#bc I want to draw something with him and Mia.

[crumb-crumblet-s-crumbington]

yooooo!!! you’re my favorite ethan winters artist i just wanna say that first and foremost, thank you for the wholesome content of my comfort character and father figure 🥹🫶

i’m really curious bc i feel like i see a lot of people against mithan (not me personally, i’m p neutral on them!) but i’m curious to know all your thoughts on them! thoughts on their canon relationship, their fanon portrayal, the backlash against them/mia accusations, and your headcanons? i’m just really interested!!! hopefully that’s not weird :”)

have a good day!! sparkle on!!! ✨💖

i heart mithan... i think that they can be so cute...

i personally hc them t4t and i like to think that the dated in highschool before they both had fully transitioned

mia likes to bake and ethan likes to scrap book and he always likes to take pictures of mias cakes/ baked goods and has a album for them 😭

i am a multishipper so i draw a lot of ethan ships so my girl is left out sometimes and im sorry mia 😔

i actually really like their relationship, its a really complex dynamic that i like to talk about with my friends

i think the issue is that when talking about mithan or mia in general, theres just SO MUCH misinformation that its honestly a pain the butt to talk about

people still think that she was responsible for the creation of eveline, people still think that she experimented on eveline, people still use examples of her attacking ethan as if she did it on her own will instead of being mind controlled

in reality she was just someone who oversaw the transportation of evie. im not excusing her or anything because obviously she knew what she was doing, but people really try to accuse her of doing something she didnt and it bothers me alot lol

the problem with the fandom is that people either try to water her down to girlboss who did nothing wrong and fail to acknowledge the complexity/ moral grayness of her character and the other side is misogynists 😭😭😭😭

its hard to talk about her without people either going "stop trying to villainize her and make her look bad!" or people ACTUALLY villainizing her and acting like heisenberg would have treated him better 😭😭

mithan is such a sad relationship because they loved each other so much and that ended up being the reason their relationship fell apart (sort of... its not like the broke up... ethan kinda just straight up died)

i get a lot a trouble for saying this, but mia is a selfish person.

its not a bad thing! well i mean it is but it doesnt make her some evil witch who is somehow worse than the guy how made a werewolf american ninja warrior. its just a major character flaw she has! which is good! mia being a flawed person who makes mistakes and morally gray decisions make her a more interesting person!

she is selfish in the way that she wants to keep her family with her no matter the cost. even if it means lying to ethan about her job so that he wont think different of her. here is a interrogation from the re7 DLC, which is easy to miss!

she isnt necessarily trying to apologize for the things she has done, she is more of a, "u wont need to forgive me in the first place if we just forget it all and move on"

she doesn't try to redeem herself for what she has done, she tries to move on and return to the normal life that she wants so bad. which is fine! everyone copes a different way and she has to right to move on from her trauma. the problem that lies in this is that she has a shared trauma with ethan who still has no idea what went on in dulvey and still effects him till the present (he is mold! this is a important thing to know! most people would want to know if they were a walking corpse)

she played a direct part in what happened in dulvey, and im not referring to the email, she did not send that. she never wanted ethan to come in the first place. she tried her best to send a video to him, begging him to forget about her because she wanted to protect him, BUT it didnt send.

he got involved because she was involved. its honestly a series of really really unfortunate events.

THOUGH! she did know what she was getting into. im tired of seeing the narrative that mia was innocent and didnt know what was going on or was simply a bystander. she knew what she was doing, she knew eveline was a bioweapon, she knew eveline was a child. she used a MACHINE GUN! she knows how to use weapons and was obviously trained for it.

she tried her best to keep everybody out of the mess, ex: warning the bakers not to take them in, warning ethan not to find her, sacrificing herself for ethan in the later half of re7

but again, those are the consequences of HER actions

her consequences just happen to get really big and end up hitting ethan on the head like a metal sheet 😭

their relationship is really so interesting, it makes me really sad to think about sometimes 😭they both went through something that nobody else would ever understand, in the end they really only have each other. they get moved to an entire different country and the dulvey incident gets covered up with a "gas leak"

its really tragic because their marriage definitely had some flaws and bumps. and i know im repeating myself but its because people always take this in the worst way possible but just because i say their relationship was rocky doesnt mean im saying they dont love each other!!! thats the entire basis of mias character!! saying she doesnt love ethan would destroy her entire character!

you can see in the re8 DLC how fondly ethan talks about mia! he loves her so much, though im not sure if his comments in the DLC are him narrating current (post re8) or his thoughts before everything went down and he died (pre re8)

everything mia did was because she LOVED ethan. she would never do anything to intentionally hurt him, she is not a cruel person. she hides the truth of her job from ethan pre re7 because she loves him and doesnt want her job to drive them apart. she CONTINUES to refuse to tell ethan the truth post re7 because she wants to move on a live a happy normal life with him and knows something like her being directly associated with the connections would probably cause (more) problems. she refuses to tell ethan that he is mold because again, hard to live a happy marriage with your husband after you tell him hes a bioweapon.

obviously i dont think it was right that she did this, thats what makes her selfish! she did it for herself! she did it for her family! she thought it would work out, she thought that they could move on and be happy together.

the issue is that ethan didnt want to forget. he wanted to know what happened, he wanted to know the part mia played, he wanted answers! which is reasonable! he knows to some extent that mia was partially responsible for his involvement and he was always suspcious that mia was lying to him about her job which is implied when mia says "you were right, i did lie to you"

she doesnt learn, she doesnt stop lying, her lies get bigger and worse and it sucks yeah but it makes her so interesting!!! she keeps doing stupid things under the idea that this is whats best for her and her family, that if she hides this everything will work out and it will be for the better but its not!

just because telling your husband hes dead and a bioweapon is a hard subject to bring up doesnt mean you DONT bring it up. people shouldnt use that as a reason to excuse mia 😭, its a very bad excuse and honestly highlights how horrible their communication skills were. you cant just not tell your husband that he is actually infected with the mold and not tell him for the tree years between post re7 and pre re8.

im not saying these things to put mia down, or try and villanize her. these are all just actual things her character does! she isnt evil, but she isnt a knight in shining armor either. we need to be able to have talks about complex characters without crying everytime someone points out a flaw. characters have flaws! and mia just happens to have a lot of them!

im not mad at her, i dont dislike her because i think this way of her. shes a fictional character! you can like characters that are morally gray, or villains that drink blood and make corpse soldiers. they are fictional! pointing out the flaws of a character does not mean i dont like them.

i wouldnt call her "the real villain of re8" but i wouldnt treat her like a damsel in distress either. she is a competent person, she knows what shes doing, she has her reasons for doing them. she made bad descions with good intentions behind them! they can coexist and we should let them!

i like mithan! its a complex relationship because they both love each other so much but hurt each other in the process

talking about them is just a pain in the butt because talking about mia is a pain in the butt lol

i really hate how she keeps getting sidelined, its super frustrating to see mia get put in a cage in every game 😭

its even more frustrating that mia straight up just disappears???? in the shadows of rose DLC... like she just stops taking care of rose and theres nothing said about it. no reason or explanation. i dont think mia would ever ditch rosemary because she didnt care about her, but we probably will never know because capcom sucks at writing and they probably forgot the mia ever even existed.

all in all, i think the fandom is really just full of misinformation which make people either think mia is some horrible evil person, or its full of people who think that saying mia messed up is the equivalent of comparing her to wesker lol.

i really love mia, shes a incredibly fun and complex character, its just hard to enjoy her sometimes with the people in the fandom haha.

also ive got no idea what u meant by "the backlash against them/mia accusations" so sorry if i didnt answer that!

thank u for the ask! sorry for the long response!

[thelastofhyde]

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

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 15k

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

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

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

The mirror is not clean enough to see yourself.

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

It’s something new to fidget with.

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

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

If you do, you’ll blame him.

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

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

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

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

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

You were careful all night to never speak of him.

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

And then it happened.

You didn’t say his name, no.

Not aloud.

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

But it was enough to make you want to leave.

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

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

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

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

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

There were usually three of them.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t have an answer.

You didn’t get to give an answer.

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

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

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

Javier Peña was none of that.

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

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

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

It was like, nothing.

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

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

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

That was never part of the plan.

Neither was skipping dinner, though.

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

His hair, freshly cut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you stumble to the elevator.

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

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

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

“Déjame. (Let me.)”

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

He catches you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m glad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thud against the nightstand.

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

The undressing is gentle and so unlike his usual impatience.

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

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

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

He looks like he wants to.

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

Against your forehead, lips that linger.

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

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

Vermont, ‘98.

That’s where it all began.

Your dad, turning fifty.

Javi just hit forty.

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

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

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

Wrong.

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

Textbooks on the table, glasses on your face.

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

Peaceful and quaint, until it wasn’t.

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

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

You put your head down, breathed more subtly.

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

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

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

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

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

Inching towards the exit, footsteps light as a feather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not in the mood.”

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

“I have an early flight.”

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

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

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

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

“I ain’t done talkin’ to you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t remember which direction you turned.

“Quit running, you bitch!”

He was still following, how was he still following?

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

He was getting faster. Maybe you were getting slower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thumb swiped over your palm.

Your mouth winced, your arm pulled back.

He held you in place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was instinctual, no thought placed behind his action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took you back to his own cabin instead.

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

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

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

Late june brings nothing but gloom.

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

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

Tonight, you’re appeasing them.

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

Truth be told, you don’t want to go.

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

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

In the mirror, it’s still lopsided.

The clock sits at eight forty-seven.

They’re 2 minutes late.

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

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

Dive back in, search again.

An empty tube of lipbalm.

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

A broken earring.

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

Bile burns the back of your throat.

He opens on the fifth knock.

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

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

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

The air’s uncomfortably quiet.

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

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

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

The silence returns.

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

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

You notice his bedroom door is shut.

It’s never been shut before.

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

He blinks, slowly.

It’s hard to tell if it’s from guilt.

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

He doesn’t answer.

You keep talking.

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

“This needs to stop.”

You don’t have to question it.

You do, anyway.

“What?”

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

“I don’t underst-”

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

He’s stern.

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

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

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

Everything, you want to tell him.

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

“I just thought-”

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

I know, you mouth.

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

When he calls to make sure you got home safe.

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

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

Javier Peña is not your boyfriend.

So why does he act like it?

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

Kid.

That makes you angry.

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

“Don’t call me kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, the back-and-forth stops.

Silence.

You take the lead.

“So, what? That’s it just... over?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too late, you want to say.

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

“Corazón, I’m so sor-”

The car honks, again.

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

Another honk.

You never make it to the line dance.

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

Love’s a verb And not a bandage

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

A promise of casual, turned into something fragile.

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

All you remember is a pounding at your front door.

1 am. Too late to be causing ruckus.

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

Pause.

This could be anyone, anything.

