#forever vision colombia

[silverjetsystm]

Spector accepts the rage venom with disconnected placidity. Lying. He, dressed in clothing that doesn’t suit him, is that. Liar and a killer down to his bone. 

Cringing, he can’t take that sentence back. Doesn’t want to talk. Should talk. Why’d he say that? Ben’s already ticked. Motor mouth, movement dizzying Spector’s vision. Truth too late likely. Not his business. Not his life. Complete that sentence. No matter if the birth certificate was his name or if he drove the choices for a large chunk of their life. “Leave it, just leave it.” Pathetic. Is this who he is now? Waving a hand, reedy. Undone by a kiss. Honesty sullying this. Close to tearing his hair out the way he’s pulling on it, nails digging into clean scalp. No more styling. Tie like a noose. Further, breaking out in crescent moons on the right side of his face. Where’s his particular brand of slinging sentences together? Right. All those are violence baked, for those who sup on war. 

Party game. 

Face blazes and shifts with every word. He doesn’t know what it's doing, the angles he’s giving. Just a sneer. Temporary turquoise eyes. Chicago on display, they cross talk, ropes popping on his neck, wild dog base. Volume full blast. Ts are Ds, blue streak thick. “Oh. An interrogation. Little cozy for it. Steven’ll love this. Guy cranked up on Colombia’s best and Spector.” No mystery, he supposes, there’s no emotion the definition brings. Positive or negative. HUMINT. Hewmint. Humit.

Ordered to stay, he sits back down from a place he didn’t realize he was halfway up on legs and feet are fizzy radio static. Bobs like a cork on charcoal water. Good dog. Grown out thumbnail rubs, digs moons into index finger. Forward and back. Why does the crackdown of teeth on ice feel familiar?

Two choices on black glass table. Water or vodka. He picks vodka.

“All or nothing.” Echo shakes glass glazed expression.

The question.

Fuck that.

Spector stands up, back straight. Heads out without another glance. One foot after another, down the shitty barracks catwalk stairs, gripping on the railing when he goes too fast and starts to fall head over heels. Oh, he’s had nights like this before and he’s managed to get home. Sometimes Dad would – Out the building. South Side smog, freezing Chicago night. L’s rattling above. Fireworks further still. Clutched against his chest, he can hear the crinkle of the brown bag he used to stash his leather boxing gloves in. Before he scrounged together enough scratch to buy a proper gym kit. Lifetimes ago. “I thought you said to never leave the front unoccupied.” Before that.

Cigarillo continues to burn tobacco-clove-cherry in its black wrapper. Spector shakes his head. Lungs suck in smoke tinged air, flash of silver gloss. “Rrrr.” Engine warmup. Dog growls. 

Freezing lowball glass in his left, ice clinking wildly, he focuses on his hand dropping temperature. “How’d you figure I was a vodka guy?” Knocks a finger back in a practiced smooth motion at odds with the current pace of his heart. Oiling up the gun.

One lip smack. “Ah.” Ephemeral pepper, citrus, grains. Magic trick. Steady fists. Sure trigger and middle fingers bring the cigarillo to his lips. Inhale, personal orange flame in a vacuum. He wasn’t here to present his heart for judgment, crocodile black shirt or no, but here he is anyway. 

Weigh it against boxes of classified files with ink smell long after the redactions went through. By the words of the ones who wanted forever. Against orange prescription bottles.

“Y’.” Remaining in the box frame, shrimp hunched, he doesn’t lock dry red eyes to iced over thermal vents. Looks past Ben’s ear previously cupped by noise. If he speaks, does he ever stop talking? Will he ever reach the end of the litany of sins? Easier in the dark. Call it verbal paradoxical undressing.

“Ever feel shame so deep it dyes your soul scarlet?” His voice rasps, refusing to yell again. “That you can’t look yourself in the mirror? Cause you’re wrong. That whatever was innocent in you got ruined before you could understand what you lost?” Ice clinks, another swallow. 

“And no matter how hard you try, you can’t outrun it. An’ I’m not even talkin’ bout the things I can’t remember.” Walled off memories. “Nah. Talkin' about things I remember doing. Or people said I did. You can’t change the hand you got dealt. So you run and fuck up and run from that too until you ruin your whole damn life because all I know is how to punch first. To keep us safe.” Hoarse. He cracks the Evian. Water is thin. Vodka is oily. Both are mineral filled. A rasp, caw. 

Wipe of lips. Cigarillo’s almost burnt out. “Who’d wouldn’t be ashamed like that? Huh?”

@kylo-wrecked

Slipshod emotions slosh around the bowl of Ben's mind. He stands with his hands buried in his back pockets, studying Marc while he searches his. Smoke rolls up and flattens against the ceiling and its recessed track lights. 

Last time. 

Ben laughs, it cadence fraught with amphetamines. His left ear rings and rings into the rush in his brain, and his sinus meets it with a steady drip, drip, drip. 'Scrumbilized': simultaneously the best and the worst he's ever felt. Marc's words flare in and out… twisted. 

He ignores the bite-back comment only because he's got another's neck in his jaw. Follows the long line of Marc's throat and wants to kiss him again, wants to pull his lip right off his face. 

You and him. 

"What mystery?" He says, with Jake's same not-unkindliness. At first. "There's a mystery here?"

There are no mysteries in Ben's world. There's information he has and information he hasn't. 

"No." Stares hard at the floor's glare. Snarls. Biting back. "There's a guy with D.I.D who's also a fucking liar." Rubs his face and laughs. "Fuck. You got tapped—to—what? Be involved in your own—? And now—what? I get you lost something, time, but—" 

He rakes a raw-red palm over the ridge of constellation-face, through his black shock hair. 

Slap a diagnosis on it, and it explains everything? A one-size-fits-all answer? Every guy with a disorder comes with a top-secret file in every life category? Ben rubs a momentarily phosphorescent face and laughs. Presses the back of his fist to his mouth and tears into his knuckles. A broken tooth draws a thin skein of blood over his thumb. He breathes in deep as cocaine lungs allow, and that dark alligator shirt breathes on him, starts menacing his shoulders and chest. 

Maybe it's supposed to explain everything. 

Funny, if that's true. Funny ha-ha, all that's unsaid. Steven and Jake were equally mum on the matter. Did that make a trifecta of liars or a gargantuan fucking liar, or did depersonalization cover that too? Ben probably knows what he spent a day on in abnormal psychology before he dropped out and became himself.

"Sorry," Ben says about the laughing. "This isn't funny. At all. There's no part of this, frankly, that happens to please me—I just snorted a-mega-fuck-tonna blow before you showed up." 

Raises his hands in admission and claps them together. Hollow sound. Skein gone, then replenished. Drifts on his feet, nudging his newly shucked-off shoes onto their sides. 

"Do with that information what you will, Marc. But don't." He takes a breath that rattles his pumped-up ribcage. "Pete's sake. I don't know. Talk. You wanna talk about it."

No time like the fucking present.  

Cuts to the other side of the room, insisting, "No, you stay right there." Grabs a bottle of vodka off an (n-built wall shelf and pushes it at Marc. Across this clean black boomerang shape between them. And an Evian, the annoying-sized ones that come in baskets. 

"We can play a little party game—" Ben, he raises a face-sized palm at any legible protest, audible or not, and just keeps going, dragging his heels across vinyl and polished marble: "—shut the fuck up, I'm thinking."

Pauses mid-stride to the panoramic, the smoky city dissipating into a cold good night. Ben spots the ant people marching down the avenue and gets the blinds. Droops over the 'bespoke' drink cart he loathes and never needs because he doesn't host; he shows up; no architecture's needed for that. 

Supposed to talk. Sure. 

Fishing for ice in the geothermal whatever the fuck, he plops a (cube) in his mouth, cracking it down in consideration. The rest burn against his palm. Sucks the blood off his right thumb. 

"You answer a few questions," Ben says, glare flashing off Marc's, "and I see if you're lying."

That's the game. 

"And you can keep lying," he adds, with a kink in his tenor, in the lip to match. "You can lie all you want. That's fine, like. There's only one rule. If you leave, you don't come back. Any of you."

Little revved-up hand motion, approximating a die toss. Clinks ice into the tumbler that's become Marc's glass. Cut to the amp-charged gravity pick jumbling Ben's befuddled thoughts; the winning number is green. The losing number is two-thousand-zero-something. His hips about eye-level with Marc's glazed-on glare. Yeah, take a good non-look at what you're not getting.

"All or nothing." 

He awaits no verbal agreement on Marc's part, though Ben watches him with a hunter's grace as he pours from the bottle. Eyes flat-black and shrouded. 

"First question," Ben says. Sniffs. Looks Marc over in a way that could melt the ice in that low-baller. Or freeze the alcohol. "Why are you so ashamed?"

@silverjetsystm

[improbable-outset]

𝑻𝒐𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒆𝒕’𝒔 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆

Frankie Morales x fem!Reader

Word count: 2.5k

⚠️TW: Brief mentions of past drug addictions and divorce (lmk if I’ve missed any) Contains: PIV sex, oral (m receiving), fingering, kissing, age gap (not specified) some elements of praises and reassurance. Literally soft sex (Again, lmk if I’ve missed any)

TF Masterlist

A/N: I don’t know if any of you lot read Webtoon but after reading episodes 152 of Let’s Play, I started on my WIP instantly. But here’s some soft and angsty themed smut. MINORS DNI!!🔞

Summary: Frankie has his own demons but so do you. But you want to forget about them, especially tonight.

Frankie wasn’t an ambiguous person; he doesn’t have big goals that he sets himself nor any dreams. He doesn’t plan for the far future but rather lives in the present and prepares for the immediate future. It’s not narrow mindedness, he just lets life wash over him like the waves on the shore and would try to anticipate any of the large waves before it drowned him.

You were lucky that you didn’t have to learn that the hard way. Well, the complicated way, rather. After the hardship that he has been through, the cocaine incident, losing his license and his divorce, it was like a chip of hope disappeared from him.

However, after the situation in Colombia, he knew that was the last straw. He wouldn’t have his hopes up anymore because anything good that happened will eventually collapse; blessings don’t last forever. Unlike you, you saw things in a bigger picture. You had rough patches in life, some were unbearable, but you pulled through. You believed that ease comes after hardship. But it wasn’t enough to change Frankie's perceptions of things. It saddened you.

What is your perception of life? What do you look forward to? What keeps you going?

The air was cool one Friday night, your living room was invaded by the take out food you ordered. You and Frankie sat on the living room sofa, both with noodle boxes in your hand. Months after your marriage, you had your own tradition of having takeouts on Fridays, before you had to go back to reality when the weekends were over. Normally, you’d catch up with your series or watch a movie while you ate too, but tonight was a little different. You both sat in silence while downing your food.

“Frankie?” You perked, cutting the silence. Frankie looked up from his noodle box, full attention now on you.

“Yes, mi amour?”

You fumbled with the chopsticks before you said what was on your mind.”What are your visions for your future?” You studied his expression as he tried to come up with an answer.

“That’s… an interesting question.” He ran his hands over his curly locks, a habit you’ve noticed he does when he’s stressed or thinking deeply. “Well hermosa, if I’m going to be honest, I don’t think too deeply about the future.” He paused. “I just take things a day at a time. Why do you ask?”

