I want everything that is American inside me to die.  I hate English.  I hate being American. If I go to Spain and speak Spanish fluent enough, I won’t tell anyone that I’m American but Mexican.  I will revoke my American citizenship when I do, even if Trump is no longer president.

Maybe I shouldn’t burn that bridge.  Idk, I have a lot of goals to complete within the next few years.  I guess I’m getting good at burning bridges though.  Fucking life, amirite? Dad stopped talking.  I think I hear his truck. I see Allen driving away.  I don’t see anyone in my dad’s truck… you know, anyone like my dad as a random example.  I’ve been getting dumb lately.  x.x

Anyways, listening to the airsoft videos I can hear people saying like “After this match we can go get some food.” and I here “Venga” a lot. The last word of the video was “venga” with no conversation beyond that.  Great stuff.  I’ll probably start using “venga” myself.  I’m not sure if I want to tell Adela that my end goal is to go to Spain.  If I did, she’d tell me, “Why not Mexico?” She’s right.  Why not Mexico?  Assuming she’d think so and then say so. Mexico isn’t a developed nation.  It’s also really hot.  No winter at all.  Go figure.  That said, Mexico is like… super corrupt.  Like, one of my cousins was robbed by the military.  The MILITARY.  Soldiers ran into their house and grabbed shit.  It’s a nice place to visit but I’m not sure about live.  The cost of living in Mexico is far lower than in Salamanca, mind you. The cost of living in Reno is 142.  Houston is 151.  Salamanca is 98. Mexico is 63 in Mazatlan and 91 in Mexico City.  It’d be easier for my family to visit me in Mazatlan which would be my first choice if I lived in Mexico City, but I’d be a part of the Eurozone in Salamanca.  I’d be able to explore and see things I’ve never seen before like France, Italy, Germany, even the UK.  Could probably travel by car, too.  I guess I just want to get as far away as possible from the US.  I mean, I could always move to Mongolia but… eh. I wanted a place that either spoke English or Spanish as it’s primary language.  I wanted it to be super affordable to live in.  Mexico can apply for both.  But Spain?  That country occasionally gets winters.  Of course, Salamanca is basically in a desert, but still.  It has 7 snow days on average.  That’s a decent number assuming the snow doesn’t melt.  The most expensive place to live is Connecticut for the US.  It scored 254 on the index.  Christ, fucking bourgeoisie.  Maybe CA isn’t that expensive afterall.  I mean, it’s still on average higher than Spain and DEFINITELY Mexico.  Higher than Ireland and the UK too. Amarillo’s cost of living was 126.  I did just fine on my own there.  Augusta, Georgia has the lowest cost of living in any US city.  102. Interesting stuff. Maybe I’ll reconsider Mexico in the future.  Mazatlan would be a safe place to live because the Cartels would lose money if they did the shit there that they do anywhere else.  Spain has about 400 murders a year.  Mexico has 25k murders a year.  Stats are from 2010. In term of crime rates, Spain is like top 10 for lowest.  Mexico is about the same as the US.  Not the worst, technically, but oof. We’ll see.  By the end of my book series and if I decide to make another, I’ll determine where I live by how well my book is selling.  If it’s doing well, I’ll go to Spain.  If it’s doing not as well but gives me enough money to move out of the US, I’ll go to Mexico.  Mexico would be a cheap move. Their airsoft laws are kinda lax, though you need express permission from the State to own gas pistols.  Oh, and there are checkpoints basically.  Toll booths.  I hate that shit.  And, of course, some parts of the country are militarized. Eh… discouraging.

I should stop thinking about it.  Mexico is a fine place and Mazatlan would be great to live in.  I’ve seen it.  I mean, there is a lot of smog but that’s any city.  And I’d be more familiar with Mexico than with Spain.

Oh, and I think you’d be less likely to get kidnapped in Spain if you decided to go with me.  A lot of Spaniards are white.  Not all, of course.  Just most.

Barcelona in Spain is just a little bit more expensive than Reno.  Weird, I was thinking it’d be WAY more expensive.  I really should learn how that index they use to measure shit works. Alright, just checked.  Spain isn’t top ten for least amount of crime.  27, actually.  Still, really good out of 200 nations.  Crime index of 30. They’d be considered “green”  US is 67 and their rate is 48. Mexico is 79 at 50.