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

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

You let him invade your senses.

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

You pull back. He follows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, you do trip over them.

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

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

The gold of his skin shines brighter.

The red on his skin appears darker.

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

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

Later with Javi never seems to come.

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

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

‘I’ll get these back to you later.’

He’d never made you that dinner.

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

You’d never gotten those panties back.

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

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

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

Distractions are not welcomed, your patient needs tending to.

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

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

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

It does the trick, unlocks his tongue.

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

He hisses.

You’re pressing too hard on his fragile lip.

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

A splotch of red stains your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

Javi sighs, gives in.

He always gives in, to you, eventually.

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

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

He doesn’t need to.

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

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

He’s rambling.

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

You listen closely, swallow up every morsel he offers.

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

He chokes.

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

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

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

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

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

He nods.

“Did you help her?”

Another nod.

“Did you get her someplace safe?”

This time, a reply.

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

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

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

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

“What more could you have done?”

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

You whine out his name.

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

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

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

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

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

The words catch in your throat.

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

But mostly because he kisses you.

Desperate, hungry. Groaning into your willing mouth.

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

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

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

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

When Javi fucks you, he fucks with purpose.

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

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

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

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

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

When did Javier Peña stop wanting you?

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

By July, things change.

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

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

Boredom leads to hobbies.

At first, you try pottery.

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

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

You hate it, running.

You sweat, you ache, you exhaust.

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

The heartache.

The headache.

The agent.

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

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

The pink shirt still lives on one of your hangers.

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

Not right now.

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

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

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

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

Today, however, it’s more challenging.

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

You have to come, kiddo.

The phone-call still echos through your thoughts.

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

You’d wanted a better explanation than that.

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

You had no plans.

Bring your friends then! The more the merrier!

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

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

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

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

He said it, like that would persuade you.

Keep asking about ya, the whole lot of them.

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

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

You’d hung up.

Immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

Until you come to a screeching halt.

Double over.

Place your hands on your knees.

Dry heave.

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

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

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

You’ll have to see him.

Spend time near him.

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

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

For not quitting the force.

For being your dad’s friend.

For not wanting you the same you wanted him.

Want him.

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

You’re usually more careful.

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

You pick your pace back up.

Manage only a handful-or-two steps.

Your feet fly out in front of you.

Land ass-first on the gravel below.

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

You groan and prepare to get back on your feet.

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

Big mistake.

The hand tugs you.

You glance up.

And meet the eyes of Javier Peña.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You come up empty handed.

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

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

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

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

Wedding attire, a post-party glow.

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

Had he smiled, then?

Had he even been there?

Or was he merely a product of martinis and negronnis-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I- What?” Confussion.

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

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

Adjusts your piercing, swipes his thumb over your cheek.

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

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

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

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

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

Or both.

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

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

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

Your father’s voice.

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

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

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

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

Maybe it’s sadness you see.

There’s definitely remorse.

Guilt, too.

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

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

But none of that matter, anymore.

You’re already walking away.

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

He calls out your name, loudly.

Attracts the nosy eyes of people around.

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

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

He reaches out for your hand.

And quickly gives up on the thought of holding it.

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

He knows the answer.

You still give him it, “yes.”

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

You feel his eyes on you.

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

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

You’re laughing but it’s mostly fake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not her fault. You know.

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

Your dad is.

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

Even from here, you can hear him bragging.

So then Peña’s on his ass.

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

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

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

He’s exaggerating.

The guy was barely going 5 miles an hour!

He stepped out the vehicle at his own will.

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

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

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

If you step inside the frame, it cracks.

Shatters.

And maybe he knows that.

Knew it all along.

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

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

The feeling lasts all but four seconds.

“Kiddo!”

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

It takes a moment, but you wave.

“Come over ‘ere!”

Not the response you were hoping for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not a sight you want to see.

It fills you with dread.

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

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

“London.”

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

All eyes snap to him.

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

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

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

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

That peaks your interest.

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

“Really?”

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

With Javi, friends could mean anything.

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

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

So it’s best you don’t inquire on it.

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

“Mr... Bond?”

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

You can practically hear it, in his voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His lips press against your hairline before speaking again.

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

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

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

It’s too late though.

You’re already snoring against his skin.

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

For a minute, it feels like she knows.

She knows why Javi knows.

You should be panicking.

Both of you should.

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

But you aren’t. Neither of you are.

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

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

Your dad gives an unceremonious oh.

Your mom rolls her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pulls her close, kisses her shoulder.

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

Open, celebrated, acknowledged.

Not secretive, dirty, scandalous.

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

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

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

Your heart drops.

Javi’s seems to do the same.

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

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

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

But I’m actually bloody Motherfucking batshit crazy

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

You’ve lived plenty of such moments.

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

And all because you heard his voice.

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

He’s facing a woman.

She’s pretty.

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

And a well-rounded belly.

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

You’ve never seen her before.

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

She’s a total stranger, to you.

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

A very pregnant, non-stranger.

“We gotta get this kid some better taste.”

His hand rests on her bump.

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

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

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

You won’t let it fester.

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

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

Was she the reason things between you and him ended?

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

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

Surely, he couldn’t have.

But, then, why couldn’t he have?

You were never exclusive.

You were never anything.

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

Your heart’s palpitating.

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

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

Because, how could he do this to you?

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

Love you so deeply and leave you so easily?

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

“He’s a real kicker, ain’t he?”

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

But, no, it’s too distant. Too far.

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

He’s handsome, in the typical sense.

Blonde haired, a nice smile.

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

“He?” It’s Javi who echoes.

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

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

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

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

The bile in your throat burns more than ever before.

The misplaced anger bleeds into sadness, shame, embarrassment.

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

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

Friends his own age.

Worlds apart, yet nothing but a shelf between you.

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

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

The little girl perks right up at that.

Eyes widened, head off her father’s shoulder.

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

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

“Quit lying to my kid, Peña.”

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

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

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

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

Your breathing stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flicker up to the shelf and-

He’s no longer standing on the other side.

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

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

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

You wake up early.

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

Making the most out of your time upon foreign land.

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

The truth lies in that you can not sleep.

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

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

A quarter past six.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your ringtone is the culprit.

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

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

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

“Corazón.”

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

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

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

Sadness that it sounds so broken down the line.

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

“I’m here,” it’s only a whisper.

It’s enough to shut him up.

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

“You’re in London,” he states.

“I am,” you affirm.

He hums, sips something.

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

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

“Yeah,” you spare him the details.

The truth.

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

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

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

You sure felt alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For answers, for clarity, for closure

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

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

Even then, it kills you to do so.

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

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

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

“What answer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The image doesn’t quite form.

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

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

Refuge he’s willing to share with you.

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

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

“Promise me you’ll go, corazón.”

Your reply is instant, “I promise.”

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

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

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

“How you feeling, kiddo?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of them have, really.

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

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

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

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

“You’re literally in my room!”

“Which is literally in my house!”

Downstairs, your mother yells something unintelligible.

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

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

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

Tupperware, clasped in his hand.

The contents are hard to decipher.

Luckily, your father spots you eyeing it.

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

Your stomach growls, hungry and unfed.

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

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

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

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

Immediately, you spot chicken.

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

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

Your father continues, practically talking to himself.

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

“Cazuela de ave.”

A change into warmer, drier clothes.

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

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

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

And that fact is partly what warms your insides.

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

Objectively, you think, he’s gorgeous.

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

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

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

The scent alone is enough to have you salivating. 

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

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

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

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

A real date.

Only, this isn’t even a fake date.

You guys don’t do that.

“It’s- It was my mom’s recipe.”

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

He’s never mentioned his mother.

Or much about his family, really.

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

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

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

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

Open.

His eyes, his mind, his heart.

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

“Was she a good cook?”

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

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

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

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

It’s disturbingly beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know what to say.

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

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

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

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

Both of you settle back in your seats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She would have liked you.”

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

They’re as open as before.

“Really?”

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

“Kiddo?”

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

“Hmm?” 

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

“I’m- Yeah, just tired, s’all.”

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

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

[archive245]

Random rinaverse hc

- Remi cried when he overheard the girls talking about star signs because he thought anni had cancer

- Niko wanted to be a power ranger growing up, gareth wanted to be spiderman, killian wanted to be superman, jeremy wanted to be batman

- Ronan the typa guy to be like “i got it, i got it, i don’t got it” while trying to catch a ball

- Moreover good thing this man plays soccer be hes horrible at catching things

- Kimberly has an upside down smile and Xander has an eye smile (like the ones where your whole closes yk??)

- Glyns favourite barbie movie was princess charm school and annikas was barbie and the 13 dancing princesses

- Gareth cannot do anything without airpods

- Glyndon doodles all over her homework and occasionally draws on kills arm with a pen while he focusing on something

- Kimberly says “well my dad said” atleast once a day

- Kirill and adrian like going to museums and art galleries, damien gets dragged along because if he doesn’t he gets all petty that they didn’t invite him even tho he complains the entire time their there

- Maya has a severe friendship jealousy issues when it comes to her friends having other friends (mood girl same)

- Reina loved going out to celebrate no matter how small the matter was killian got 100 on his spelling test? celebration, Asher won a court case? celebration, gareth got first place in track and field? celebration

- Ava always had her nails done with long acrylics and likes to just click them around to tell people she just got them done

- Once Xander and Ronan got arrested and they used their one free call on Cole and said your mom and hung up

- Nikolai sucks at spelling and texting example

- Killian drinks a whole pack of cola in a week

- I honestly think Jeremy was scared of girls as a child and when he first met Maya and Mia he was so scared of them he constantly hid from them but to them they just thought Jeremy was ignoring them bc hes a bitch

- Ronan is actually really smart but doesnt like showing it, so instead he acted like the dumb cluless one and people believe it

- Teal actually is a marvel nerd and forces ronan to binge watch the entire series with her

- Cecily started to wear glasses in grade 6, because 1 she thought they made her look like a nerd and 2 because she thought everyone viewed the world as blurry

- When ever Elsa would go on vacation she would buy small trinkets thats reminded her of them for everyone

- When ever anni sees a cat she ll take a picture of it and send it to creigh

- Nikolai consistently looses things, even things that were in his hand, looks away from one second BOOM missing

- Eli got tattoos to try and piss off Aiden little did he know Aiden also has tattoos so he was chill about it

- Creighton was scared if loud noises for a long time, and once Eli scared Creighton by like sneaking up behind him and he had a panic attack and since then Eli payed extra attention to his well being

- Xander is aggressive drunk loves fighting or arguing people, Coles definitely horny drunk disappears minutes after getting drunk, aiden doesnt get drunk, and ronans giggly drunk

- bonus knox is the type you would put on a lease drunk because he runs around and falls alot, definitely wakes up with bruises everywhere

- Teal turns soft and adorable when drunk so she doesnt drink infront of people, Kims also giggley drunk (ronan and kim can be seen just laughing and giggling with eachother on a sofa), elsa is sleepy drunk and silver is definitely the all in or none (she gets blackout drunk or sober no in between)

- Ava always plays a princess peach during mario kart and mia always plays as shyguy

- Gareth was the type ti start assignment weeks in advance, while nikolai started them the night before

-Lan was definitely a kid who needed to be on a leash because he would run around everywhere and get lost, “astrid or levi king please come to the front desk we have your son” was heard every time on the loud speakers every time they went out for a family gathering

[jayladfanpage]

What would be your ideal Outlaws team + how would you go about writing/constructing it? <3

My ideal team is, maybe a little predictably, Jason Todd Eddie Bloomberg and Rose Wilson.