You picked up the empty noodle boxes and made your way to the kitchen to dispose of them. “I just wanted to get a better understanding of you, love. I know you’re a simple man but I want to get deep into your thinking.”

You turned to see him near the kitchen doorway, eyeing you with curiosity. “I want to know your dreams.” You said.

“I had to learn the hard way that dreams are very fragile, planning for the far future can lead to disappointment. So I don’t get my hopes up.” He answered further. Your gaze was glued to him, still sinking in on what he has just told you. Yes, he answered your question but you were a little disappointed with his response but not surprised.

Gingerly, you left the kitchen and walked into your room. You knew where it all came from, before his trip to Colombia, he promised that he’ll spoil you with the money that’ll he’ll bring back, only to be disappointed with the turn of events.

And sure, he was older, had a bit more life experience and went through a lot of shit, but it didn’t make you naive to the situation. You had your own share of demons too that you needed to fight. You just hated to see Frankie so hopeless and not looking forward to the merits that might happen in his life.

You switched on your bedside lamp and changed into your loungewear. Frankie followed you to the bedroom. Did your question really strike him that much?

“I think I understand why you think about life like that.” You started, the light of the lamp reflected on your eyes as you spoke. “I know you’ve had a lot of bad things that have happened, the cocaine, your divorce, but I feel like you're letting that get to you.”

“Your ex-wife ruined your previous marriage, don’t let it ruin your future, you lost your license but you’re working to get it back. Once you get it back it’s proof that there are good things that can happen, dear.” You want to go on, explain to him that it’s not all hopeless.

He pulled you in and kissed your forehead before wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on your head. “If there was one good thing that has happened to me, cariño it’s you coming into my life.” Your heart swelled at his sweet words. You pulled away from his embrace and gave him a chaste kiss.

“I know you’ve faced all of this alone but you don’t have to be alone anymore. I'm here and I’m not going anywhere.” You could see their pain in his face and you waited for him to speak.

“I don’t want to put anything on you.” He croaked, pain laced in his voice making your chest feel tight. You lifted your hand and stroked his cheek and lightly scratched his patchy beard. Your touch always soothed him, especially when you caressed his face ever so gently.

“Frankie… we’re married. It’s what I'm here for.”

Occasionally, Frankie felt like his baggage is a bit too much for you, that you don't deserve someone like him. He's still learning the healthy relationship habits and sometimes can be aloof and distant. He never understood how patient you are with him even though you remind him that you are doing the bare minimum and you agreed to be all-in when it came to spending the rest of your life with him, but nevertheless, he appreciates it greatly. He would take the opportunity to show you his gratitude whenever he can.

“Will you let me show you how much you mean to me, Frankie?” you whispered. Your words send a different vibration in his system, making his stomach flip. With a nod, you latched your lips with his, kissing and pouring your love as you wrapped your arms around his neck. You felt his arms snack around your waist to pull you closer, deepening the kiss.

You were the first to pull away, eager to go further. You tugged at his sleeves, signalling him to follow you, “come on.” you gestured towards your bed.

You removed your top first, leaving you in your bra before you straddled on Frankie’s lap, legs around his waist and kissed him. It was softer and quicker this time, a sweet gesture before you allowed him to handle you, but quickly because you wanted to get on with it already. “Touch me, Francisco,” you gently instructed him, guiding his hands to your breast. He took one of your clothed breasts in his hand and slowly started to knead it while the other reached for your back to unclip your bra. You let the straps slide down your arms before allowing them to completely fall and toss them to the side.

Top fully exposed, Frankie continued handling your breast; now feeling his calloused hands on you, you whimpered with neediness. His thumbs ran over the bare flesh of your chest and lightly pinched your hardened nipples along the way. He could feel his cock twitching slightly at the sight of you, how desperate you were in front of him with your forehead on his. But you still wanted him to feel good too!

You kissed him again, his tongue slipped in your mouth as he began to taste you. You moan slightly in appreciation when you feel a familiar hardness under you. You continued kissing him, letting him take his fill of you and his mind slipping into a haze. Eventually, you pulled away and tugged his shirt up, before lifting it over his head and removing it completely, discarding it to the side somewhere with your top.

You left a kissing trail down his jaw, neck and chest while leaving occasional hickeys like little love letters on his body until you were on your knees, now facing his clothed crotch. You assisted him in taking his pants off and paused when you saw the bulge under his boxer and bit your lower lip, suppressing your groan. The sight always gave a fluttering feeling in your guts. Today was no different.

You pulled his boxers, making his cock finally spring out, aching to be touched. He had a big girth which always gave you maximum pleasure. You ran your fingers over his length causing him to sigh. You could see the little blood vessels bulging slightly and the precum leaking in the tip, even from the low lighting of your bedside lamp. You stroked his cock a few times and squeezed it once before lowering your head and spoiling it with even more kisses.

Frankie moaned at your touch, but it wasn’t enough, he still needed to feel your throat clench around him. And you understood loud and clear. After a few more anticipating kisses, you took his length in your month. You watched him shiver as your tongue stroked his tip. His hands went to reach your hair, grabbing a fistful of it and watching you take his cock in your pretty mouth.

You gripped onto his thighs, as you pumped his cock in your mouth. “So beautiful mi amor, that's it-” Frankie moaned as he threw his head back, taking in the ecstasy and feeling his release crawling in. It wasn’t long until you felt the hot ropes of his pleasure fluids sprawling on your tongue and running down your throat.

You took his cock out of your mouth, a string of saliva trailed from your lower lip to the tip of his length. Frankie lifted your head up and observed your face as some cum dripped from your lips. It made him feel warm inside with how much of a mess you were from his cock. He wiped your mouth with his thumb. He didn’t have this type of free pleasure with his ex-wife. He’d have to do favours or buy stuff just to be sucked off. But now that he’s with you, he doesn't have to worry about that. He doesn't have to worry about you asking for some sort of ‘reward’.

“Ven acá” you lifted yourself up and crawled onto the bed “Lay down on your back for me, sweetheart,” Frankie instructed and you complied. Now it was his turn to assist you in taking your pants off. Your panties still remaining on you, he rubbed around your folds, feeling the piece of fabric getting damp by his touch. You arched your back, whining as your walls clenched into nothingness, you wanted to feel his fingers inside you.

“Frankie-”

“I know cariño.” That was all he answered before finally removing your panties, your wet folds exposed to the cold air. His fingers went back to work with you, drawing lazy circles around your clitoris and driving you mad. After a few strokes, he slid his middle finger in your gaping hole, a low groan drawn from your mouth. He pumped his finger in and out of your hole and watched your face warp and morphed, frowning your brows as a sweet symphony of moans slipped from your delicious glossy lips (most of your gloss now smeared on his cock and mouth) for him and only him.

He reached for your lips again and kissed you deeply. You squirmed under him as his fingers continued to pump in you. Suddenly you felt him insert another finger in you, making you pull away from his mouth, a loud moan erupted from your throat. You squirmed vigorously as he increased the speed of his fingers, feeling your peak crawling in. “Frankie I’m... I’m gonna-” you gasped struggling to get the words out. You were in a rolling mess of breathless bliss.

“I know I know, do it, come for me.” Your husband encouraged you and as expected, you reached your orgasm. Your body spazzed as your eyes rolled back.

You gasped, trying to catch your breath, your body feeling limp. Frankie pulled his fingers out, digits now coated in your love fluids, and kissed you gently on the forehead. “Are you ready for me Hermosa?”

You looked as he hovered over your body and gave a weak grin. “I’ll always be ready for you.”

It was all he needed to hear as he positioned himself, the tip of his cock lightly rubbing your entrance. Your hands were around his nape, lacing your fingers through his soft curls.

You moaned in relief feeling his cock going in, walls stretching for him as your womb made room for his cock. “Always so tight for me, you feel… so...perfect,” Frankie grunted, pushing himself further into you. When his length was finally engulfed by your womb, he pulled back only to snap his hips back in again. He repeated his thrusting in a steady rhythm. “Eyes on me..” you breathed, still feeling breathless “I want your eyes on me. I want you to look at me while you’re fucking me.” Oh. You were really driving him on the edge now.

The room was filled with wet slaps as your husband thrust into you, each slap ending a jolt of overwhelming pleasure through your body. Your mind was starting to fog as you lost your sense of surroundings, all your focus was on the one man in front of you. The love of your life and forever partner. “No one can fuck me… as good as you… ah… as you do.” You stuttered, gripping onto his hair. Frankie swore he was in heaven. He’s fucked you many times but each time seems to be better than the last. Your womb snug around him, clenching onto his length and it drove him insane, and he’d always fall victim to its addictive charms.

You soon felt a knot form in your stomach, desperate for some release. The thrusting continued as the bed creaked with each movement. The knot tightened further before you felt it snap, as you felt your second orgasm. Soon enough Frankie reached his release too, you felt his hot semen coating your wall before he pulled out, some of his fluids seeping out of your swollen hole.

He collapsed next to you, both of you catching your breaths. You turned to face him and wrapped your arms around his bare body. “You okay?” You murmured in his neck.

“Better than that.” You laughed at his response. You quickly checked the time on your bedside table and smiled.

“It’s past midnight, so today is officially our anniversary!” You beamed and kissed him. “Happy anniversary, my love!”

Frankie smiled down at you at your adorable demeanour. He knows that you’ll be by his side, you’ll be there to pull him out of the water before the waves drown him and allow him to breathe. You’re his breath of fresh air.

“Happy anniversary cariño.”

Feedback is appreciated

Mentions: @heythere-mel @queridopascal @queenofthefaceless @salome-c LMK IF YOU WANNA BE TAGGED I DON'T HAVE A TAGLIST FORM

[mellowswriting]

2, 3, & 48 with the least expected choice: JAVI BB! 😭 Please I just starve for domestic!Javi a lot

Second Chance 

pairing || Javier Peña x F!Reader

summary ||  Javier comes back to the U.S after taking down Escobar to find you - and what he finds changes his life forever.

word count || 4,824

warnings || angst with a happy ending, soft dad Javi, allusions to sex

a/n || This was so interesting to write, because Javier as a dad??? Yes please! Also because I’m so used to writing mainly fluff that angst can get a little tricky for me. Thank you for this little writing challenge, anon!

Main Masterlist  |  Join the taglist!

Two years. It had been nearly two years since Javier had seen you - correction, since he had watched you walk out with tears in your eyes and did nothing to stop you like a fool. It was one of his biggest regrets, and that was saying something coming from a man whose job required him to make hard and fast decisions that often left people dead. All he could do was hope and fucking pray that you wouldn’t slam the door in his face.

Even if he did deserve it.

A drive that typically would’ve taken only an hour from the airport took nearly double that, Javier’s hands shaking and stomach turning the entire time. He should’ve done this sooner, should’ve followed you out that door or hopped onto a plane and met you back in the States. Nothing felt right without you, the world around him slightly distorted by your absence. An absence that was entirely his fault.

He shouldn’t have snapped at you. All you had wanted from him was the promise that he would try to play it safer. It was a simple reassurance that he could have given you if he hadn’t been such a moron and snapped at you that if you couldn’t handle the realities of his job, you had no business sticking around. You were scared, worried for him after one of his harebrained plans nearly got his head blown off.