Venga. It’d be easier to become a citizen in Mexico.  Should have dual-citizenship.  Anyways, my dad just left.  Time for noms.  :D

Sweet. Mazatlan has an airsoft field apparently.  There is a video where they go up against Culiacan’s team (Culiacan is where my family is from).  Good news, eh?  So, both can support a controversial hobby I enjoy.  Both speak Spanish.  Both have a long, rich history. Technically, neither are Americans (though Mexico epitomizes America, so fuck you, US).  Both have delicious food. I have a lot going on in my neck of the woods, I think.  I literally can’t fail. Good news, eh?  I’m bound to succeed in leaving the US.

I just finished my left overs (they were amazing, btw, thanks for asking) and Miller comes up to the door and start meowing weakly. Thing is, when I was getting food, I petted him and woke him up.  He was so upset that he hissed at me.  HISSED!!!  And now he wanted to come in here?  I said fuck it and let him in.  He ran in and immediately jumped up on the bed and is now laying at my feet.  What a little fuck. He’s lucky he’s so fucking cute. Little brat. >:C I think I’ll miss him.  Definitely more than Larry and Brandy.  Fuck those two.  >:C

Oh… if I move to Spain, I’ll need a new phone.  If I move to Mexico, I’ll need a new phone.  In Spain, I’ll probably need new outlets. Or at least I’ll have to live off FUCKING travel adapters.  More expenses that I hadn’t considered. At least in Mexico, I wouldn’t need the adapters unless I were vacationing in Europe. Living there would be fine.  So, that’s a bonus point for Mexico. Checking internet, Spain on Average is better than Mexico but worse than the US.  Average peak speeds, however, favor Spain?  So does Mbit/s.  I have no idea what that means.  Best speed in the world belongs to South Korea.  Really, of the three nations (US, Mexico, and Spain) Mexico is just… the worst.  So, I guess they lose a point for crap internet.  The US and Spain are close enough to not matter.  Probably won’t even matter in Mexico, either.  It’ll ALL be better than Wendel.  Thing is, I can actually game with Ariel if I’m in Spain.  That’s something she used to pester me about. Guess I’ll have to learn CS:GO in Spain. Can’t be that bad.  She’s just CRAZY good and I don’t stand a chance if she actually decided to play against me.  She’s sweet like that and gives me a chance. She’s better than me.  I wouldn’t give her a chance.  >:C Christ, there is so much to consider when emigrating nowadays.  Back then, you said, “Hey, we’re being targeted by Ethnic Cleansing.  Let’s go to the US, they advertise themselves as a paradise for foreigners.”  There are places in North Dakota that speak EXCLUSIVELY Swedish.  Fucking. Swedish. I don’t want to be a part of a community in Spain or Mexico that speak exclusively English.  In Mexico, there are a lot of Canadians in Mazatlan.  -,-

God, Miller is cute.  I touch his little butt, he stretches and purrs SO loudly that I can hear him from a yard away.  Audibly, too.  Aw, he just meowed super softly.  I love him… so much.  T,T

Well, not that much.  He’s a little dick.  Fuck that dude.  >:C

But soooooo cute! NO!!! YES?!? Maybe… idk…

Talk about a waste of time.  Sorry, didn’t mean to place meaningless text in here.  So much for my journal being super serious.  Even if you don’t live with me in Spain and/or Mexico… maybe you’ll visit.  I owe Jeremiah a promise though.  Wherever I’ll go, I’ll be sure to SMUGGLE him with me.  Probably would be harder in Spain to do that. I doubt he’d want to emigrate let alone learn a new language. Still, if I establish myself I’ll have to let him know it’s an option.

There is a lot to prepare for.  I don’t see myself moving within the next two years.  I might, though.  I might move to Mexico first and THEN to Spain.  That’s an idea.  Hrm… might be easier in the long run.  Might be cheaper, too.  Idk, yet.  Again, I’m just kind of winging it.  Sort of fitting, don’t you think?

We’ll have to see.

Hrm… both places, being super catholic, don’t celebrate the Halloween I like.  Fuck.  Ah, well.  I can celebrate it on my own terms by myself.  >:C Oh… FUCK!!!  FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!  GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!!! Remember how I uninstalled everything to prove to you that nothing will get in between us?  I SHOULDN’T have uninstalled Napoleon Total War.  That was my source for the naval battle and if I intend to rewrite that chapter, I’ll have to see it again.  FUCK!!! Whatever, it was symbolic and it should still be saved on the steam cloud.  If not, I’ll copy the original chapter and use that as a source.  It’s a hassle but I can overcome.  I’m an idiot.