Gosh uhm!! First of all, little to no Gotham issues. I prefer Jason when he isn't in Gotham, or is at least not interacting with the Bats, so it's just easier to have him be somewhere else. Most likely, I'd start it off in Hollywood, because I see it starting with Freshly Revived Eddie (p sure he like, just got revived in the new Flash?) not really understanding what happened for him to die and plus he's just... alone. So he texts Jason and Rose to come visit him! But then when Jay and Rose get there (already skeptical bc hello, Jason hasn't seen Eddie since they were 15 and Rose is literally Eddie's ex) Eddie gets kidnapped by a demon/magician/brother blood/etc and Jay and Rose have to go after him and that sets up the start of the comic

I'd take a more magical route with it, personally. Obviously to connect it to Eddie's whole thing as a demon hunter but also to try and fix the All-Caste stuff that Lobdell came up with. Lots of potential there if it came from a better writer. I don't think Rose does anything with magic in canon, but I do always enjoy watching characters have to adapt to seriously fucked up shit. (Plus, she has Slade's meta powers. She'll be fine.)

This is also like, you know, THE daddy issues team. So many conversations to be had between Jason and Rose about their dads bc Bruce and Slade are eerily similar in how they cope with their respective issues. Jason and Eddie can also connect over their bio dads being kind of shit (I say kind of because there's nothing I hate more than physically abusive Willis Todd. I am not kidding when I say that's the worst Jason retcon that Lobdell has ever come up with) and how they never felt wanted or loved by their parents. All three of them can relate to how their parents' abandonment (or, in Rose's case, Slade's lack of knowledge) shaped them as people. Lotssss of parallels to be drawn here

Also, obviously, Roy Harper cameo. But get this. He's here because of ROSE. I do enjoy platonic jayroy (and romantic but I don't want it to be canon) but I think the connection Roy has with Rose is a little deeper. I think he'd want to check on her after so many years (he was her foster dad! for fucks sake!) and make sure that she's doing well, considering he knows how Jason can Get.

There would also most likely be a YJ/Tim's TT crossover because duh, Eddie and Rose were in TT03 and Jason has his whole Thing (negative) with Tim, but I'm gonna be so vulnerable here and admit that the only TT03 issues I read are the ones with Mia in them + #42 + the one where Rose lights up her cigarette with Eddie's mouth fire. So, you know, can't give much insight here. Not really a Titans fan regardless of the team itself but if this Outlaws was to ever happen I'd want the author to include them in something.

Also, I think we should get a special issue where Slade repeatedly gets his ass kicked. Rose doesn't even participate but Jason and Eddie do it in her honor. Just for funsies

OH ALSO. I'd want them to bring an artist from the 2000s back. I just don't like the current art styles nearly as much </3 unless it's Ngozi. Ngozi's art is too cute to say no and I would kill to see her draw Rose!! Or or, Jason Fabok, because his art is just everything

[velvees-archive]

save for the dual destinies dlc case, i’ve finished my first play through of the mainline ace attorney games. incredibly solid series. i have a draft with my thoughts on each case in the aj trilogy + game ratings. dunno if i’d wanna post it though, it’s kinda long.

so instead, i’ll post some misc thoughts about phoenix and edgeworth portrayals across mainline/aai + my personal favorite interpretations of them by the writing team!

spoilers for AA mainline and AAI duology

by far, my favorite phoenix portrayal is og trilogy phoenix. the way he interacts with his environment and the people around him is very authentic, albeit rude as hell (which, in hindsight, is even more authentic for phoenix, so…). saw someone’s tumblr post mention that phoenix is such a “straight guy” which…yeah LMAO. real to life accuracy, so much so it’s infuriating. i think what i’ve played of dd’s dlc case captures what i wanted to see from post-trilogy phoenix in that he’s still an asshole and comically stupid, but not actually stupid, if ykwim. something i disliked abt the rest of aa5 and aa6 is how the writing team watered his character down to the following two oversimplifications: “phoenix only wins cases bc he bluffs!” and “uhh...what evidence does phoenix present now?”

don’t mistake a silly man for a stupid man. mia calls phoenix a genius in the og trilogy. phoenix dives in head first but he’s meticulous when it comes to drawing out the truth. most of all, he doesn’t outwardly show how frazzled he is (see that one drew misham quote about phoenix quietly watching the court as he’s accused of forging evidence), even if he feels that way. i get the colorful usage of expressions is for comedic effect but it just makes him look like he doesn’t know wtf he’s doing, and that’s a disservice to his character. yes, he bluffs, but he isn’t clueless. anyway, i’m excited to replay the first trilogy now that i “know” second trilogy phoenix. that might also just be my way of saying “give me back MY phoenix”, bc the last time i’m (mostly) on board w his portrayal is in aa4, and even then i didn’t like the dialogue in his forged evidence trial.

*though, as of writing this, i’ve seen some good arguments abt his forged evidence trial dialogue that make me think ok maybe it was actually pretty accurate. let’s see wht i think on replay

on the other hand, my favorite edgeworth—at least in principle—is post-apollo justice edgeworth. in many ways, i think how he’s portrayed at 35 is how he would’ve been had dl-6 not occurred, barring his career choice. still a bit pompous, still fairly mean (at least on the surface, we all know he cares more than he lets on) and perhaps a bit uptight, but self-assured and just. the writing team makes a point to show that edgeworth doesn’t care about prestige or fancy titles. that feels like him in a way post-first trilogy edgeworth doesn’t. this particular point was fleshed out in aa1 and rfta, tho, so idk if i can give yamazaki credit for it.

there are some things that will always bother me abt post-first trilogy edgeworth (the problems are present in the aai duology as well) where the writing team shoves him into a box teeming with boring tropes for his character archetype.

an example:

creds for both these pictures: me

edgeworth is fine w pictures in the first trilogy, but comes to hate them in the aai duology.

ik it’s small but honestly what was the reason? what justification is there for this outside of wanting to fit edgeworth into a “cold character” stereotype?

bridge to the turnabout and turnabout ablaze are only about a month apart. i’m not buying into the sudden aversion to picture taking, regardless how minute a criticism it is. in any case, i feel like what i’m trying to say comes through w these screenshots: yamazaki’s edgeworth is always just a little off.

i am forgetting where i saw the post and i have too many liked posts to scroll thru to find it again but i saw a reblog?? tumblr post?? abt yamazaki and takumi’s diff approaches to edgeworth, where takumi says edgeworth listens to trot while yamazaki thinks he’d listen to classical music, and if that doesn’t drive the point home, idk wht will.

why then, did i enjoy post-aj edgeworth most? short answer is i’m taking liberties w his development and its implications. while i never completely buy into post-aa3 edgeworth, i can digest and get behind most of him when i’m not nitpicking, unlike w post-aj phoenix. does edgeworth feel a little uninspired and one- as opposed to three-dimensional? yeah, but his core is so strong i can overlook it. i’ll miss seeing a developed edgeworth when replaying the trilogy. him at 35 makes me feel warm inside.

anyway, i didn’t intend to start hating when i made this post bc i ultimately still believe the second trilogy was pretty good, if not overly ambitious with it's storytelling. maybe i'll post that AJ trilogy review.

overall, tho, t&t and aai2 were my favorite games to come out of the franchise. i’m going to do that slow replay of the first trilogy, aai duology, and aj:aa before making final judgments.

[thegamingcatmom]

Hi! :3

I come bringing question(s) mostly just one, I have recently started cooking something and I am debating wether I want Miri to be saved or not. Well "save her" i kind of think is a strong word bc she may be unhinged enough to have crossed the point of no return but who cares about that?

My question is, you think Miri is like evil for real? Or you think she has been manipulated by 'The Black God'? I have been reading some crazy theories and stuff so my mind is racing with million ideas mind you, kinda chaotic up there. Like she certainly is no saint, nobody in that forsaken village is but here we are, simping over all of da women, sins ain't stopping us from doing so XD

Their sins are the reason we simp for them. 😏❤️‍🔥

Right so, I know a lot of fics and theories portray Miranda as this divine being/demigod who was sent to bring Judgement or smt. For some, she is The Black God. However-

The Black God is actually the name Miranda herself chose for The Megamycete, also because it holds enough power that bringing back Eva seems entirely possible. As a result, she proclaimed herself a prophet of "The Black God" and started her cult. In other words: "Mother" Miranda was born.

So, what does that tell us?

That whole priestess persona is as much of a disguise as the Old Hag (which she uses to spy on the villagers). She has to keep her flock in check somehow, and what better way to do that than by parading as their sheperd? She´s basically a wolf in sheep´s clothing, snatching them up one by one (to experiment on them) without any of them noticing.

So, there´s no divinity involved here. Not really. Miranda draws all her power from the Megamycete aka The Fungus Root - an ancient entity that stores the genetics as well as the consciousness and memories of those it has come in contact with.

As for whether Miranda is actually evil? Hm...that depends on what you define as "evil". I like to think that there´s never just "good" or "evil". Life´s not that simple.

Like, let´s look at some of the facts here:

Miranda abducted Mia and experimented on her for (probs) multiple reasons. One of them being that she needed her DNA in order to take on her form and infiltrate the Winters household.

She played dead when Chris shot her because she knew it would be the easiest way to "rid" herself of her problems and escape with Rose into the night.

(She´s literally so cunning, I can´t-)

She unleashed the Lycans on the villagers because she had no further use for them.

But also to feed them to The Megamycete and thus, ensuring its power would be sufficient for the ceremony.

She checked the Village to make sure there weren´t any survivors left.

She killed the last one herself (Iulian).

Miranda divided Rose into several pieces. Not just to experiment with them, but also because it kept Ethan busy.

BUT HERE´S THE THING:

She gave each of the Lords one piece because she knew Ethan would kill in his quest to retrieve them.

Miranda basically used Ethan to rid herself of her "children".

She always planned on killing them.

She killed Ethan when he outlived his purpose, meaning she had no further use for him.