And all Javier had done was make you feel stupid for caring about him. It didn’t help that he did nothing to try to fix it the next day; he was embarrassed, ashamed of his immaturity. And you left because of it. He hated himself for it. He would only hate himself more if he didn’t go to you now that he had taken down Escobar. Better late than never, right? He was back in the states and could’ve gone anywhere, done anything, especially now that he was so well known for his hard work in Colombia. Instead, he used that new status to find out where you ended up and scribbled your address onto a crumpled piece of paper.

It was a nice house. The kind he always hoped you would get, picturesque with the neatly trimmed front yard and picket fence. The sun had just risen enough to tint the sky by the time he pulled up and killed the engine, his millionth cigarette of the day perched between his fingers. You were home. Tiny movements that he could see from the windows and the car parked in your driveway told him that much.

The love of his life was right there. Less than twenty yards away, practically nothing separating the two of you after so long. That realization had Javier finally shoving the car door open and stepping out - and damn near getting himself run over in the process. In his haste, his excitement, he didn’t even glance around himself enough to see the car approaching and… pulling into your driveway?

A spike of fear shot through him. Please, fuck, don’t let that be a man. Don’t let that be some man who is going to walk through the door and kiss your cheek as you welcome him home from work and…

No. A woman, brunette. Launching herself out of the car and practically skipping up to the door. She didn’t bother knocking, just walked right in and closed the door behind her. Something familiar about her tickled the back of Javier’s brain, the hazy memory of a polaroid of her next to you wearing matching goofy grins. Ah, your sister. Amelia, if he remembered correctly.

Javier hesitated at her appearance. He didn’t want to interrupt something. God knows you were already going to be pissed enough at him. So he leaned against his door and puffed on that cigarette like it was his only lifeline, ready to wait for however long it took.

Just his luck that he wouldn’t have to wait long. The door reopened not fifteen minutes later and the two of you both appeared on the porch and holy fuck, Javier’s heart was ready to fly out of his chest just at the sight of your smile as you chatted with your sister. He watched, enraptured, that damn cigarette damn near falling from his lips, his heart leaping at the way your head tilted back with a big laugh. God, he missed that sound.

You turned and poked your head back into the doorway and called something that he couldn’t hear, pausing before rolling your eyes and walking back inside. You appeared again a second later with -

A kid? Propped on your hip with your arm propped under them with ease.

Javier’s heart dropped. Of course. He should’ve known that someone would have scooped you up the second you returned home. If he hadn’t have been such a fucking idiot, that could have been him building a home with you and fuck, he had to leave. He needed to get in his car and fucking go before you -

“Javier?”

It had been so long since he heard you say his name. Even when it was layered with surprise, his name never sounded better than when it was falling from your lips. Javier froze with his hand on the handle. He could hear your sister’s ill attempt at whispering, the harshness of “Wait, the Javier? The one that -” that you cut off before she could finish.

Javier turned, his heart flying in his chest, and started walking up to the gate. The shake in his hands was undeniable when he lifted the latch. Your mouth hung open, chest rising and falling rapidly with your almost frantic breathing, the little girl perched on your hip seeming confused. She was yours, that much was obvious. Her nose, her lips - that little girl was your daughter.

Something in you snapped back into place, your mouth closed and a fake smile quickly replaced it as you turned your softening gaze to your little girl. “Okay, you have fun with Aunt Amelia, okay? Mommy loves you.”

Javier watched the exchange with a heavy heart, watched as your daughter gave you the tiniest kiss on your cheek with a small ‘pop’ of her lips, watched as your sister took her and gave him a wide berth as she went to strap her into the carseat in her car. The moment she was out of your sight, the warmth from your eyes fell away and regarded him with something colder, something angry and sad.

“What the hell are you doing here?” You asked.

“It’s done.” He mumbled, his fists clenching at his sides. “All of the bullshit with Escobar, it’s over.”

“Yeah, I know.” You scoffed at the surprised look he gave you. “What, you think I didn’t keep track of you after I left? Just because I wasn’t around doesn’t mean I stopped caring about whether you lived or died. That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I never should have let you leave. I… I shouldn’t have driven you away to begin with.” Shame flooded him for the millionth time at the flash of hurt in your eyes before you looked away from him, your eyes falling to the ground. “The kid… uh, congratulations I mean. I didn’t know you started a family, I never would’ve shown up like this. I’m not a homewrecker.”

“The kid?” You repeated, your voice incredulous, and Javier cringed. Yeah, not the most eloquent way to put it, but he was never good with words.

“Yeah, uh, she’s a cute kid. You and your… husband or whatever, you got lucky.” Every word that fell from his lips, he regretted. They were true, sure, but holy hell did it sound so awkward coming from him.

“The kid.” You scoffed again, a sound he hadn’t realized he missed so much. You finally locked eyes with him, somehow even more guarded than before. “She’s yours.”

Javier blinked. The words didn’t compute, his brain falling blank at the very thought that he… no, no fucking way. He took a half step back, his mouth falling open. He watched you watch him, watched the way your eyes studied his every movement. Air rushed in and out of his chest rapidly, black spots blinked at the edges of his vision, and suddenly his ass was hitting the hard stone of your porch.

He barely heard the rough, concerned way you said “Shit, Javi!”, barely noticed you disappear from his side. No, he couldn’t believe it, couldn’t accept that. There was no way in hell that his stupid fucking mistake deprived him of this, of his family. Of watching you bring his child into the world and watching her grow, teaching her how to walk on unsteady feet and picking her up when she cried. Of you teaching him how to gently pull her pretty brown hair into the little sprigs of pigtails, just like she wore when he caught a glance of her before she was whisked away.

The cold, wet feeling of a cloth dragging across his forehead made his eyes refocus and there you were. Your eyes, once cold and hesitant now tinged with concern as you gently drug a washcloth down each of his cheeks, trying to pull him out of his panicked state. You were murmuring something to him, something he couldn’t hear over the blood rushing in his ears. Javier’s hand grasped at yours, pressing it against his cheek tightly.

“Name.” He rasped. “What’s her name?”

You paused, a small smile perking up the corners of your lips. “Elianna. We call her Ellie.”

Ellie.

Javier had a daughter.

“I have a daughter?” Javier needed to hear you say it again.

“You have a daughter.” You nodded and pulled your hand away from his cheek, much to Javier’s disappointment. He missed your touch. You patted him hard on the shoulder before hauling him up. “Come on, we have a lot to talk about. Might as well do it on the couch where it’s comfortable.”

The inside of your home was just as picturesque as the outside, but in a completely different way. Colorful toys were strewn about the living room, a few soft baby blankets crumpled on the couch. It was comfortable, lived-in. Happy. Javier sat heavily on the couch, mind almost on autopilot as he gently touched the blanket next to him, his fingers barely grazing the fabric like he was worried his touch would somehow taint it.

You handed him a cold bottle of water that he accepted graciously and sipped as you sat next to him, a foot-wide war zone of space between you that felt like a stab to his heart. If only he hadn’t fucked everything up. You would be curled up right against him, your head on his chest as the two of you watched the little girl you created together babble over her toys.

“Tell me about her?” Javier asked tentatively, his voice uncharacteristically small.

“What do you want to know?” The hesitance in your voice made him feel even worse.

“Anything. Everything.”

And you did. Javier watched and listened, enraptured as you gushed about little Ellie. At nearly fifteen months old, she was damn near running and constantly getting into everything. She was curious and bright and laughed like she couldn’t breathe when you would roll around on the floor and play with her. Just the sight of the happiness and light in your eyes when you retold the first time you heard her say ‘mama’ made pride swell in his chest.

The intense urge to have her here with him pulled at him, but he knew better than to ask. You were already indulging him by bringing him into your home and answering his questions. Hell, he was lucky you told him to begin with. He could feel the intensity of your gaze on his face as he tried to absorb all of the information that was dumped on him. Silence filled the living room when you trailed off, a few heavy moments where he didn’t know what to say.

“I know you have questions, Javier.” You said, your words slow and deliberate. Clipped, like you were terrified he was going to disappear once again.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Javier whispered.

“Well, I didn’t know I was pregnant when I left.” You began with a sigh. “I thought that the nausea and the missed period were from stress, because god knows I was wrecked. I found out a few weeks after I got back to the U.S and… I just didn’t see the point to tell you.”

“Didn’t see the point? Of telling me you were having my child?” His voice rose with his anger, his frustration and he watched as those walls slammed down, your vulnerability hardening in less than a second. He took a deep breath before continuing, trying his damnedest to soften his voice. “Do you really think so little of me?”

“Are you kidding me, Javier? You had just told me to leave. Was I supposed to think it would change anything?” You deflated into the cushions slightly and the sight of the exhaustion and pain in your eyes made some of his anger fall away. You rubbed a hand down your face. “Was I supposed to hop back on a plane back to Colombia? Put myself and my baby in danger? Or maybe I should have just called you. ‘Hey, Javier, I know you just told me to get out of your life, but surprise! I’m carrying your child!’ How would that have gone over?”

“But after? How could you not…” Javier choked up, unable to finish his sentence. You were right, he knew that. But he was grieving the loss of everything he had missed out on. He couldn’t blame you, not really. It was an impossible situation.

“I wanted to. There were these moments that… it took everything in me not to call you and beg you to come to me like some pathetic little…” You trailed off with a shake of your head, your voice cracking. “But I couldn’t. The closer you got to catching Escobar, I just… I couldn’t pull you away from the fight when you were so close to winning. The past few weeks, though? God, I almost called you at least a dozen times. The second I heard about it, I wanted you here, but I was so… so scared, Javi.”

And there it was. Javier’s heart snapped in half. He broke your heart and you managed to still prioritize his career, his fight against Escobar, while you brought his child into the world and shouldered that responsibility on your own. He cleared his throat harshly and squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to hold back those traitorous tears that threatened to fall.

“You don’t have to be scared. If you’ll have me, I swear to god, you will never do this alone again.” Javier whispered, his eyes still closed. Debilitating fear kept him from looking at you, afraid to see the rejection on your face. “I want to be here, I want this. I want my family.”

“Do you mean that?” Your voice trembled with disbelief.

“Of course I do, hermosa.” He insisted. “Please, give me the chance to show you.”

The small, relieved sigh that came from you made something tight ease in his chest and Javier hesitantly brought you into his arms. You relaxed into his side with your head propped on his shoulder, the both of you taking refuge in the familiarity of the touch that was missed for so long. He felt you look up at him and met your eyes, hoping you could see his sincerity. Words had a tendency to fail him but he still had his actions. He absentmindedly licked his lips before asking, “Can I kiss you?”

You smiled at him, a small smile that was still a bit sad, but a smile nonetheless, and nodded. “I've missed your kisses. I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” He confessed and finally kissed you. After two years, Javier felt the softness of your lips against his and finally felt like he was home.

----------

Javier’s knee bounced rapidly as he sat on your couch hours later, his nerves bounding untethered and desperate for any outlet. Just on the outside on the porch, you had stepped out to greet Amelia, who had brought Ellie home.