[whiskeywilsonwanders]

End of Act One

One night in Barcelona, my best friend and I had just finished eating dinner. It was some type of delicious stew with lamb, I honestly can’t quite remember. We were enjoying the afterglow of a good meal and better conversation when something caught my attention. Looking over, I saw a woman softly sobbing alone. I pointed this out to my friend, and suggested we ought to do something. As she was a female alone, my friend decided she would be a better fit to approach than a large bearded man like myself, and I agreed. She went and consoled the woman as best we could and finally calmed her a bit. As we left the restaurant, the woman thanked my friend and looked right at me and smiled and said “thank you.” It was the most meaningful thing that’s happened to me since I left for Spain.

As I write this, I’m sitting on a bus passing through the Irish countryside. It’s the final day of a two week venture across Scotland, England, and Ireland. I look out the window to see a lot of green and a lot of sheep. I also see distant mountains peering back at me. They remind me of my mountains back home. I think about home a lot. Not just being away from mine but what it is, where it is, who it’s with, or who I need to be to find it. Mostly the last one.

When I decided to write about my time in Spain, I also decided to be absolutely honest about my experience. I think a lot of travel writers are more positive than I am. I imagine they’re more informative too. I guess my intention was never necessarily to promote or inform, but to track a personal journey that I’m on right now. I’m about a third of the way through this program and feel like I’ve learned a lot during this first act.

I was sitting in a bar in Amsterdam a while back, and I turned to my friend and asked “are we just traveling so we can visit different bars?” That’s sure as hell what it’s felt like. A flight, a hostel, a tour, some drinks. It’s incredible to add another notch in your travel belt, but a lot of it starts to blend together. Another church, another tower, another statue. It has to be more than that. It’s not about physical places, it’s about moments and about connections. I feel like I’m halfway living a lie. Social media really paints a pretty picture, doesn’t it? So many pictures in places, so many smiles, all those likes and comments. I’ve worried from the onset that I’m doing this for superficial reasons. I’ve partly learned that I have been.

I don’t want you to think that I’ve been having a horrible time, that would also be a lie. I’m just saying there are cracks behind the facade. So far every country I’ve seen has provided new annoyances, struggle, and sorrow: I was sick as shit in Portugal, my friend was groped and assaulted in the Netherlands, I had a panic attack at a castle in Scotland, a man publicly berated me in England, and I was fucking robbed while I slept in Ireland. I left home thinking that this trip or these places would heal me, but I realized I’m the only one who can do that.

Let’s just go a step further and get nice and dramatic about it all: I want to go home. I can’t tell you how often I’ve entertained the thought, researched ticket prices, and started to make plans for my early homecoming. I hate Madrid a lot of days. I’m tired. I’m always sick. It seems like I’m always broke. I’m still technically homeless. The truth is that it’s not easy to do this at all. I sometimes wonder if I’m really cut out for any of this. I’ve got a lot of healing left to do. I’m still hurting from things and there’s a lot of heartache in me. Anxiety and insecurity plague me almost every day. I won’t let it win though. I do want to go home. But I’m not going to. Not just yet, anyway. Adventure was never about taking the easy routes after all, right?

The crying woman in Barcelona made me realize something. Places don’t matter, people do. I’ve been making myself become more open and honest about who I am and what I’m feeling with the other ex-pats in Madrid and I can feel myself getting closer to them. They’re good people, and I kept myself closed off from them for too long. I’ve experienced kindness from Italians, hospitality from the Scottish, shared jokes with the English, heard encouraging words from the Irish, and even cried with the Spanish. Some of these experiences with friends, some with complete and total strangers.

My best friend is leaving tomorrow. I won’t see her again for a long time, maybe over a year. She’s helped me so much on this journey and through much of the sorrow that came before we set out. She’s gotten me this far, but I think her departure is necessary. It’s time I learn to rely on me. She’s made me realize that I can. I have demons that followed me across the sea, but I’m ready to kill ‘em all. Spain won’t save me, I’ll save me. And I believe it now.