All of Shadows of Rose (haven´t played that one yet, but Ik Miranda is even more unhinged in this one)

Sooo, does that make her evil? Some would say yes, others would say she was driven by grief and sorrow over losing her only child. I say-

It´s complicated, lol.

No one is ever entirely "good" or "evil". It´s a mix of both and whether it leans more in either direction depends on your experiences and goals in life, as well as the minds you surround yourself with. And lots of other stuff that would take a lot more than one tumblr post to fully cover. The human psyche is a mystery, after all. 🧠🧐

I do believe no one is beyond redemption, though. Like I said, nobody is ever just evil, that´s a rather naive way to perceive the world, imo. While some certainly lean more in that direction than others, it´s not what makes them, yknow? Nobody is "born" evil, so we shouldn´t reduce them to their worst qualities. Instead, we should help them get better because that will ultimately lead to a better world. ✌️

.

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Thanks a lot for your ask! 💋

[genericpuff]

Tbh Sicily and Italy in general are actually mentioned quite a lot in Greek texts, including mythological ones, and that's because South Italy was FULL of Greek colonies. To the point the Romans even called it Magna Graecia, that is "Big Greece". There are literally modern productions of Greek plays still held in the ruins of Greek theatres there to this day in memory of that heritage.

And while Ancient World colonialism doesn't always correspond exactly to later examples, if RS had actually developed her idea of having P and H bond over being originally from Sicily and P being ashamed of it, she could have easily found a way to use that to her advantage. P was supposed to be the naive country bumpkin coming to the big city and coming into her own there, anyway. Why not combine the two things?

She could have used the existence of different dialects of Ancient Greek to add a panel of Minthe and Tethys laughing abt P's accent and calling her no better than a barbarian (a "barbarian" was originally someone who clearly showed they were foreign bc they didn't speak Greek fluently) behind her back, high school mean girls style. Or toxic suitor Apollo mansplaining Greek traditions to her which she keeps trying to tell him she's already familiar with. Or heck, H showing an interest in P's life in Sicily and P thinking he's gonna make some rude assumption or lame joke but instead he just geeks out like "you ever met Archimedes of Syracuse? I heard abt that thing with the lever and I love it"... timeline's fucked enough for it anyway, and it would have been better than the pity part we got. Also RS seems to want a lil nerdy charm for H sometimes when she draws him with glasses, and what's nerdier than geeking out over famous mathematicians.

But obv, RS being RS, we only got said pity party and people making "mamma mia" jokes in response. Oh, and this post I remember reading somewhere were people were whining that Sicily shouldn't be mentioned in media abt Ancient Greece bc the poor, poor Americans only know it bc of Mafia so it makes the tone too confusing. Bc that's totally an ok thing to say. Also Americans should never be forced to check Wikipedia ig

Oh absolutely, I don't doubt that Rachel made Persephone Sicilian in an attempt to reference this, it's just really, REALLY funny out of context. Her being Sicilian really has no bearing on her character writing, it seems more like it's just an oddly specific thing thrown in about her and Hades so that they can have something to bond over (because they barely have anything else). Like that one time she anxiously twisted a napkin and Hades remembered back to the one time in the comic we saw HIM twist a napkin and he was like "omg she's just like meeee!"

Her being Sicilian wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing if there was actual effort put into writing her as a Sicilian woman. But there isn't so it comes across as really random (and ripe for meme'ing on, even from people who are Sicilian themselves).

[hsslilly-blog]

alright!!!!! i’ll end up drawing all the vaulties. probably. not a promise. i was supposed to post this yesterday but i had.. computer problems. anyway here's blair/the mc and wes for rad school story. before they leave the vault ofc. reasoning + payton's updated sheet under the cut.

i decided to make the mc/blair one of the vault doctors bc i think it’d make sense for them to be interested in getting the P.I.E. device since they’d 1. understand the real danger of being in a vault without a P.I.E. device in the first place; 2. how the radiation would spread throughout the vault; and because of that 3. they’d probably be one of the first dwellers to go against sakura. like THEY are the ones who can help ezra but they don't have the means/aren't being allowed to. but at the end of the day i guess the mc can be anything since they're the mc lol. also in blair’s case they grow up to be a therapist so i thought it’d be fun to do that. and they're a NERD.

their traits are good natured because, yes that’s the mc. and i didn’t think any other traits fit the mc, so small frame is specific to blair. 25% extra limb injury. chronically ill coded. tagged skills: science and medicine, because they're a doctor + knowledgeable about radiation. speech, since the mc is a diplomat at heart.

wessss!!! he's a pip-boy programmer for a couple of reasons: first, it’s a callback to shs/hss and whatever he was Doing with stolen cellphones back then (hacking/modding them and then selling them). second, it makes him knowledgeable enough to hack the overseers’s computer to get in contact with another vault + hack/modify payton’s pipboy so they can communicate with her once they’re in the wasteland.

his traits are hoarder and skilled. i didn’t think any of the traits matched him very much but i started with the gimmick so now it’s my burden to bear. anyway hoarder because he hoards secrets [laugh track]. skilled… just makes sense right. 5+ buff in every skill. idk seems like a wes thing. his tagged skills: lockpick and sneak. self explanatory. and barter because it’s the ‘bribing’ alternative to speech (wiki’s words. i thought it was fitting).

and here’s payton’s sheet updated with her tagged skills (which i had forgotten about):

i didn't want to give the dwellers traits and/or skills related to combat because they're, well, vault dwellers. they don't need that in the vault. most of them, anyway. i also decided almost all of them are going to have low endurance since it raises the stakes and bc they've been locked in a vault for 200 years. ohh. the traits/skills are lifted from new vegas. the vault jobs are from fallout 3.

also. what would the other main characters be doing in the wasteland. koh is obviously some kind of merc right. bounty hunter. something like that! what is mia doing. shes in vegas i bet.

[lowkeychenle]

Lost & Wayward [NJM] (2)

Description: After the worst couple weeks of your life, you finally break down in the middle of an alleyway. Jaemin hears you and comes to comfort you, and little do you know, he's about to change your life--in more ways than one.

Genre: Fluff/Eventual smut

Content Warnings: I'm thinking maybe I'll put smut in the next part but for now still just fluff sorryyyy

Word Count: 2,833

Pairing: Na Jaemin x Reader (Canon!AU so all the Dreamies will be mentioned/appear)

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Lost & Wayward Mini-Masterlist

Juliet's Masterlist

It’s been a couple days since you’ve heard from Jaeseok. You’ve come to enjoy his company, even if it’s only electronic. You also haven’t received any updates from Minji. You try not to worry, but this is the opportunity of a lifetime.

Although not hearing from Jaeseok put a damper on you. You hope Minji will get back to you soon so you can have a reason to text him. Logically, you know he’s busy with something. The man works crazy hours apparently, because he’s always there…wherever there is.

Minji doesn’t call you until the end of the week. She comes with good news, though—you got the job, and you’d be starting the following Monday. In three days.

You debate even telling Jaeseok at all. If he wants to talk to you, certainly he’d do it, right?

Mid-thought, your phone dings.

Jaeseok (6:34pm): sorry i’ve been mia…things have been really hectic here. how are you doing?

Oh, for the love of God. This man was too caring and nice for his own good. You try to think of what to send back, but you draw a blank. You’ll have to just tell him what’s on your mind, apparently.

You (6:35pm): no worries! i figured you were suuuuper busy considering they give you breaks for dinner instead of just letting you go home Jaeseok (6:35pm): clever You (6:36pm): you wish you could be as clever as me Jaeseok (6:36pm): you got me there. any job updates?? i’m on the edge of my seat and i’ve gotten zero texts :( You (6:38pm): Minji called me a little earlier today. i got it!! i’m so freaking excited Jaeseok (6:38pm): HELL YEAH Jaeseok (6:38pm): didn’t doubt u for a second

You pause. You’ve talked to him via text nearly every day, all day except the last few. Unfortunately, you also get attached easily. You can only hope this friendship will last. He’s been the best friend you’ve ever had in the course of a week.

Jaeseok (6:40pm): are you doing anything to celebrate?! this is seriously great stuff You (6:41pm): unfortunately u are the only friend i have…what am i gonna do if u can’t hang bc u’re working Jaeseok (6:41pm): first of all…unfortunately?? i’m so offended right now Jaeseok (6:42pm): and second of all, u don’t need to do anything crazy. just go…get your favorite meal or something. u deserve it You (6:43pm): are u working? Jaeseok (6:44pm): nope. dogsitting for my shithead friend You (6:44pm): come with me

When it takes a few minutes for him to respond, your brain whirls. You shouldn’t have done that. He’s probably only being friendly because he feels obligated. You’re the one who broke down in the alleyway, and the longer you think about it, the longer you wish you could erase that. What he saw was probably the worst version of you. Great.

You (6:50pm): sorry if that was weird…i don’t know why i would say something like that Jaeseok (7:34pm): holy shit i’m so sorry! this dog is driving me up a wall and i didn’t see you texted. it’s definitely not weird to ask and i really really wish i could come celebrate with you but i’ll have to raincheck ):

You don’t even have the courage to text him back. Instead, you turn off your phone and toss it to the side. None of this should really upset you—he’s extremely busy. Seeing him that night must have been a major fluke, and you’d rather talk to him via text when he had time versus not at all.

At about 9pm, you get an Instagram update notification that Chenle posted. You click on it absentmindedly, pausing at the photo. It’s Chenle, Jaemin, and Daegal. Jaemin cradles Daegal to his chest and pouts at Chenle.

The caption reads, “I’m gone for three hours, and now Jaemin doesn’t want to give her back…”

For some reason, it makes you stop and think. You like the post, close the Instagram app, and open your messages with Jaeseok.

You (9:12pm): how’s dogsitting? Jaeseok (9:15pm): ahhh my friend came to get her a little bit ago…i need to get a pet

That’s one hell of a coincidence. You slide to the Instagram app once more, noting Jaemin’s blue hair. With your heart sinking in your chest, you shake your head. There’s no way.

No. Way.

Plus, Jaeseok wouldn’t lie to you like that. Not about something like this.

You (9:21pm): maybe try cats…if dogs are too much work for u Jaeseok (9:22pm): plus we all know cats are superior You (9:23pm): i’m gonna go to sleep…we’ll celebrate soon? i start work monday Jaeseok (9:24pm): as soon as i can! promise (:

The start of Monday is absolutely hectic. You get your own office up on the third floor. It’s everything you ever could’ve wanted, and you feel as if Jaeseok really is your good luck charm. Not only is this better than your dream job you lost, but it also pays nearly double what you were making.

It’s only when you’ve settled in that you realize your job is hyper-specific. Yes, you work in marketing, but more specifically, you do NCT Dream’s marketing. You almost choked on your water when you saw that on your paperwork.

And unbeknownst to you, you’d receive a visit from the group later in the day. You’re going through the paperwork the previously employed person left for you when a knock sounds at your door.