His daughter was on the other side of the door and he was about to meet her, for real this time. Excitement and fear warred with each other, neither able to win out over the other in their rising volume. Excitement at getting to hold her, maybe even make her smile. Fear over the possibility of hurting her or being too rough - he didn’t have much experience with babies, after all.

The door pushed open and he heard you call his name softly. “Can you grab these bags for me?”

He was on his feet in an instant, glad to be of help and already jumping at the chance to start proving himself to be a good father. A mess of brown curls poked out from the baby blanket you had draped over your chest where Ellie was apparently still fast asleep, distracting him slightly as he grabbed the bags from Amelia. She… did not look too happy to see him. The hardness in her glare told him something that didn’t need to be vocalized: if he hurt you or Elllie, his body would never be found.

Javier nodded slightly at her. He couldn’t blame your sister. If he were in her position, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he would be breaking noses. At your request, he set the bags on the kitchen table before walking back to you - and the sight of you swaying in the middle of the living room with Ellie knocked out against you, your cheek propped against the top of her head, took his breath away. The smile you gave him brought him closer, his hand settling on Ellie’s back softly as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Do you want to hold her?”

It took a moment of maneuvering, but the second you settled Ellie against him chest-to-chest, his entire world came into focus. Her cheek pressed against his chest just so, making her mouth form the tiniest little ‘o’ that he had ever seen. She was so calm, sleeping so deeply, and Javier couldn’t fucking believe his luck. How could he have had any part in creating something so perfect?

He had to sit down. He didn’t trust himself to hold her with unskilled hands while standing. She harrumphed slightly when he eased down onto the couch, but other than that, his little girl stayed off in her dreamworld, content and safe in her father’s arms for the first time.

“Just be careful not to touch the bottoms of her feet even a little bit, it wakes her up every time. She’s just like you with that.” You said, your voice lowered as you sat next to him much closer than before. He preened under the idea that any part of him was reflected in Ellie, even something so small and silly.

“She’s so warm. Is that normal?” Javi asked. He hoped she didn’t have a fever, he knew that a fever could really hurt a baby even with his limited knowledge. You reached out to gently feel her forehead and cheek, smiling after a moment.

“No, she's just a little furnace.” You settled against the back of the couch with a content smile. God, this just felt so right. Having you so close and smiling, having his daughter asleep and safe against him. He could feel the pieces snapping together, could feel himself becoming whole. “Yet another thing she has in common with you.”

“What else?” Javier whispered, desperate to hear everything.

“Hmm, let’s see. You have the same grumpy face.” You laugh when he glanced up at you, his eyebrows ticked together and lips pursed slightly. “Mhmm, that’s the one. Plus she hates carrots. Acts like I’ve personally offended her if I even offer them.”

“That’s because carrots are fucking disgusting.” Javi grumbles goodnaturedly as he gently rubs Ellie’s back. She’s so small, such a tiny, delicate little creature, and he can’t believe it. Any of it. You let him in after everything, took him in and introduced him to an entirely new world of possibility, one where if he was smart and did right by his two little ladies, he would get the life he always dreamed of.

Your fingers brushed an errant lock of hair from his face and Javi sighed, his eyes falling closed as he leaned into the soft touch that he missed so much. He hummed happily, practically purring like a pleased cat, when your fingers buried further in his hair and massaged over his scalp. Heaven. He was in heaven.

A gentle stirring against his chest made Javier glance down at Ellie and that first glimpse of her big brown eyes only confirmed what he already felt deep in his soul - this little girl was his everything. It was the most basic, simple thing he had ever felt, no question to be had about any of it.

Ellie wiggled against him, trying to get herself upright, and Javier immediately held her under her arms to sit her on his thigh. She looked inquisitively up at him from his lap, glancing over at you to confirm that you were nearby before staring at him as if he was the most interesting thing he has ever seen. Her little hand reached up to tug at his mustache, giving him a toothy grin at the way he laughed.

There were tears in his eyes and he couldn’t even deny them, couldn’t pretend they weren’t there. Javier could see them mirrored in your eyes as you watched Ellie stand in her father’s lap and try to balance herself with her hands on his shoulders.

You cleared your throat. “She’s about to start bouncing.”

“What? Whoa!” Javier exclaimed at the sudden feeling of what seemed like Ellie falling in his lap, his hands rushing for a firmer grip only for her to pop right back up and do it all over again. All three of you cracked up, your melodic laughter mixing with Ellie’s high giggling in the most beautiful way.

That night Javier got to cut up his daughter's food and help spoon bites into her mouth, sat at the table with Ellie and the love of his life, eating dinner like a family. He could picture this for the rest of his life. Eating breakfast and dinner together. Kissing the both of you goodbye in the morning and returning to his daughter running down the hall to wrap him in a hug. Chasing Ellie around a park and helping her down slides and pushing her on the swings.

This was his second chance, and he was going to do it right. God help him, he was not going to miss out on anything else. So when he saw the hesitance in your eyes that night after putting Ellie to bed, Javier settled himself on the couch with nothing but a gentle kiss to your forehead. There was no reason to push you. He wanted you to be comfortable, he owed you that much.

A week went by like that. Javier would rise in the morning to the sounds of you coming downstairs with Ellie on your hip and stretch, realigning his spine and pulling the tension from his sore back. He offered small pieces of affection and grinned every time they were accepted - a small peck on the lips here, his arm raised for you to curl closer on the couch there. Little Elianna was all too happy to join in on those little couch cuddle sessions, too, clambering into his lap or yours and snuggling close.

It seemed like the more Ellie warmed up to him, the more you did as well. Javi caught those small smiles when you watched him help ease his little girl to sleep for a nap. The more he proved himself to be a good father, the more comfortable you were letting him in, and it felt like progress. You laughed openly at his stupid jokes, reached out for him for affection of your own volition - kisses over coffee, holding hands as he pushed Ellie in the stroller - and it felt so good.

Javier fluffed up a pillow before tossing it against the arm of the couch, but before he could collapse his exhausted body into the cushions, he felt your hand curl around his bicep. The look in your eyes was almost afraid and worry clenched his stomach, but before he could spiral, you pulled him close and leaned up to kiss him.

A surprised sound hummed against your lips but Javi quickly regained himself to kiss you back. There was something softer about the way your lips pressed against his, something that had been absent from the quick, nearly chaste kisses you shared since he returned. This time you parted your lips and licked along the curve of his bottom lip, your hand coming up to press against his jaw and pull him even closer.

“You aren’t sleeping on that couch anymore.” You whispered against his lips.

“Oh, thank fuck.” Javi grumbled as he pressed even closer and kissed you again and again, slowly guiding you back to your bedroom.

He woke up the next morning with his bare chest against your back, his face buried in your hair, and he didn’t think life could get any better. His arms tightened around you as he gently rubbed up and down your side, the soft touch easing you out of sleep. The way you groaned made him smile; it was a sound he missed, even if it though was grumpy. You rolled over in his embrace and wrapped your arms around his neck to drag him over you, smiling sleepily at him before kissing him.

“My thighs are fucking aching, Javier.” You grumbled against him as you pressed a line of kisses along his jaw and down his neck.

He shivered at the feeling of your lips against his sensitive skin. “Mm, yeah, and you love it.”

You giggled in that way that made his stomach flip. “Fair enough.”

The door pushed open suddenly, almost hard enough to crack against the wall, and Ellie appeared on your side of the bed, her arms raised as she waited impatiently to be picked up. Javier happily pulled her up onto the bed. Scratch his earlier assumption - now his life couldn’t get any better. He watched Ellie jump and tumble around the sheets with happy squeals and that’s when he heard it. At first, he thought maybe he was hearing things until he saw the way your mouth fell open into a big grin, your eyes flitting back and forth between father and daughter.

“Papaaaa!” Ellie called out, her hands opening and closing rapidly, reaching for him from the other side of the bed. She kept saying it, repeating the two syllables over and over until it all bled into one long call for her dad.

Javier pulled her into his arms and squished her to his chest tightly, his eyes on you as his heart fluttered high in his chest. He couldn’t find the words, his voice choked out by his overwhelming love for the little family he had. He watched as you shuffled forward to kneel next to him and kiss the top of Ellie’s head, then his lips, pride shimmering in your eyes.

“Marry me.” Javier said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your jaw dropped. “Javi… you don’t have to do this. I - I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“Are you kidding me? I want to grow old with you, have kids with you, even have a fucking white picket fence.” It was as if the faucet was turned on and there was no stopping the words he so desperately wanted to say. “None of this is out of obligation, hermosa. I want you to be my wife.”

“Yes.” There were tears in your eyes as you listened to the words you had longed to hear for far too long. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Javier surged forward and kissed you again, and in that bed with the precious little girl the two of you created together and the promise of being yours forever, he knew he was right where he belonged.

{Taglist}

@iamburdened @everyhowlmarksthedead @jenrebloggingfics @xserenax-13 @silverstarsandsuns @luminescentlily @peterpstuff @leonieb @lazybeeches @withasideofmeg @freeshavocadoooo @chattychell @ew-erin @viktorialukowski @cjbtw @agentshortstacc @a-skov @himbotroy

[itsmaddienotmaddy]

Just spent the last two hours SCREAMING on my couch. Might as well fully put it on the interwebs.

USWNT V CANADA

Alyssa ‘Savin our asses’ Naeher. Did everyone tell her thank you??? Did they all give her some respectful knucks in lieu of a hug because she seems to not like those? Who are we without her?? Granted. There were a few times where it seemed like she second guesses coming off her line which exacerbated the danger of the plays.. but she came THROUGH. And looked great doing it. That blue. I mean 😍

Captain Rebecca. Put her body on the line. A nerve wracking pass or two. But really, just out here blocking with every body part she can put in the way. Bless her entire soul.

Abigail Bellpepper. Continues to impress on how she can jump into whatever environment and play a full ninety. Diagonal long balls, unmatched. A lil less targeted this go-round, but still excellent. Stepped up on some of the scary defense plays. Let her and Becky get split. Still held it down.

Crystal. Face of USWNT. Had some incredible offensive plays. Great vision for passing. ALMOST HAD THAT BOMB SHOT that got deflected. Not 100% her full Crystal Dunn magic, but the entire team was having an off day lbr

Midge! So fun to see her starting and playing eighty minutes. I thought she came up great offensively. Defensively, she got caught not covering goal side when Beckie nearly scored and Alyssa saved us. Late reaction time to jump in a few times. But her crosses were solid. She attacked down the line, she cut in, she changed it up.

Casey. Mrs. Krueger! Excellent seeing her back, it’s been a moment! Not too much time to show a ton, but she didn’t let them score. So. YAY. More minutes in other games??

Sonnett. Coming in for the chaos! Like Casey, not enough time to do much. There was one little passing sequence with Rose that could have been so cool had she gone for the diagonal corner run for Rose to ping to. Oh well. With Kelley having a knock, hopefully see more of her

Julie - weirdly not on the same page as Lindsey when they were both out there. Only coordinated about standing. Not the game plan. How do y’all knock heads? Call each other off. As usual a VERY solid midfield presence winning balls. Good to see her running down the side and getting that one sweet cross off as well.