Your head shoots up and you allow whoever it is to come in. Mark walks in first, a smile on his face. You try to stop your jaw from dropping, but it gives way slightly anyway.

The other boys—the other six—tumble in the door afterward.

“We like to welcome new staff members,” Mark says, holding out an envelope. “It’s nothing crazy, just a card. But I hope we’ll all work well together.”

You grin, surprised your vocal chords work. “Thank you so much. I’m very excited for the opportunity, and I’m sure I can help you guys achieve great things.”

Your eyes scan over the boys, heart stuttering when you see Jaemin. His dark roots are starting to show through the bright blue, but you’re sure the hair stylists will fix it.

They all introduce themselves to you, even though you’re positive they’re all aware you know who they are, and you follow suit after. Again, you find your gaze wandering to Jaemin. He’s staring right back at you.

They leave shortly after their introductions, leaving you alone in your office to ponder on how to wake yourself up. This has to be a dream, but no matter how hard you pinch yourself, it’s not working.

With coincidences adding up, you decide to test your insane theory about Jaeseok being freaking Na Jaemin.

You (12:23pm): guess what

As you suspect, it takes him quite a while to respond.

Jaeseok (1:35pm): hmmm what You (1:38pm): i met nct dream. like for realllll. but also idk if i’m supposed to tell you that? but you’re my only friend so ig do with that what you will Jaeseok (1:39pm): are we close enough for you to tell me your bias now? i’ve been so curious

You grin. Let the games begin.

You (1:39pm): guess Jaeseok (1:40pm): Jisung You (1:40pm): love jisung, but he is so baby Jaeseok (1:41pm): alright then…no baby men. okay what about Mark? You (1:42pm): you’re distracting me from work with your incorrect answers dude Jaeseok (1:42pm): you always distract me from work. call it payback. andddd can you just tell me who it is??? i’ll just go down the list in age order smh You (1:43pm): ooooh you’re a dream stan too if you know age order. okay okay my bias is Chenle!! i want to be daegal’s mom Jaeseok (1:45pm): chenle?! why him????? why daegal’s mom??????? You (1:45pm): the man has the voice of an angel and a jawline for days. why wouldn’t i want to be daegal’s mom Jaeseok (1:46pm): that’s so foul that you only like him for his face You (1:47pm): and to think i was gonna tell you my second fave too… Jaeseok (1:48pm): tell me immediately You (1:49pm): i’ll just tell you the list in order Jaeseok (1:49pm): i’m waiting You (1:50pm): Chenle, Haechan, Renjun, Mark, Jeno, Jisung, Jaemin Jaeseok (1:51pm): ok now wait a minute because you said no babies but jisung is higher than jaemin??????? make it make sense

Even though he’s all but confirming your suspicion of who he is, you can’t help but laugh. What are the odds? Na Jaemin finds you crying on the street and comforts you? You thought you’d be a bit more upset about this, but in reality, you get it. He was nice enough to want to check in on you, regardless of his fame status and busy schedule.

Either way, you let him stew for a little bit. You actually do have some work to do planning for Dream’s upcoming comeback, so you put your phone away for a while. At the end of your first day, you gather up your things and send a text back.

You (5:46pm): Jaemin is the ultimate baby…that’s not a bad thing!! Jaeseok (5:47pm): but CHENLE is ALSO baby You (5:47pm): he’s a meanie and that’s how i like my men Jaeseok (5:48pm): the longer we talk the more i am convinced u need therapy… You (5:49pm): i’ll have you know i tried that and it didn’t work Jaeseok (5:50pm): jaemin is not more baby than chenle and jisung You (5:50pm): prove it

You grin to yourself as you walk out of your office. Waiting by the elevator, you press the button and scroll through Instagram on your phone. You find the picture Chenle posted from last night and linger on it for a few moments. Could you call him out? That’d be too much, wouldn’t it? He’d probably stop talking to you. At this point, you were happy to say he’s a friend, whether he’s really Jaeseok or if he’s Jaemin.

When the doors slide open, you walk in with a smile on your face until you’re confronted with Chenle, Jisung, and Jaemin. You blink in shock, obviously still not used to being in their presence. Bowing your head, you smile at them before turning toward the front. Nerves poke along your spine the longer you’re in there with them. They’re all incredibly nice, so the intimidation factor must be in your head.

You decide to test your theory a little further. You pull out your phone.

You (5:57pm): i see u cannot. i’m always right, u should know that if we’re friends

Mere seconds after you hit send, you hear something buzz behind you. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling.

You (5:57pm): hope work isn’t killing u. that would suck to lose my only friend like that

It buzzes. Again.

“(Y/N),” Chenle says.

You clear your throat and glance over your shoulder at him. “Yes?”

“We’re about to go grab dinner. Our manager’s waiting outside if you want to come along with us?”

You look down at your watch, pursing your lips. It’s almost 6pm. You’re not sure if you’re supposed to hang out with them, but when he’s offering so nicely, how could you say no? You exchange looks with Jaemin and Jisung as well before nodding.

“Sure, why not?”

Everything you see about their friendships in videos is true. They have the same personalities on and off camera, which is pretty rare for people in the spotlight.

You didn’t decide the seating arrangement, but you ended up next to Chenle and across from Jisung. Chenle tells you a story about Daegal from the other day, Jisung listens to it even though he’s probably already heard it before, and Jaemin quietly eats his food.

“You know, you elbowed Jaemin in the face in the Broken Melodies performance video,” you tell Chenle.

“His face bumped into my elbow. He shouldn’t have been so close,” Chenle replies, sending a sly grin over at Jaemin. “He’s alright.”

“I can’t believe they left that in there.” Jaemin chuckles, running his fingers through his hair.

You pull out your phone, almost gasping when you see the time. “It’s almost nine.”

“Yeah, we don’t really get a ton of evenings to ourselves,” Jisung says. “I’m honestly surprised we got out as early as we did today.”

You feel bad for them, truly. They barely get a free moment, and here they are, bringing you along for it. By the time 9:30 comes around, the boys prepare to leave. As much as you vehemently say no, Jaemin pays for everyone’s food. You all climb into the van, and the manager drives everyone home. Jisung is the first to be dropped off, then Chenle, and then you.

You sit in the car alone with Na Jaemin, awkwardly avoiding conversation with him. He glances at you occasionally, but he’s too respectful to stare.

“You live by yourself?” he asks, shattering the silence between the two of you.

Thankfully, the darkness obscures your blush. “Yeah, I do.”

“And you usually walk?” Jaemin’s dark eyebrows furrow, his head slightly tilting to the side. “That doesn’t seem safe.”

“I’ve been doing it for years. Really, it’s fine.”

The car stops outside of your apartment building. You go to open the door, but Jaemin reaches out and grabs your wrist. Recoiling in shock, you look between his hand and his face.

“Sorry,” he says, letting you go. “But…I live down the street. You should let me at least walk you home when I can.”

“I appreciate the thought, but I really don’t need that. And the last thing you need is for someone to take it the wrong way.” You reach out for the door handle again. “Thank you for dinner. That was really kind of you.”

He pauses, letting out a small sigh. “Just…don’t worry about my end of things. You shouldn’t be walking home alone. Especially now that you work with us.”

“I’ll consider it. Goodnight, Jaemin.”

“Goodnight.”

As soon as you’re inside your apartment, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out, a smile forming on your face on its own accord when you see who the notification is from.

Jaeseok (9:58pm): luckily for you, your only friend is still alive. You (9:59pm): ah yes, so lucky Jaeseok (9:59pm): also i don’t need to prove jaemin isn’t a baby, you’ll see eventually. they all do You (10:00pm): who is they? Jaeseok (10:00pm): everyone Jaeseok (10:01pm): but that’s besides the point. i hope you’re enjoying your new job You (10:02pm): loving it. especially considering I spent the whole evening talking to Chenle about Daegal Jaeseok (10:03pm): just chenle? You (10:04pm): wouldn’t u like to know Jaeseok (10:04pm): don’t ditch me for chenle. i will be very upset You (10:05pm): idk…chenle hangs out with me at least…

He should really just tell you. At this point, you have an NDA signed, so it’s not like there’s much you could say to anyone anyway. After hearing the way he talked to you in the car, you’re certain Jaeseok and Jaemin are the same person. Without a doubt.

Now, you just have to come up with a way to get him to admit it. Or you could call him out on it, but that’s nowhere near as fun.

That night, you toss and turn, unable to fall asleep. It seems like you’re not the only one—your phone buzzes against your nightstand.

Jaeseok (12:03am): there’s something i need to tell you.

So much for sleeping tonight…

You (12:05am): it better be good, cuz i’m trying to sleep Jaeseok (12:05am): depends on your definition of good i guess. i think this would be easier in person. can i come see you? You (12:05am): when? Jaeseok (12:06am): right now

Nerves blossom in your stomach at the thought. You stare at the conversation a bit longer than you should before shooting out of bed and trying to make yourself look presentable. Your phone buzzes again.

Jaeseok (12:10am): i really need to see you

You can’t say no to that. Your palms sweat at the idea of him coming to your apartment. At the end of the day, you’re fairly certain Jaeseok is Jaemin. But even if he’s not, knowing you have someone who craves to see you in person is a new sensation for you. It doesn’t matter who he is. He’s your friend.

You text him your exact address.

Jaeseok (12:12am): be there in ten

[wr0ngwarp]

some refs for my jet set radio explorers of death joke au (that sure is a sentence) because i wanted to put them on art fight (..mostly for warehouse leapusverse lore reasons)

beat and yoyo seemed like they needed refs most urgently cuz beat has a bunch of designs on account of being squirtle and yoyo's design was just hard to parse in the pics he appeared in. yeagh

art fight bio under the cut for ppl who don't have an art fight account

based on PMD: Explorers of Death by sparklingdemon, HIGHLY recommended reading to get a grasp on what in the goddamn is going on here oh this is incredibly silly. so basically a while ago there was an in-joke about jsr and eod in a pokepasta discord i'm in, and i have a bad habit of taking jokes too far. so, of course, i took the joke WAY WAY WAY too far! the entire joke is the idea that Corn in Future retconned og JSR Beat as leader/founder of the GGs, so Corn and Beat are the Myras. no it’s not a joke funny enough to justify how many hours i sunk into drawing these. no attempt was made to change the setting, assign most of the other cast, or otherwise make this au hold up to ANY amount of scrutiny.