Cat! Unlike the hype of her first caps, she got a little more on the lost side out there. But like. International soccer is different than college. She’s allowed time to find her footing. She didn’t play poorly by ANY MEANS. Just needed a little more going to the ball, and holding her own physically.

Speaking of holding their own physically. LINDSEY. She is either getting knocked over by a finger poke, or flattening three people at once. She’s so much better when she stands her ground and fights to stay up. Couple off passes and wasn’t beating people with speed. But she did adjust. She had some incredibly weighted passes, her specialty. And she definitely worked better once the beautiful brunette trio was subbed in. And. Um. We gonna talk about her nonchalantly getting subbed off with blood dripping down her face? 😳

Kristie! (My roommate and I call her Krispy and it takes everything not to refer to her as that all the time.) She definitely made a difference like all the subs. Severely underrated speed, those long leggies can GO. She linked up with Christen well. More of that forever, please.

ROSEMARY KATHLEEN LAVELLE. What a game changer. What a goal. She is wasted at Manchester. She is a GOD DAMN NATIONAL TREASURE. Gonna reiterate, wish we could have gotten a combo play with Sonnett. But god. She should have come in sooner. Such a baller.

Lynn! For the first half especially, she was the ONLY one who seemed like they were genuinely trying offensively. She was working for it and I wish that could have paid off in a goal or assist for her. Much better showing than the Colombia games. Wouldn’t be surprised if she continues getting more minutes this tournament!

Pinoe. Had her moments! Wasn’t perfect out there, was certainly tired at the end, and absolutely did not want to do the defensive work she was required to do. I mean, she got back there. But she wasn’t happy about it. Set pieces weren’t AS lethal as usual. But had some good moves, set up some good plays. Though there were a few where she definitely picked the wrong player to pass to, not seeing Crystal streaking up the side, others cutting into the box.

I don’t have much to say about Carli. It was super frustrating watching her play. Yes. She initiates the press and has the legs to run all game. But she wasn’t getting herself into position, her shots were delayed and not on target, and she refused to stay on her feet in the box. Hoping to NOT see more minutes in this tournament. Give the babies a chance instead.

Alex!! I am waiting for her first National team goal after Charlie. You can tell she’s allllllllmost back to form. Almost. She getting in the correct positions, she knows what she needs to do, but she’s not fully at sniper level yet. She is CLOSE. Soon. I hope.

And last BUT NOT LEAST. Christen Press and her beautiful beautiful hair. (So not the point but oh my god. Drop that hair care routine.) She came in with Alex and Rose ready to GO. Set piece queen. Her tricky little passes are to DIE for. Held onto the ball too long a few times, but there’s no denying her impact. Wish one of her chances would have gotten back of the net, but ya know, it’ll come.

Hoping all the gals rest themselves properly and get ready to kick some ass on SUNDAY!

[cptnbvcks]

Javi being tired and already grumpy early in the morning so you make him coffee and help him with his tie and he already feels better

sunlight

words: 1.5k

summary: while getting ready for the first day back after being promoted, the weight of the job sets in. 

warnings: literally some character-study level angst and a tease of a blowjob, for the sluts. 

a/n: idk where this came from but i hurt my own feelings a lil bit aha

Javier has always been a late riser. 

A product of the job, you suppose. The late nights that keep him at the Embassy, and the later nights that keep him restless when he comes home to you. It’s been worse these days — those endless nights that drag into heavy mornings. 

You do your best, as helpless and meaningless as it feels when you wrap your arms around his back and press your cheek to his bare shoulder and listen to the hard and steady ba-bump, ba-bump of a heart that carries more than he ever dares to admit.  

He softens for you there, but the mornings never come any easier. 

So of course you know that something’s wrong when you wake to find your arm stretched emptily across the right side of Javier’s bed. The sleep disappears from your eyes as you sit up quickly enough that the world tips on its axis and your heart hammers up to your throat while your ears immediately ring with panic — did he come home last night? 

The names and the faces and the scenarios run dizzyingly through your head — Carrillo’s wife, crying into your arms at the funeral that Javi wasn’t at; Connie’s brave face adamantly telling you that Murphy was coming home, the baby crying endlessly on her chest. 

The fear blinds you to the watch that still sits, ticking steadily on his bedside table, or the DEA ID wallet that lays discarded and flopped open with its gold badge catching the morning sun. 

It’s the movement in the open bathroom door that rights the room, that weakens your muscles and lets you breathe again.

Alright, maybe mornings don’t come any easier for you either. A product of his job, you suppose. 

Javier doesn’t hear when you pad across the bedroom floor, his gaze distracted as he draws the length of a patterned tie around the collar of his meticulously ironed shirt. 

You reckon he must not have slept at all because that shirt had been hanging on the closet door with the intent of being ironed while Javier was still resting. You had wanted it to be freshly pressed and starched for the big day today. 

“Need some help?” 

Javier’s head jumps up at the husky sound of your voice, catching your reflection in the mirror as you lean in the open doorway, an easy vision dressed in an old shirt of his. The hard furrow of his brows smooths into something almost boyish and wary but the frustration never leaves his shoulders. He drops his hands from the tie in defeat as you step forward.

“Never thought I’d be a suit kind of guy,” Javier murmurs as he reaches past you to grab the still burning cigarette he had set in the ashtray by the sink, pinching it between his fingers as he speaks around the strain of an inhale, “I feel like a dancing monkey like the rest of those assholes.” 

You smile inwardly at just the sound of his voice, your fingers working the knot of his tie. He speaks softly, every word dragging deep from his chest to his throat and you want him to talk to you forever. It’s a silly request, a menial thing to fixate on, but you know the quiet privilege of being able to hear him talk to you while the world he dwelled in made a fancy habit of creating widows and orphans. 

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I think you’ll be the most handsome monkey in the room,” you hum, glancing up at him through your lashes as you flatten his tie down his chest with a light tug. He scoffs softly, gives a shake of his head as he looks back at the mirror, and you can tell he’s not in the mood to uphold any banter. 

Today feels heavy. Heavier than others. 

Javier hides the fact that he can’t find the words to express himself behind the cigarette in his mouth. Words aren’t his strong suit, but you know this is easier when he talks. 

"Murphy called while you were out last night,” you offer quietly, dusting your hands over the front of his shirt before fixing his collar over the tie. You shift around to stand behind him, flattening his shirt and helping neaten the tuck of it where he hadn’t been able to fully reach as you continue, “Wanted to know how you were holding up — congratulate you on the promotion.”

You notice the tension of his shoulders shift beneath the thin material of the shirt, rolling back a little as he tilted his chin to his shoulder in the smallest expression of interest. You smile softy as you fix his pants back into place. 

“I think he’s starting to miss you.” 

Javier lets out a short laugh and you squeeze his shoulders gently. He taps out the ash of his cigarette and this time when he speaks, there’s less humour in his voice.  

“How’s Olivia?”

The question isn’t the one you expect. There’s something that underlies the unassuming question, in the way he says it, and you know if you pull this thread you may find yourself in some yearning part of Javier’s mind that even he is too afraid to acknowledge. 

You slide your hands down his shoulders, along his back and to his waist. When you speak, you find the same lingering tone in your voice as you had found in Javi���s, “Connie’s looking for kindergartens. She’s thinking to start next spring.” 

Javier makes a soft noise but doesn’t say anything else. He looks down at the sink and watches the ash melt grey pools into the water droplets. 

You know the fog that sits on his shoulders grows thicker the deeper this rabbit hole of Colombia goes. You know he’s standing in it alone now, head half under with no signs of the surface any time soon. 

You know he’s afraid of what he’ll be when he does find the sun again, when he’s got ten toes on solid ground and he doesn’t have to look at the rot again. You know he’s afraid that he’ll die in that hole and never see the sky again.

You know he feels it too. It’s why the mornings don’t come easy anymore.

Javier looks down at the feeling of your arms sliding around his waist, palms pressing softly against his tummy in an attempt to not wrinkle his clothes. He looks into the mirror again when you press your forehead to the space between his shoulder blades. 

Slowly, his fingers spread over the back of your palm as he covers your hand with his own. You can’t see his expression, but you feel the muscle of his back shift when he looks over his shoulder.

What can you say? You should say something. Something profound and succinct and so right that makes this whole thing easier. You want to push your comfort through his heart and tell him the sun is coming, and he deserves it — god, he deserves it. You want to buffer him from everything he faces when he walks out that door but all you can do is hold him here, now, and be thankful that you even have that much. 

You close your eyes and push away the idea that you may not have it — him — for always. 

A product of the job, you suppose.

You realize you might have been holding him for a little too long for this to pass as a meaningless hug when he speaks.

“I’m going to be late, baby,” Javier says and the words are gentle when they break whatever quiet reverie you had lost yourself in. 

“Just a little longer,” you breathe out, the words more desperate than you had meant them to sound. Your eyes close as you press your lips to his spine and notice the heady scent of his cologne that lingers in the material of his button down. 

Your fingers inch away from beneath his hand, slowly sliding down until you feel the cold press of his belt. The movement halts when Javier grasps your hand, holding its position there. 

“Baby.” 

The warning of his voice loses its edge when your lips trail lower, gentle and careful not to dampen his clothing. All Javier can feel is the warmth of your exhales and the easy pressure that descends until your knees hit the floor with a soft thud.

Javier only lets your hands go to turn around. 

There you sit, eyes brimming with something that extends beyond lust, beyond the simple desires that men like him take and leave like shots of whiskey on bar tops with the hopes of numbing the world at the end of the night. 

Let me take care of you, your eyes say, in every way I know how.

When you reach for his belt this time, he lets you. 

He watches you, gives you this moment, for just a little longer.

��

Tag List

@sophiria @imspillingcoffee @plumbuck @romqnofff @sexygaypalpatine @elisaa-shelby @readermia @the-dream-catch3r @pinkmoontribe-blog @madkingcrowley @whenimaunicorn @petalduck @fairylightsandchai  @osejn @mandowhoreian @letdecemberburninflames @chickens-are-velociraptors @naiomiwinchester @peregrinestook  @space-helen @virtuousburden @daddehhmando @thechampmylove @kiame-sama @knightheartcd @lustriix @deviantloving-detective @headsindreams @sebastianstanslefteyebrow @sgtbookybarnes @celestiaalbliss @coonflix @thetrappednerd @brooklymw @the-omni-princess @sav-a-nna @actuallyanita @equalstrashflavoredtrash @claynarwale @pedrolovebot @mermaid-seachelle @sasha1005 @kausmic@otherthingsinhead @maia-hocane @thatoneemosithlord @whenimaunicorn @fictional-thoughts @lilli-chae @spottedlekkudancer @mijachula @djjarindin @murdermewithbooks @justagarbagecompactor @itzagoodthing @i-like-those-oddss @awhiskeywithawinchester @cosmo-bear 

[hiscyarika]

Marry Me

Word Count: 2.2k

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Summary: Javier has another wedding to attend.

Warning(s): None

A/N: Listen, I know I said I was in my Whiskey feels but then I heard the song “Marry Me” by Thomas Rhett and it was all over from there. Sorry.