---- the base concept (aka reskinned eod plot) is that the og JSR timeline was getting, like, temporally retconned into the Future timeline, but Beat (in the role of Squirtle) refused to accept the changeover so he tried to hold onto his own fading timeline, trapping it (and himself) in a state of perpetual decay until he can take back the timeline. basically everybodys a grayscale rotting zombie it's miserable. also if you think "hey, isn't EOD!Beat less justified than Squirtle because the situation WASN'T life or death until he MADE IT that way" you would be right lmao JSRF Corn (as Myra), being the leader of the GGs in Future, shows up (overwriting the preexisting version of Tab ig) to try to put the dying timeline out of its misery so it can actually be reborn into the Future timeline. for some reason his spraypaint can make the zombies pass on. don't question it. he and Beat are kind of trying to take each other down so one timeline can take precedent here. Gum (as Shadow) is kind of torn between the two of them, with two overlapping contradicting sets of memories and also the most disastrous way to possibly combine her JSR and JSRF designs LMAO. her loyalties are kind of torn as a result and also she understandably isnt a big fan of all the murder going on here ... ...also, because this is a joke au that i did not bother to try to make sense, they're in the goddamn Pokemon Mystery Dungeon: Explorers for no real reason. i also tend to call Beat and Corn "Meat and Mourn" though i dont have a nickname for Gum :(. and they have some level of meta awareness that they're in a poorly crafted joke AU based on an existing creepypasta, and yet this knowledge of how inane it all is doesn't stop them from riding it out to its horrific conclusion. ...ha ha? also Yoyo is Bidoof he's just here to be the first to die dont worry about him

---- also because there's something profoundly wrong with me i have the main trio + Yoyo in me and my sibling's joke multi-crossover RP. Corn is MIA right now, Gum is in the Garage with the setting's regular version of the GGs (they are confused and concerned. esp normal!Gum)... ...and, uh... Beat and Yoyo are in the Warehouse. (Pauein 9696 is just kind of there too.) they're... friends? i think......???? they are trapped in there and dont know Warehouse Yoyo is actually the goddamn building theyre trapped in

in the warehouse, eod!yoyo is kind of... barely coherent, only aware a fraction of the time, and not really able to do a whole lot since he's in such bad condition. he's just kind of taking anything as it happens at this point bc he can't do anything about it, but internally he's very pessimistic both about the idea that Beat can fix anything OR that there's any chance they'll escape the warehouse. eod!beat is... sort of kind of friends with the Warehouse but it's a very fragile friendship prone to arguments since he is trying VERY hard to leave (esp cuz he has UNFINISHED BUSINESS with killing corn and MAKING THINGS RIGHT) but Warehouse Yoyo is manipulatively trying to keep him without letting on that's what he's doing. both of these guys are fucked in the head tbh. at least nobody's judging each other for being walking corpses with weird metafiction elements.

[quidfree]

hear me out…. todobaku as villains???

im going to disappoint you anon bc i am not a like... dark & twisted fantasy villain au person. as per quidfree canon what keeps me going is good characterisation and so you will find no undercut tattoo-laden bad boys here.

if you want my two cents on what todobaku villain au would most likely look like though it's under the cut

todoroki:

this one is easy right? touya exists. shouto already has his villain backstory: his dad is a bigshot hero uplifted by society and also an abusive bastard in private. his motivations in hero-oriented society are obvious.

i think shouto probably distinguishes himself from touya in a number of ways, one of which being style of villainy. touya was a lot more unstable emotionally (?tied to his quirk self-harm stuff) and undiscerning in his resentment (see: woman hater) even before he ran away. i think shouto would be a more classic anti-hero type villain, less quick to cause chaos and death to unrelated civilians or high schoolers. they would have an uneasy relationship if and when shouto figured out who dabi was- i think he would retain his empathy for his siblings and mother, but he would disagree with touya’s choices.

i see him as a loner villain, not likely to join the league. early UA shouto appeared to have literally never spoken to another person in ten years, so if he around that age veered off the expected path and went MIA, i think the whole ice prince thing would solidify pretty definitely. and that’s the kind of personality he’d have too- icy, controlled superiority over a core of red-hot rage. no quips here. though some dramatics. he hides it but shouto always has flair.

shouto is a practical guy first and foremost. i think he’d just wear something similar to his plumber fit. maybe something akin to a balaklava to mask his identity, but maybe not, if he wants to make his father aware of his actions. i do think touya-style he might go for a hairdye, but in his case it’d probably be bleach, as a sort of obvious reclaiming of rei’s heritage and rejection of enji’s.

overall as villains go if we are keeping to a world close to canon shouto is probably one of the more morally upright people you will encounter. very scary motherfucker but pretty targeted enemies, so unless you’re involved in maintaining the hero justice system at some pivotal level you’re probably safe. if you are though? rip i guess. prepare to have your home frozen, your limbs stuck to the ground, and an icepick summarily driven through your skull by a teenager.

bakugou

katsuki is tough because for him it very much depends on setting, and at a basic level when you’re looking at. katsuki fundamentally is not a fuck the system guy- he’s a guy the system loves, and he’s interested in winning it, not destroying it, at least until character development kicks his ass. so really if you want to go early canon for both of them, villain bakugou is just hero bakugou. a katsuki from the start of bnha left to continue on his presumed arc uninterrupted, no deku or kidnapping or war to force him to question himself. arrogant and cruel and uncaring of what heroism is meant to be about. saving big numbers, sure, or at least defeating big ones, but when your defeats involve death or as good as, hard to draw the line.

similarly, in a universe where for some reason heroes have lost their relevance and villains reign, teen katsuki would have very easily risen in that direction, with similar traits.

who would his targets be? whoever’s in his way, pretty much. even in a more anti-hero slant, villain’s goons would not be safe. and anyone who tried to recruit / hire / ally him would inevitably face some kind of betrayal bc katsuki simply got sick of orders and believes he can handle the fall-out.

in terms of looks, katsuki is more style conscious than shouto is, but as lord explosion murder doesn’t necessarily look very heroic i think he wouldn’t look that different. maybe more of the black and winter-suit vibes.

for as insufferable as he would be, he would also be horrifying, yes. i mean, the guy is a starter kit terrorist. even if he was in tantrum ego mode he could level a street. collateral would be nasty if katsuki didn’t care to contain himself.

todobaku villain interaction ???

if we’re going with the above sort of setting? would not stand each other. for bakugou it’s obvious stuff (think sports fest and general canon), but todoroki genuinely would not tolerate villain bakugou at all, given the obvious alarm bells of similarity to endeavor. it’s not his focus but if bakugou died he would not be displeased.

as in any universe they could be begrudgingly forced into cooperation and then be privately disgusted by how well they worked together after the initial predictable faux pas. all of their other villain colleagues are like “can’t we just call that guy in for an assist again” and theyre like *breathing exercises* no.

they are both despite appearances and villainy-amplified dramatics fairly pragmatic so theyd probably not actively seek to cross each other unless they seemed to be getting in the way of their respective goals. they can recognise that this would be getting into it w an unnecessarily big distraction/threat. but i can imagine the “keep out of this” warnings would be fairly inventive. todoroki negligently thwarts one of bakugou’s plots and bakugou turns his entire hideout to rubble. a bunch of todoroki’s contacts are collateral during one of bakugou’s attacks and bakugou wakes up to find all of his security died of hypothermia overnight. lest we forget they both have petty streaks.

hero x villain interaction would be. very funny and very bad. hero todoroki would be So Tired of villain bakugou bc of how frustrating it is that hes actually hard to stop and villain bakugou in turn would resent him immensely. hero bakugou dealing w villain todoroki? that would be (psychologically bizarre) fun. i think for some reason that would be the closest we get to a bakugou w ‘doodling hearts against their own volition’ crush energy. but theyd get along a lot better than the reverse, mainly bc hero bakugou is like a decent person and villain todoroki respects moral integrity. in both duos in a lighter setting the villain of the two might start getting a mild kick out of messing w the hero despite their focus on other things just bc 1) it gives villain todoroki the mildest of entertainment to look forward to every blue moon given he doesn’t necessarily wish bakugou any active harm 2) villain bakugou feels he’s owed some todoroki suffering considering how annoying he personally finds him.

that’s my two cents on it anyways. idk what everyone else has in mind!

[pastellmochi]

youre so funny youre like if a friend had a cooldown period. bro is mia

HEEEEEEEEEELP SORRY BRO i just hafta make it outta here but we can prolly talk later today <333

HOW HAVE OYOU BEEN THOUGGH !!!!!!!!!!!!!! i know times have been tough but ive been listening 2the dracyopress malfidori playlist oyou sent anf why d o you have me almos t crying to emo music ........... liked a lotta the dolls kill songs anf i dont listen 2 mitski a whole lot but i understand why a lotta oeople do !!! its also jus really nice hearing music that is like apart of you / knowing more ab you through it nd i think its cool ure playlist is v v cohesive and also helped me get back into drawing not even gonna lie it was comforting to listen to <33 doodlin in a lms van colored tiny sketchbook my big bro gave me its jus like he saaid you cant stop drawing in there even if it turns out bad ... something ab small notebooks is really good for art i think

on another note id realluy wanna know what your dreamh ouse is bc i think my new dream is to have ahorse live in my house bro Look at him what the ekc

if i was rich i woul dmake the tomodachi life island with you and all my other friends and there would be a horse roaming around and stuff and you can talk to him ifyou want

iwill go eat anf stuff but we can catch yp later todaay i wanna say hallo.to all my friends iThink :) Oh oh !!!!!!!!! side note ive been realluy thinking ab the wild wild west ... howwould you and your f/os be like in wild wild west AU .... dont have a ton of good photos but like gunslingin' f/o .. wanderer already does that stupid hat covering face and then looking up thing he might as well also have a gun and gross tattered cloak

also just this

[the-cat-chat]

March 23, 2024

Mamma Mia! (2008)

A young woman invites three of her free-spirited mom's former flings to her Greek island wedding, hoping to discover which one of them is her father.

Warning: Review may contain spoilers. Read at your own risk.

JayBell: I'm gonna get straight to the point. I did not like this movie. I actually don't mind musicals. But in this movie, the songs did not make the story better. In fact, several times it felt like the plot moved weirdly in order to justify the addition of some of the songs. And the songs and their lyrics didn't always match the plot.

The decision making of the characters bothered me so much. The mom? She just never makes the effort to find out the father in the 20+ years? It feels selfish to do that, especially when the daughter really wants to know.

And the daughter seems incredibly immature. It's as if she's thirteen and not a grown adult. I'm so glad she doesn't get married at the end because her relationship with her fiance isn't stable. She doesn't communicate with him at all and they are supposed to be getting married?

Speaking of marriage, why on earth does the mom get married in the end to this virtual stranger? This stranger who left her in the past to go marry someone else (is he a cheater or something?? please explain).

The only character who I think is interesting is Colin Farrell. But overall, I don't think the movie is very funny, the plot isn't logical, the music doesn't match, the characters aren't sympathetic.

I found the entire experience frustrating. And I'm perplexed that sooooo many people think this is the best movie ever made. It has to be about nostalgia.