Masterlist

Tag Lists

Javier stands in front of the full-length mirror, his hands trembling just enough to make buttoning his white undershirt difficult. As he fumbles with the small discs, trying to make them fit into the holes of the shirt, he feels a hand on his shoulder. He looks up to meet his father’s eyes in the mirror, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

“We’ve gotta get going, hijo. We don’t want to be late,” he says, drawing his hand back and then leaving the room. Javier manages to get the last button in place, then pulls on his black suit jacket.

This isn’t an event that he’ll be late for.

He makes a stop in the kitchen, quickly pouring himself a glass of the strongest whiskey his dad has in the house. He downs it in just a couple of seconds, praying that it’ll be enough to calm him. He can’t stand this shaky feeling, the way his heart feels like it’s going to burst right out of his chest. It almost makes him pick up a cigarette again, but he’s been good about quitting. Besides, he knows you’ll berate him if you smell the smoke on him when he sees you.

When he makes his way outside, his father is already in the passenger seat of the truck. Javier climbs into the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition. The drive to the church is silent, aside from the radio playing softly. Driving gives him more time to breathe, to really let the gravity of the situation settle in on his shoulders. By the time the tall white steeple appears in his view, he at least doesn’t feel like there’s a twenty pound weight on his chest.

He parks the truck and steps out, not surprised when his father immediately finds someone to chat with. Javier shakes his head slightly and heads inside. A smile finally comes to his lips when he finds your mother standing in the foyer. She’s embracing him before he can even open his mouth to greet her.

“Oh, Javier. You look dashing, honey,” she says, giving him a gentle squeeze before releasing him. He feels a bit of heat come to his cheeks. “She’s in the back room getting ready right now. You should go see her.” Javier nods and looks down the hallway. His heart starts pounding in his chest again as he makes his feet move forward.

When he knocks on the door, he’s met with a face that isn’t yours. She’s one of your college friends that he can never remember the name of, though in his defense he’s only met her once. She immediately recognizes him though, and fully opens the door, finally revealing you to him.

You’re standing in front of the window, the sunlight pooling around you and surrounding you in a heavenly glow. You’ve already donned the white dress and veil. Javier swears in that moment you’re the most holy thing he’s laid eyes on. He can’t stop the tears that blur his vision, especially when you look so relieved to see him.

“Javi...you came…,” you breathe, closing the distance that lies between you both. He immediately opens his arms to you, but he holds you gently, not wanting to mess up your hair or makeup. You’re close to doing the damage yourself with the tears that well up in your eyes. He’s just glad that the rest of your bridal party has left the room, letting him have this last moment alone with you.

“Shhh. Don’t cry, mi estrella. Of course I came. I couldn’t miss your special day,” he whispers. It nearly kills him to say the words.

Because you’re getting married today, but not to him…

You giggle, a soft and musical sound that only makes the aching in his chest grow worse. “It means a lot that you’re here, mi sol. I know you’re a busy man nowadays,” you tell him, putting your hands on his shoulders as you pull back just enough to look him in the eye again. You’re practically radiating happiness. He just wishes that it would rub off on him a little bit.

“Never too busy for you. Congratulations, hermosa. I’m happy for you,” he murmurs, cupping your cheek in his hand. He then indulges himself with one kiss, lightly pressed to your forehead. He closes his eyes against the clenching of his heart. “I’ll leave you to get ready. Te quiero mucho, mi estrella,” he whispers, releasing you.

“Te quiero mucho, mi sol,” you reply, running your hands down his arms until you can take his hands. He nearly comes undone when he feels just how perfectly your little fingers lock with his. He wants to drop to his knees and tell you everything that he’s been holding back since the moment the wedding invitation came in the mail. But you squeeze once, then let him go, beaming up at him as he turns and leaves the room. He says nothing.

He’s dazed as he walks into the sanctuary, and he settles himself in the nearest empty pew, far in the back where it’s less likely that anyone will bother him. Everyone wants to be close to the altar, to watch you and your new husband come together before God and start the next chapter of your life together.

He briefly debates leaving, or at least waiting in the truck until it’s all over, to spare himself from having to watch you leave him. But he knows that if he bails on you, you’ll never forgive him for it. More importantly, he’ll never forgive himself.

Instead, he leans back on the uncomfortable wooden bench, trying to ignore the memories that assault his mind. All of the moments he’s ever shared with you since you were just kids come flooding back to him, reminding him of the mistake he made by never telling you the way he felt. Hell, he’d run away from his own wedding just because he couldn’t see himself as anyone’s husband but yours. But instead of giving you the benefit of knowing that, he’d disappeared to Colombia and never looked back.

Javier clears his throat to keep his emotions at bay, and suddenly becomes aware of the frantic, hushed whispering overtaking the room. Looking down at the watch on his left wrist, he understands why. It’s time.

The music starts, ringing from the antique organ on the balcony above the door. Javier watches as your husband-to-be enters the room with the couple of groomsmen and bridesmaids behind him. He’s a nice enough guy. Javier has had some good conversations with him. The guy loves you. He’ll take care of you. And really, that’s the only saving grace. He knows that he won’t have to worry about you. You’ll get the happily ever after that he knows you’ve been dreaming of your entire life.

And then everyone stands, and the bridal march starts.

Javier feels his throat run dry as he pushes himself to his feet, watching you walk down the aisle on your father’s arm. He watches your eyes roam around the room, not stopping until your gaze settles on him. The eye contact lingers just a second longer than it should, and as soon as you turn away from him again, he comes undone. He can’t hold it together anymore. A single, hot tear slides down his cheek as you pass by him.

Javier lets out a shaking breath as the music finally ends, and he lowers himself to sit again. His hands are clenched into fists as he sits there, wishing there was another way for him to release all of the emotion threatening to explode from him now.

The preacher’s voice echoes through the sanctuary as he begins with a prayer. Javier bows his head, hating that the only thing running through his mind is his begging for a way to fix this. If he could go back and do it all again, you would have never even met this guy. He would have never gotten close to marrying Lorraine. You’d be settled down with a couple of kids on his dad’s land by now. The way that it was supposed to be.

“If anyone objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Javier’s head snaps up, realizing that he’d been too lost in his own misery to hear the end of the prayer. He looks up at you, the way that you stand with your hands clasped together with your fiancé’s. It’s a decision that he knows he can’t come back from. He doesn’t care. Either he loses you to marriage or anger. Both are a sentence to eternal perdition.

Javier stands, then steps into the aisle.

There’s a cacophony of horrified gasps, and suddenly all eyes are on him. But he only looks at you, gathering every bit of stubborn courage he’s got.

“Javi?,” you asked, shock evident on your face. Your hands drop to your sides, picking up your dress. You step down the three small stairs of the altar, your face softening in worry as you look at him from across the room. “Javi, what are you doing?”

His heart is pounding so loud he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. It’s so loud that he almost can’t hear you. But he forces himself to take a few steps forward, closer to you.

“Mi estrella…,” he starts. He doesn’t know what to say to you. Here he is, interrupting your wedding, embarrassing you and himself in front of everyone that you know. But he doesn’t regret it. You have to know. He has to tell you.

“I can’t let you do this,” he says. There are more gasps and angry whispers.

You shake your head in confusion. “What? W-Why?,” you ask, stepping closer to him. He hates the way you look at him with soft eyes of concern. He doesn’t deserve that from you. Not now. He deserves for you to be furious, to demand that he leave the ceremony and never speak to you again. You’re too saintly for someone as broken as he is.

His eyes fill with tears again, and that’s the end of it for you. He watches as you walk toward him, down the aisle in your wedding dress to him. And then your hands are cupping his cheeks and trying to find any sign of what might be wrong with him. “Mi sol, please talk to me,” you beg, wiping away his tears with the pads of your thumbs.

“I love you...,” he murmurs, glad that you're close enough to hear him because there’s no way he could force himself to be louder,”...too much to let you be another man’s wife.” He’s finally admitted it. After so many years, he’s finally said the words. And now he’s at your mercy. His hands drop to your hips, and he closes his eyes as he realizes that this very well might be the last time that he ever has you this close to him.

“...Really?”

The desperate whisper that leaves your lips catches him off guard. He opens his eyes, searching them for any indication of what you might be feeling, what might be going through your head as you look up at him.

“Of course, hermosa. I always have,” he whispers.

“You should have told me before.”

“I wanted to. Believe me, but I–” He’s stopped by your fiancé calling your name. You jump in surprise, dropping your hands from his face and turning to look at the other man. Javier takes a step back, giving you room to breathe, to think.

He watches as you look back and forth between him and the altar. There’s fear in your eyes now. Javier hates himself for the pressure that he’s put you under, but he can’t take it back now.

You turn back to face him, tears running down your cheeks, and the sadness in your eyes tells him that it’s over.

He’s lost you.

He turns and starts to walk out of the sanctuary. He can’t bring himself to look back at you. It’ll kill him.

“Mi sol!,” you call. He stops. The sound of your heels clicking on the wooden floor gets louder.

He turns just in time to catch you in his arms. You throw your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. He feels the breath leave his lungs as he clutches you to his chest. His fingers dig gently into the soft skin of your back.

“Mi estrella...,” he chokes, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss is long and desperate and full, one that he’ll remember for the rest of his life. Without breaking away from you, he scoops you up into his arms, mindful of your dress as he carries you out of the church.

There’s an uproar in the sanctuary, but he doesn’t care. He’s got you in his arms and he’ll never let you go.

---

Permanent Tags: @theforceofdarkandlight​ @hail-doodles​ @aerynwrites​ @murdermewithbooks @themandjalorian @longitud-de-onda @readsalot73 @lovingtheway​ @talesfromtheguild @mystical-934  @lavenderl3mons @tiffdawg @lokiaddicted @adikaofmandalore @blue-tidal-wave @forever-rogue @flower-petal-blooming​ @fleurdemiel145 @cable-kenobi @opheliaelysia @pynch-bug​ @lesqui​

[huariqueje]

LATINOAMÉRICA OPINIÓN POLÍTICA

Perú despierta y Vargas Llosa agoniza 

LATIN AMERICA POLITICAL OPINION

Peru wakes up and Vargas Llosa is dying

By José Steinsleger 9 Junio, 2021

Some experts in psychoanalysis and psychiatry describe as schizophrenia the condition that prevents the distinction between fiction and reality, and considering that it is a serious mental illness.

On the other hand, when political issues are discussed colloquially, the term is often used loosely to disqualify those who deny or misrepresent reality. Unfair and unpleasant rapture that undeniably calls into question good manners.

Example: since La ciudad y los perros, I have read almost all of Vargas Llosa's fictional works, and a good part of his political articles, in which he developed, in my opinion, a tortuous vision of reality. Conclusion: unmatched mastery to travel from reality to fiction and vice versa.

Despite this, more than half a century of reading Vargallosian has not been enough for me to solve a dilemma that, I suspect, no disciple of Freud or Lacan could solve: when did Mario Vargas Llosa screw up?

Tributary to the ex-pongo and today Marquis, the Andean-indigenous-mestizo culture has produced unique writers, although marked by their inferiority complex compared to colonial culture. Emblematic case: Alcides Arguedas (1879-46), paid writer for the tin magnate, Simón Patiño. In 1909, Arguedas published Pueblo Sick in Barcelona, ​​making clear his reasoned contempt for Bolivian society..