Rating: 3/10 cats 🐈

Anzie: I can’t believe I picked this. Ok I knew there was singing, but it’s ABBA that’s a totally different ball game. And sure there were times the music made me want to shove myself off a Greek cliffside- but more so it was the plot. I mean just wow. I don’t know. I want to know how all these really great actors read the script and said “this is awesome I’ll do it,” and just maybeeee bc it’s 2008 I’ll forgive them, but I’m scarred a little more each time I think about it.

The whole problem I have is with the plot. And that’s a big problem. There’s just too much. First really bad idea inviting not one, not two, but three of your mom’s ex lovers at random (shocked they showed) to your wedding that’s in like 24 hours. I need more time to get motivated to shave my legs- let alone play Jerry Springer in Greece. Next, let’s just glaze over Dominic Cooper’s very lizard boy performance- I have no clue why that’s the vibe I’m getting but dare I say dump the lizard boy. Next, the dads. I don’t know how to feel- really hate Sam’s story, could really care less about Bill? I don’t even remember if that’s his name. And Harry- I just love Colin Firth and my deep rooted love for What a Girl Wants will never die. He gets a pass. Now this mother. That could care less about figuring out which man fathered your child. Bc it undermines what she did alone. Out of choice?? Like I would love to know the backstory too on the fact that she named Sophie after Bill’s aunt there on the island and got her money???? But we pretty much know she’s Sam’s right? Since they were together longer?? And Sophie draws in the same exact style as him???? Right. Riiiggght. Ok I’m done - can’t believe they never say who it is or get a dna test. But whatever.

And what takes the cake? The wedding. Just really. I’m mad now thinking about this movie. All of it. And I have to say- this is awful and the true winner of ABBA movies is very clearly Muriel’s Wedding and I don’t really remember all of it bc I saw over 10 years ago but guess what - you even get Toni Collette, so pls, don’t even try to outmatch her.

Rating: 2/10 Cats 🐈 (1 for the Mamma Mia song, .5 for Colin Firth and .5 for that insane fever dream closing dance number)

[senoritaimperfecta]

Making the decision to post all these together before I chicken out

[unholyplumpprincess]

Eternal Honeymoon Phase

For @itsthesinbin bc we were yelling about Morticia and Gomez and it’s spooky season so the Addams Family works perfectly. I HOPE U LIKE IT!!!!

Summary: You’re the newest addition to the Addams Family couple and you’re a little shier when it comes to their sexual appetites. You’re, well, a virgin, and when you finally ask to do more, Morticia has a better idea on how and when to take your virginity. Under the moon of Halloween, you shall be their sacrifice.

PLEASE REBLOG IF YOU LIKE! Minors and ageless blogs DNI or you will be blocked.

Fandom: Addams Family

Relationship: Morticia/Gomez/Reader

Warnings: NSFT/R18+, Reader is gn and has a vulva, also reader wears a dress but it’s a costume for an angel costume!, implications of virginity kinks for Gomez and Morticia, uhhhh ya get eaten out and ur face fucked, overstimulation.

Words: 3.3k

_______________

Morticia and Gomez had never been against adding a third to their little ‘eternal honey moon’ romance.

It’s just that no one had ever quite...fit into their world of them as a couple. They could come off a little strong, a little, ah, overbearing and well. Downright indulging in intimacy like rabbits tended to not be something people enjoyed, much to Gomez’s and Morticia’s surprise. Whatever did people mean that they lost a ‘spark’? They just didn’t see it.

They had met you at a family gathering. You’re a friend to one of the many, many, many family members there, exuding such a sweet and kind energy amongst all the dread and vulgarity. You’d seemed a little overwhelmed among everyone else yet still was just as polite with everyone. Your state of dress had been borrowed, Morticia had noticed, from cousin Lilith. The dress you had on spilled off your shoulders and you kept adjusting it with a little shy bow of your head and flashing a small smile.

Poor thing.

~Rest under the cut~

You’d caught Morticia’s eye first, who had hummed her interest as Gomez dipped her upon the dancefloor. Her head had been tipped back, showing the long, pale expanse of her neck that he ached to kiss as her hair spilled behind her. But, he’d seen her eyes lingering on you, trailing up and over to you from where she was looking and a grin spreading across his face. “Cara mia?” He questions in a teasing tone, kissing over her shoulder and up to her neck before pulling her to a standing position. “The one Lilith brought has your attention?”

“Yes...Don’t you think they look rather sweet standing there?” Morticia hums in reply once she returns to his embrace, swaying their bodies together and making sure to twist so they both could glance over at you. You’re talking to another cousin, tucking hair behind your ear and smiling kindly at something someone else says. A laugh graces your features, and even Gomez is humming now.

“Out of place,” He agrees, taking her hand and letting her spin from his grasp only to bring her back in time with the waltz, resting his head upon her breast with a sigh from his lips. “You have always been fond of the smaller ones, haven’t you, Tish?” A playful tease that earns him that charming little laugh from his wife’s lips.

That night they had both approached you, each offering a dance. Morticia quite liked the way your cheeks warmed a healthy shade of pink and you’d been honest about how your dress kept falling. To which Gomez, ever the gentleman had offered his assistance there. Brandishing a pin from seemingly nowhere and getting behind you to help pin the dress closed better. You’d smiled so bright then, thanking him with a hearty laugh. “I thought I was going to pop out of it any second now! Thank you- Would you both like to dance? I’m sure we can come up with something together!”  

And how odd you had been. Breaking traditions of just two in an intimate dance. Showing them how Gomez could hold your waist from behind and you could hold Morticia’s from the front and all sway together. Over your shoulders you hadn’t seen the way the two looked at you. A bright spray of sunshine in their gloomy, dark worlds.

They quite liked their rainy days full of thunder and harsh winds, and at first, they thought that wouldn’t be your speed.

You’re invited privately to come into their home for dinner. You’re such a vibrant ray of sunshine in the otherwise dark room, lighting it up with the glow of your presence. There are quiet tests here and there as they get to know you. Such as inviting you on terribly stormy days only for you to excuse yourself with the children to go out and play. Only to come back in soaking wet and smiling just as bright as Gomez wraps you in a towel with a laugh as you exclaim how beautiful their home always is.

And how much you loved that it was always storming or cloudy.

Another time, Mama offers you something and exclaims it to be a sort of poison. Morticia had watched as you smiled, only questioning if it at least tasted good before you’d put it into your mouth. It had been laced, of course, Mama was always good at such things. Thankfully it only made you terribly drowsy. Such a sweet thing you had been with your head in Morticia’s lap that day. Gomez having helped you out of your shoes and let you lay your legs across his lap, stroking over your calf. You’d smiled so lazily up at them, your voice happy as could be. “It did taste good. She wasn’t lying on both accounts, huh?”

Nothing frightened you. Nothing turned you away. Somehow you took doom and gloom and made it into something bright and beautiful without modifying what it looked like. Even the children took kindly to your presence. The house just came to life with you inside it, everyone seemed more active. Even Gomez had taken to leaning over the railing with wistful sighs as he watched you, and Morticia knew it was up to her to do something about it.

You’d been asked to accompany them both to dinner privately. Neither Gomez or Morticia had been into the dating scene- as is they married practically a month after they had met and proposed the day of meeting. Yet, you seemed a little old fashioned to just be proposed to in such short notice. Much to Gomez’s dismay who already had a ring picked out for you and had pouted when Morticia gently closed the box to tell him as such.  

You’d agreed joyously to dinner, and not long after had your relationship begun. Gomez had been the one to ask if you would be moving in with them, both of them delighting in the flush on your face and stuttering out about how you weren’t particularly attached to your apartment. He’d insisted with a big smile, and you’d agreed. The children were just as excited, even if Wednesday had showed her own happiness in her own little way of offering to hide weapons in your room ‘just in case’.

Prompting you to ask, of course, “Just in case? What, an attacker?”

“No,” Wednesday had spoken as if it was the most obvious answer on Earth. “Just in case I want to test your reflexes.”

Morticia and Gomez had the delight of watching you spare a grin to her, pretending to pout and telling her. “Aw, man, that’s too bad because maybe I waaaant tooo test,” Only to quickly scoop her up, resulting in their daughter letting out a shriek of terror and joy. “YOUR reflexes!”

The look they had shared was full of love, Gomez’s smile lighting up the room and Morticia having to resist the urge to steal your moment and whisk you away to the bedroom.

To present day, you three have been a couple for nearly half a year. Your first kisses with both of them had been shared, as well as some more intense heavy petting. Normally resulting in you in between them with scarlet red lipstick marks curling up your neck and bite marks on the other side. No one went further than just making you a blushing mess, always one of them murmuring to you that you just need say the word and they would ravish you.

A week before Halloween you shyly tell them that you’re ready to go further.

Morticia has to rest a hand on Gomez’s leg to keep him still when he sits up eagerly in their bed like a dog hearing the word ’treat’, but Morticia only cups your cheek fondly. Smoothing her thumb over the apple of your cheek and drawing you into an oh-so-soft kiss. “In a week, my dear, we shall have a ritual on Halloween night. You are a virgin, correct?”  

Her bluntness had made your face burn, a huff going from your nose but you’d nodded. Gomez had hummed next to her, reaching over to replace her hand with his own rougher one and letting you lean into his palm with a pout. “Now, now, none of that, sweetheart! We’ll have plenty of time to plan for you and get questions out of the way. Like condoms! Shall we need condoms? Tish- we don’t have condoms, do we?”  

“No, my love, we have never desired them before.” Morticia had responded with a sly smile on her lips, sharing a look with you. It seemed you would burn up before they even got to play, but you’d shaken your head, your voice seemingly caught in your throat.

“Good,” Morticia near about purred. “We shall inquire further- would you like to join us in bed tonight to make preparations?”

You had joined them that night. Talking of consent and what you thought you might want to try or be comfortable with. Ending up curled up in Gomez’s arms with your face buried in his warm, hairy chest and Morticia’s freezing cold arms around you from behind. Embraced and safe within their bodies.

--

When Halloween approaches, the children are so excited to drag you and Fester outside to come up with games. Pugsley had dressed as a pirate fit with an eyepatch and a sword in hand, whilst Wednesday had merely taken dressing brightly for once. When questioned, she’d merely said in a stoic tone of voice, “A majority of the animal kingdom has brightly colored flesh in order to identify who is poisonous.” You’d thought it was rather clever.

Yourself, you had dressed as a cliché angel. With a white dress that reached the floor with a slit up each leg for more freedom. The top was a plunge neck with criss crossing strings over your chest, and flaring sleeves down to your fingertips. You’d even gotten a little halo headband and little wings to match. Though your halo was quickly given to Fester who had quite the fascination with it, smiling as you told him you two matched.