In Pueblo Sick, the author regrets that the mixture of fatal biological laws, historical reasons and environmental circumstances have made the indigenous a stunted and diseased race. Celebrated by the great Miguel de Unamuno, the book is no longer read. But its contents make it possible to unravel the chronic racial hatred of those who (not only in Bolivia and Peru) are scared when they see that the peoples begin to break the chains of colonialism.

In the antipodes of the Bolivian Arguedas, the Peruvian José María Arguedas (1911-69) and a book published shortly before his suicide: The fox from above and the fox from below, a deep reflection on Peru that Vargas Llosa despises to such a degree, that in 1996 he dedicated a long essay to him: The archaic utopia and the fictions of indigenismo.

The fox above and the fox below alludes to the foxes of indigenous legends collected in Quechua at the end of the 16th century, and they tell of a world divided into two: the coastal zone and the mountainous area, which were the center of the history of the country in pre-Columbian times, as well as the coast would be from the conquest.

Observations that for some mysterious reason, shot me after reading On the Tightrope, Vargas Llosa's latest article, published on the eve of the ballot that just took place in Peru (El País, 5/6). Quickly, I underline themes and passages related to a continent that, according to the master of fiction and reality, seems determined to resurrect the Marxism-Leninism that Europeans and Asians have been in charge of burying.

Brazil: “The judges have released Luiz Inácio da Silva […]. If foreigners could vote, Lula, his darling, would sweep away. Brazilians are more cautious: they remember above all that several sentences weigh on him, for taking advantage of power and for corruption ”.

Chile: “in this country that seemed to have done its homework and grown to distance itself from the rest of Latin America and reach European levels, now it is absolute chaos… with young people of both sexes dreaming of a uniformed nation, with a state-controlled economy that would ruin a a society that seemed to be the first in Latin America to end underdevelopment ”.

Colombia: “[…] It burns everywhere and President Iván Duque is attacked even by his own party and his teacher, former President Álvaro Uribe, accuses him of being weak and of not resorting to the army to appease the violent people who, guided by the Venezuelan hand, they want to take power away ”.

Bolivia: Evo Morales' forces have returned to power and he has a candidate whom he calls brother and cholito… But he is not Bolivian but Peruvian: Pedro Castillo ”.

Peru: “[…] Immediately favorite target for the Cuban, Venezuelan and Nicaraguan axis. If Pedro Castillo wins the election, Marxism-Leninism-Mariateguism […] would be the most ferocious and bloodthirsty dictatorship of all that the country has known throughout its history ”.

And the pearl that Ripley cries out for: Political suicide [in Peru], which would close forever, or for a long time, the country's possibility of recovering its old history when it was, in the pre-Hispanic past, the head of an empire that gave of eat everyone, or in the 300 colonial years, when the Peruvian viceroyalty was the most prosperous in America. All this to become an agent at the service of Cuba and Venezuela.

I understand the dialectic of the converted leftist, which tends to be more eloquent and fierce than the reverse option. But if any specialist can confirm the diagnosis of yore, I am willing to qualify my criticisms and, from now on, treat Vargas Llosa as a brilliant mental patient.

By José Steinsleger 

https://www.elclarin.cl/2021/06/09/peru-despierta-y-vargas-llosa-agoniza/?fbclid=IwAR3rcbPk72HBEEGmTOgwXakvVQzY4vvyy159uViTVWT48wsrVUJDe38g3vc 

[hopelikethemoon]

Distraction (Javier x Reader) {MTMF} [smut]

Title: Distraction  Rating: Explicit Length: 3600 Warnings: Smut (kink negotiation, blow jobs, fingering, actual sex, lots of smutty stuff) and some discussions of infertilty and pregnancy issues.  Notes: You can find everything about Maybe Today, Maybe Forever here. Set in 1996 during the process of trying to get pregnant.  Summary: Reader and Javier spend an evening looking for a distraction.

@grapemama​​​​​​ @seawhisperer​​​​​​ @huliabitch​​​​​​ @beccaplaying​​​​​​ @thewallpapergoesorido​​​​​​ @twomoonstwosuns​​​​​​ @gooddaykate​​​​​ @livasaurasrex​​​​​​ @ham4arrow​​​​​​ @plexflexico​​​​​​ @readsalot73​​​​​​ @hdlynn​​​​​​ @lokiaddicted​​​​​​ @randomness501​​​​​​ @fioccodineveautunnale​​​​​​  @roxypeanut​​​​​​ @snivellusim​​​​​​ @lukesrighthand​​​​​​ @historynerd04 @mrsparknuts​​​​​​ @awesomefandomsunited​​​​​​ @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead​​​​​ @exrebelshocktrooper​​​​​​ @synystersilenceinblacknwhite​​​​​​ @ah-callie​​​​​​ @swhiskeys​​​​​​ @exrebelshocktrooper​​​​​​ @u-wakatoshii​​ @space-floozy​​​​​​ @cable-kenobi​​​​​​ @cool-ultra-nerd​​​ @himbopoes​​​​​​ @findhimfives​ @pedrosdoll​​​​​​ @frietiemeloen​​​​​​ @arrowswithwifi​​​​​​  @cinewhore​​​​​​ @random066​​​​​​ @uncomicalhumour​​​​​​ @heather-lynn​​​​​​ @domino-oh-damn​​​​​​ @cyarikaaa​​​​​​ @ahopelessromanticwritersworld​​​​​ @im-still-a-pieceofgarbage @ksgeekgirl​​​​​​ @yabby-girl​​​​​​ @xqueenofthecraziesx​​​​​ @punkass-potato​ @coredrive​​​​​​ @pascalesque​​​​​​ @theduchessofkirkcaldy​​​​​​ @queenquazar​​​​​​ @sabinemorans​​​​​​ @buckstaposition​​​ @holkaskrosnou​​​ @yespolkadotkitty​​​​​​@seeking-a-great–perhaps @kochamcie​​​​​​ @jaime1110​​​​​​ @katlikeme​ 

You scraped your nails lightly down the length of Javier’s arm where he had it draped over your waist. You rubbed your thumb over a freckle on his arm, right at the bend of his elbow. 

If you recalled correctly, he’d gotten that freckle in Colombia. That’s what happened when you drove around with your arm halfway out the window. 

Sometimes you wished you could go back to those sunny afternoons, driving around in the Jeep with the windows down. There was never a dull minute to be found when the three of you were out in the field together. 

Javier’s breath was warm on the back of your neck as he shifted behind you, “Penny for your thoughts?” 

“I don’t know if you have enough pennies.” You teased as you dragged your fingertips through the hair that covered his arm. 

“I bet I do.” He curled his arm around you a little more securely then, his fingers fanning out over your lower stomach. He must’ve noticed the way that you instinctively tensed under his touch, “Baby—“

You curled your fingers around the back of his hand, bringing it back to your stomach. “It’s fine.” You assured him, rubbing your thumb over the side of his hand.

Javier echoed your touch as he rubbed his thumb over a patch of skin just below your belly button. “Was that what you were thinking about?”

“No.” You told him, before reconsidering. “I guess in a roundabout way I was.” You tilted your head a little, just enough to look back at him. “I was thinking about Colombia.”

Now it was his turn to tense. “Yeah?”

“All those afternoons driving around Colombia,” You ran your fingers down his arm again, before interlacing your fingers with his. “Did you ever imagine this would be your life?”

Javier kissed the curve of your shoulder, “I don’t have that good of an imagination.” He chuckled, sighing heavily. “Definitely would’ve never pictured myself scheduling out the best times to fuck.” 

You snorted, keeping his arm in place as you rolled onto your back, “Right?” 

“Look, I know there’s a rhythm to this, but I am missing the element of spontaneity.” He pursed his lips as he looked down at you. “It’s not just me, right?”

“It’s not just you,” You said as you reached up to play with the hair that fell across his forehead. “If I have to take my temperature one more time.” 

Javier ran his hand from your stomach, up along the curve of your ribs. “Is this that conversation?”

You scraped your teeth over your bottom lip as you considered it. Were you ready to stop? “No.” You shook your head, stroking your fingers over his jaw, the prickle of his unshaven cheeks tickling. 

“Alright.” Javier pressed a kiss to your temple, stroking his fingers down your side. “You know, one of the books I read talked about stress being a potential factor…”

“Javier,” You gave him a look. “I have stressed my entire life. I don’t think that’s the problem.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

You sighed heavily, giving him a skeptical look, “I’m listening.”

“Let me take care of you,” Javier murmured as he leaned down to kiss you. “We’ve been so focused on the act, that I think maybe we’ve neglected you.”

“What did you have in mind?” You questioned, your lips brushing against his as you spoke. “You’ve taken care of me every time.” 

“Do you trust me?”

“With my life.” You told him without hesitation. 

“Wait here.” Javier kissed you once more before he moved to get out of bed.

You propped yourself up on one arm as you watched him walk over to the dresser, “Have I ever told you what a good ass you have?” You questioned.

He shot you a look over your shoulder, “Not that I recall.” 

“Well you do.” You clicked your tongue against your teeth, “I’m just saying. I’m a lucky woman.”

Javier chuckled as he shook his head, “Because of my ass?”

“Among many things.” You smirked. “What are you looking for?”

“Where’s your vibrator?”

You sat up then, the sheets pooling around your waist as you stared at him. “Really?” You felt your cheeks warm as you pointed at the chest of drawers, “Underwear drawer in the back. Silky black bag.”

Javier nodded and turned back to the task at hand, pulling open the drawer and grabbing the toy out. “Where’s that polka dot scarf you wear?”

“The silk one?” You arched a brow at him, before you started to get up. “Shit. I think it’s in the closet.” 

“Didn’t I tell you stay in bed?” Javier questioned with a short chuckle. “Might have to get one of my ties instead.”

You stopped short of the closet, turning to stare at Javier — just a little dumbfoundedly. “I do have to go to work in the morning.” 

The look that he gave you made your heart skip a beat. “Lay back down.” He told you firmly, leaving no room for argument. There was something about that tone. It was a rough cadence that evidently had an effect on you. 

You sat back down on the edge of the bed, watching him as he walked to the closet to retrieve the scarf from the storage bin on the floor of the closet. 

“Safe word?”

“Same as always.” You told him, running your hands over the tops of your bare legs as you stared at him. “What are you thinking of doing?”

“Blindfold,” He held up the scarf. 

Your breath caught in the back of your throat as you nodded. “But just so we’re clear,” You met his gaze. “You have taken very good care of my needs. There have been no complaints.”

“I know, baby.” Javier grinned at you. “But I wanna take care of you tonight.”

“I’m sure you will,” You scooted back onto the bed, before laying back against the pillows. 

Maybe this would work? You were grappling at straws, but you would take it. Whatever helped your body sort it’s shit out. How was it possible that Josie had been so easy and this time…

“Hey,” Javier leaned over you, brushing his fingers over your jaw to turn your face to look at him. “Stop overthinking it.”

“Have you ever met me before?” You rolled your eyes. “Look, I’m trying, Javi.” You curled your fingers around his hand, giving it three short squeezes. “But you’re going to have to give me a reason to stop thinking.”

He dipped down to kiss you, “I can do that.” Javier nipped at your bottom lip as he drew back. “Sit up.” 