Perhaps you had dressed as an angel as a tease. Morticia had admitted that she was quite attracted to the fact that you hadn’t had penetrative sex yet, spoken exactly like that. And Gomez had agreed, not as bluntly but definitely implying that it was very much a ‘thing’ for them both. And maybe you were trying to get a little payback for in the middle of the week. When you had been so comfortable resting with them only to find yourself teased with hot and heavy kisses from Gomez and little nips on your neck from Morticia as they both told you how good of a sacrifice you were going to make on Halloween night.

When you’d arrived, you’d certainly felt their hungry stares. You’d call this righteous payback, thank you very much.

The entire day goes rather well, you’d thought. The children had a day full of fun and were being put to bed by Lurch, slung over both his shoulders as they both wave to you before vanishing around the corner of upstairs. Immediately you feel arms wrap around your waist from behind, a warm kiss pressed to your shoulder and Gomez’s voice sighing out. “As much as I appreciate the time you spend with the children, I am glad it is our turn now.”  

“And what if I’m too tired, hm?” You tease out, only to fall into giggles from your lips when his arms squeeze tighter around your waist and a low growl comes from his throat. You hear the click of heels approaching before Morticia is in front of you, her long fingers tipping your chin up with two fingers. You can practically hear both yours and Gomez’s breaths leave your body at her beauty. She always looked so regal, especially tonight in a more spider web designed dress that had a slit up the leg.

“If you are too tired, we shall simply put off until next Halloween. I am patient.” She speaks coolly, a quirk to a corner of her mouth when you whine aloud and lean back into Gomez’s arms who makes the same sound as you. Clearly the most patient one in the room was Morticia, but even then, her eyes are flicking down the front of your low plunge dress and you have a feeling that wouldn’t last long.

After a few teasing ‘double checks’ from the both of them, you are brought to a room that you don’t recognize. It’s wide open with windows covering one side, and in the center of the room is soft looking cushions and blankets. In a star formation on either side of the center where the comfortable spot looked were lit up candles, all black with roaring red flames. You should have realized Morticia wasn’t joking when she said sacrifice, but in your heart, you knew nothing bad was going to happen. Nothing you didn’t want would happen.

Gomez is the one who strips you from behind, warm kisses placed on everywhere he exposes behind you. Trailing kisses down your back until he can’t reach whilst standing anymore and letting your dress pool to the floor. Morticia watches, patient as ever with her hands folded at her waist, though her head does tilt, this hungry gaze in her eyes as they fall to your hips. You weren’t wearing underwear, you thought it would give your dress undesirable lines. You flush when you hear the appreciative sound behind you, a firm hand tracing down your side and squeezing your ass.

“You were just as eager to get here as we were all day.” Gomez growls in your ear, both his hands grabbing your hips now and yanking you back against him. You whimper faintly, tipping your head to the side when guided to feel the searing hot kisses up your neck. You’re already dizzy with arousal, faintly hearing Morticia say something only to be released and guided to the cushions instead by her hands.

You’re lain on your back, watching Gomez strip from his suit jacket and loosening his tie to work on the buttons. Morticia slips out of her dress, revealing a black lacy get up with matching bra and panties, a garter belt holding spider web thigh highs on her long legs. You swallow thickly when she crawls up to you, nudging your legs apart that tremble as they fall open. Cold kisses leave scarlet prints up your inner thigh beginning at your knee, her lips coming up and over your hip to your lower abdomen and kissing her way back down, down, down.

Her fingers part your lower lips and you throw your head back in embarrassment when she smiles up at you under her lashes. “Already so wet, little one? How sweet.” You can’t even help the way your hips jump when her cold mouth presses an open-mouthed kiss over the hood of your clit, her tongue pressing downwards against you before sealing her lips lightly over you.

A low whine leaves your throat, your fingers quickly twisting into the sheets beneath you as your hips start to hump against her mouth without thinking. You feel a pressure by your head before your eyes flutter open halfway, looking up at Gomez who pushes your hair out of your face adoringly. “Open your mouth, sweetheart, stick out your tongue for me.” Murmured gently from his lips, and you do as told, a shudder racing through your body when Morticia’s tongue dips lower.

His cock is in his hand, thick enough to the point not even his fingers touch when holding it. It looked shorter, maybe at about five inches with the foreskin pulled back with a tug of his hand across his cock. Your mouth waters at the sight of the flushed head, fluttering your eyes closed when he glides the head of it across your tongue. “Ah, there you go, darling, just get used to the taste for now.” Spoken lowly in his throat, as if he’s holding back from just grabbing you and slipping into your throat.

You get to experiment with little laps of your tongue after a moment, keeping your lips parted to allow him to slide the shaft over your lips so you could get used to the weight. A moan spills from you when you feel Morticia’s tongue back on your clit, applying pleasant pressure and moaning against you in turn. You whimper sharply, your hand reaching down to try and find her. She takes the hint, her fingers lacing with yours at your hip to hold your hand there.

It isn’t long before Gomez is pressing the head at your lips, talking you through it ever so softly. “Breathe through your nose, relax your jaw- there you go, that’s my sweet pet.” Crooning as he presses carefully into your mouth. It stretches your jaw, your head tipped backwards and your breath stuttered. He only dips halfway, his hand coming down to rest on your jaw, helping you keep tilted and supported.  

By the time he finally slips all the way into your mouth, his balls against your nose and your eyes nearly rolling into the back of your head, you’re cumming. You squeeze tight to Morticia’s hand, automatically swallowing around the weight in your mouth with moans blossoming from your chest. Your body trembles, hips stuttering up against her mouth where she licks you through each wave and even afterwards. Until your tremors are too much and you’re making soft whimpers around Gomez’s cock and trying to shake your head, but his hand holds you still.

“Mmh. That was one. Just four more.” Morticia practically croons, pressing a kiss to your engorged clit that’s surely circled by a ring of lipstick right now. Your hips jerk upwards, moving your free hand up to Gomez’s thigh and clinging to him when his hips start to move lightly.

Four?! Four more?! You try to sob out, but only the tail end of it gets out when Gomez pulls his hips back until the head rests heavy on your lips. You try to speak, but Morticia’s nails tracing up your thighs as she sits up catches your attention more. “My love, the toys?”

“Behind you in the bag, dearest.” He hums out fondly, the hand gripping your jaw smoothing his thumb over your wet lips until your lips part again, taking his cock once more with a low growl in his voice. “I think you were made to be a toy for us, little one. How well you take me.”  

You can’t help your own whimper when he slides all the way back into your mouth. Your eyes fluttering just as you feel Morticia return with the light pressure between your legs. She lifts one of your thighs, angling you better for the rounded head of a smaller toy that you assume is a dildo, already wet with lubrication. “I would ask Gomez to prepare you as my nails are too long,” Morticia explains, her hand lying flat on the mound of your sex, her thumb circling your clit to not overstimulate you just yet. “But, it seems he is preoccupied at the moment. I cannot say I am not jealous.”

“In d-due time, my dear,” He huffs out, his hips speeding up slightly when you prove you can take the smaller thrusts. Your toes curl, feeling the toy slowly slide into you with a delicious, slight stretch to it. It isn’t long before Morticia’s moving it in sync with Gomez’s hips, your eyes rolling into the back of your head and feeling just like the toy Gomez claimed you were.

You know by the end of the night you’ll end up well taken care of and tired out. But for now, you’re happy to be caught in between them, drooling around Gomez’s cock and feeling Morticia’s cold tongue lapping at your slick.

You think Heaven is a lot darker and gloomier than thought to be.

[femmefaggot]

UMM com update incoming! idr how much of this I shared god bless + not a lot happened that isnt rly specific bc we had downtime

i was away from the group while they went to a food truck bc someone that worked there is missing

they got told the missing person (mia) was a bad cook but everyone loved her food anyway bc it made them feel good (rift confirmed there) and that she was contacted by an ex cop/current PI, luis navarro (sp?)

I ended up at rice assets, got told to make an appt and killed time for tink to explore by going in circles abt my schedule. then said I wanted to invest in the area (bc the person who is the Big Bad of this section was talking abt that) got laughed at and ultimately had to wait til work was done

(flash forward) texting Seth abt how I found who we r looking for and tink is scared of her + she makes me feel weird too (looking at her increased my clingy status effect by 1 number, or 2 pips)

got told I almost texted "I miss you" but erased it before (my choice) saying "please come here" (I very very rarely say please)

(flash forward, after food truck but before texting Seth)

rest of the group goes to where luis last was, run into his wife, find a gun w silver bullets + a silver knife. told abt "faerie ring park" as a lead

they found a drawing of [INSERT BAD RIFT HERE] and seth used prev gatekeeper knowledge re: what is weak to silver

they text info to calvin (as this is just meant to be reconnaissance) and he tells everyone to come back immediately

Seth argues in my favor, saying he's glad he didn't pledge anything to Calvin bc I Very Rarely directly ask for things/mention my feelinfs

i sic my shadow on eva rice (scary woman) and text Seth that I'll concede and go back to Calvin but will not be waiting long

DOWNTIME MOVES

the others r not my business. Seth goes to work and Calvin can tell it unsettles me, puts his hand on my shoulder and tells me he will be back soon. it is nothing but humiliating that everyone else can tell how weird I'm being

text Seth 2 meet me in neverland after he's done w work, in the meantime I try and get ppls shadows to tell me their secrets

Seth texts me that we need to talk about something (ooc I know what exactly he's referring to, IC it's a miscommunication)

i meet Seth at his island filled w giant sweets and such, start rambling like "I'm really sorry I've been acting so strangely that place is weird and you just. make me feel really really weird and I dont like it or understand it I oh sorry here's your jacket back"

Seth says that what he wanted to talk about was me "trying to stab" yan (didn't intend to stab him. he grabbed me and I flailed around w my knife til he let me go).

he said that I should apologize. "do you consider yan a friend? i think you do." (cue grimace) and I was like. i guess. if I have to.

Seth asks what I was talking about before "what?" (playing dumb) "what?" (knows I suck at being vulnerable) "I... forgot." (lying so bad) but he accepts it bc he is sweet and won't push

i make some colorful silver bullets + a silver laced chain

mc suggests me n Seth sleep in neverland

we all meet calvin next day give him info, roxie gives us various silver things he was able to make in one day, Roxie sees my bullets and pats me very hard on the back

i awkwardly apologize to yan, I'm more focused on the knife thing while to him the serious thing is that I put myself in danger. i tell him Ive never really had friends before and to me none of this seemed like a huge deal (the last part is not in those words. much less blatant re: not knowing what's normal. i did say that I've never had a friend that isn't tink tho)

I'm not sure he accepts my apology but he does give me a hug because he knows how hard it is for me.

we head 2 faerie ring park because eva rice is busy at work and we will not be able to confront her until later. the park is abandoned and "smells of decay" there was a man in a raincoat who disappeared? no. jumped into a hole. end session.