You sat up just enough for him to slip the polka dot scarf around your head, cloaking your vision in darkness. 

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Javier questioned. 

Instead of answering, you traced your tongue along your bottom lip and parted them. “Why don’t you show me?”

Javier brushed his thumb along your bottom lip, “I like the way you think, baby.” He drawled out as you caught his thumb between your teeth and flicked your tongue out over the tip. “That’s hot.”

“I specialize in hot.” You retorted, before curling your fingers around two of his and guiding them into your mouth. The low, guttural sound that rose up from the back of his throat made every nerve ending in your body feel like it had been called to attention. 

Not being able to see him meant relying on touch and sound — and Javier had never been a quiet partner. 

You slid your tongue between his fingers as you dragged your lips along them, before releasing them with a wet pop. “Not quite as fun as your cock.” 

“I would agree with that,” Javier chuckled lowly as he rubbed his thumb over your lips, before leaning down to kiss you. “But tonight isn’t about me, baby.” 

Javier cupped your jaw as he shifted above you to deepen the kiss. His tongue slid out, playing over your lips before invading your mouth. You groaned, but the sound got swallowed up between your mouths as his tongue stroked over the roof of your mouth. 

You reached out and curled your fingers around the back of his neck, keeping him right where you needed him as he kissed you. 

Sex with Javier was never bad — but so much of your interactions over the past few months had been solely focused on what your temperature was, the timing, the positioning… It was fun, but it hadn’t always been ideal. 

It hadn’t been about this. This feeling that only Javier had ever really been able to make you feel. There was no word for it, but it existed nevertheless. 

He broke away from the kiss, breathing raggedly as he trailed a row of open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. 

Your fingers tightened in his hair as his left hand grabbed at your breast through the fabric of your tank top, causing the soft cotton to rub tantalizingly against your nipple. “Javier.”

His tongue flicked out over your pulse point, teeth lightly grazing against your skin — just enough to leave a mark that you’d have to hide tomorrow. 

You couldn’t see him when he pulled back, his breath dancing over your kiss-swollen lips as he hovered nose-to-nose with you. But you could imagine him, his own lips plush with blood and his pupils blown with desire. 

There’s something about an almost kiss that flips new switches for you. His nose just barely brushed against yours, breath hot against your mouth winding you up just enough that you crane your neck to chase after his lips for a kiss he doesn’t give you. 

Instead the bed shifts beneath you and you’re made distinctly aware of his absence as you heard his bare feet hit the floor. 

“Where are you going?” You sat up slowly, reaching for the blindfolds.

“Did I tell you to take that off?”

You inhaled sharply as the foot of the bed dipped and Javier returned to you. “No. But I can’t exactly see.”

“Baby, you’ve got to trust me.” Javier said gently as he curled his fingers around the hem of your tank top and tugged it up and over your head. 

In the process, the blindfold was pulled off too and you couldn’t help but laugh as you met his eyes. “Best laid plans.”

He huffed as he untangled then scarf from your tank, “It’s not like it can’t be put back on.” 

“But now I know you got your tie out.” You pointed out, reaching to your right to pick up the silver and black tie that Javier had clearly retrieved when he left the bed. You looped the silk around your wrists, clasping them together as you flopped back onto the bed and held them above your head. “Is this what you were planning on doing?” 

Javier pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek as he sat back on his knees and looked down at you. “Well, now I’m not.”

“And we thought Josie got the obstinance from me.” You retorted, unwinding the tie from your wrists as you sat up and moved towards him. “Did I derail your plans, baby?” You questioned, mimicking his voice as you slid the tie around his neck as you rose up on your knees and straddled his legs. 

Javier ran his hands down your sides, before roughly grabbing at your hips and pulling you into his lap. “Maybe I should’ve gagged you, instead of blindfolding you.”

You smirked at him as you slid the silken tie along the back of his neck, leaning forward to catch his bottom lip between your teeth. “Maybe you should.” 

One hand slid around to grab at your ass, keeping you pressed right up against the rigid outline of his cock. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You pursed your lips, tilting your head to the side for a moment as you considered the offer, “Only if you promise to actually fuck me and not just tease me.” You slid the silk tie around his throat and pulled on either end. 

Javier’s hips rocked upwards beneath you, grinding his cock right against the apex of your thighs, giving you just enough friction to make you squirm. 

“But you secretly love how mouthy I am,” You reminded him, scraping your nails lightly down his chest. “Alternatively…” You dragged your thumb from the hollow of his throat, up over his Adam’s apple, before brushing it over his bottom lip. “I know you wanted tonight to be all about me.”

He gave a short nod as his tongue darted out over the spot where your thumb had just been. “Yeah?”

You bit down on your bottom lip and attempted to offer him the most innocent look you could muster up, “I kinda want to suck your cock.” 

“Fuck.” Javier breathed out raggedly, squeezing at your hip. “How’d you flip this on me, baby?”

“You wanted to distract me.” You shrugged. “Consider me distracted.” You gave his cheek a pat, before you climbed off his lap and repositioned yourself on your stomach on the bed. 

Javier stroked his fingers over the back of your head as he looked down at you, “You sure?” He questioned as he stretched out his legs. 

You nodded, “Very.” You kept your eyes on his face as you moved in between his thighs and cupped his cock through his boxers. “Are you sure?”

He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek and laughed, “You never stop, do you?”

You grinned up at him as you lightly scratched your fingernails down the length of his cock and balls, before leaning in to press your lips to the head. “Nope.” 

Javier’s fingers gripped at the bedsheets beside his hips as you withdrew his cock from his boxers. 

“It’s been awhile,” You pointed out as you loosely curled your fingers around the base of him, licking your lips as you looked up at him. “Have you missed this as much as I have?”

“You know I have, baby.” Javier breathed out, his stomach muscles clenching tight as you ran your tongue up the length of him. “Fuck.”

His fingers found their way into your hair, gripping at it tightly as you took the length of his cock into your mouth from root to tip. You swirled your tongue around his cock as you pulled back and released him with a wet pop. 

“You look good like this.” You told him, reaching up and tugging lightly on the tie that was still looped around his throat. 

Javier murmured something that sounded like your name and strained curse, but you lost track of it as the sound turned into a throaty groan once your mouth was wrapped around him again. You hollowed out your cheeks, flatting your tongue out against the underside as you dragged your lips over him. 

It had actually been around. Everything had been focused on—

You grabbed at his thigh to keep him seated on the bed as his hips twitched upwards as you drew back. You glanced back up at him, groaning at the absolutely fucked look on his face. 

“Fuck.” Javier hissed out. “Your mouth feels so fucking good, baby.” 

You curled your fingers around him, using the mess of saliva you left behind as you pumped your fist over the length of him. “I wish you knew how good you look right now.” You told him, sweeping your tongue out over the head of his cock just to watch his jaw slacken. 

“Baby,” Javier started, swallowing thickly as he tried — a failed — to find his words. “Shit.”

Your pace didn’t falter as you slowly sat back up, tucking your legs beneath you as you positioned yourself in front of him. “Look at you.” You whispered, reaching out to push your fingers through his hair as you rubbed your thumb over that one spot on his cock, just below the head that never failed to affect him. 

He was lost in the moment for mere seconds before his fingers curled around your wrist and he snatched your hand away from his cock. “Wait.” 

“You’re no fun.” You teased as you shook your wrist out of his hold. “But I get it.” You whispered, curling your fingers around the back of his neck as you leaned in to kiss him. 

There was no hesitation in him as he all but devoured you. He cocked his head to the side, sliding his lips against yours as his tongue found yours once more. 

You moaned a little too loudly, the sound reverberating between you as he moved to lay you back on the bed, his knee slotting between your thighs and pressing right against your aching clit. 

Javier chuckled as he pulled back, propping himself up on one arm as his other hand slid downwards. He trailed his fingers up the inside of your thigh, before slipping under the leg of your shorts and sneaking beneath your underwear. 

“Oh.” You panted out against his lips as his fingers tease over your slick folds. 

“You know,” Javier breaths out, kissing at your bottom lip and then your jaw and then right beside your ear, “You’re never wetter than when you’ve had my cock in your mouth. Did you know that, baby?”

Your lips part to respond, but his finger catches right on the side of your clit and you feel a throb of need pulse through your entire core. You’ve been so disconnected from this feeling and—

Even that thought doesn’t quite come out fully formed. You’re far too focused on the way his finger keeps skirting close to your clit but not quite there. 

Like the kiss that was just a breath away. 

Your back bows up off the bed as Javier works one and then two fingers into your soaked cunt. He’s not wrong — sucking him off has always been a certain brand of arousing and you wouldn’t be putting those underwear or shorts back on when you were finished. 

“Javier,” Your nails scrape down the back of his neck as you look up at him, holding his gaze as he curls those fingers right against that sweet spot within you. 

It’s like fireworks. 

Your body clenched tight around his fingers as you came, molten desire burning hot in your gut. 

“I need—“

“I know, baby.” He kissed you again, pulling his fingers from you sooner than you would’ve liked so he could roughly jerk your shorts and underwear down your hips. 

“I love you.” You whispered, your voice cracking on the words as you kissed him — trying your best to muffle yourself as he settled into place. 

Javier dragged his cock through your tender folds, still determined to tease you. “Tell me what you want.” He rasped out, pressing just the head of his cock into you. 

“Don’t be an asshole.” You gritted out through clenched teeth as you rolled your hips towards his cock. “I need you.” 

He groaned and pressed his face into the crook of your neck as he slid into you. You were still coming down from that first high, inner walls fluttering around his thick length. 

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good.” He managed, sucking lightly at your pulse point. 

“Come on, Javi,” You urged, rolling into his thrusts. “I know how close you are.” You dragged your fingers through his hair as you looked up at him. “Come for me.” 

Javier’s jaw clenched and he grabbed at your hip to hold you steady as he started slamming into you. “That fucking mouth of yours.”

You smirked and reminded him, “You love it.” 

“I do.” He grunted out. “Fuck, I’m close.”

“I want you to come on me.”

His brows drew together and his pace faltered, “What?”

“Please.” You leaned up to curl your fingers around the back of his neck, gently combing your fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his neck as you kissed his chin. 

Javier groaned as he slid out of you, pumping his fist down the length of his cock as he coxed himself over the edge.

You bit down on your bottom lip as you watched his release spill out over your stomach, without a care in the world about anything other than enjoying this moment together. 

“Fuck.” He swore under his breath as he searched the bed beside you for the little pouch bed retrieved earlier. “Where is it?”

You arched a brow up at him, “What?”

Javier snorted, “Are you laying on it?” 

“Oh!” You laughed, leaning up on an elbow and retrieving your vibrator from beneath you. “I wondered what that was.” 

“You want me to—“

“I’m… actually good.” You told him, tossing the pouch aside. 

“You sure?”

You nodded, “Yeah.” 

Javier gave your thigh a gentle pat before squeezing it, “Alright. I’ll be right back.” He told you before climbing out of bed to fetch a damp washcloth from the bathroom. 

You knew you had to stop stressing about it. It would happen. It would happen when you were least expecting it. 

Or it wouldn’t… and you’d both figure it out. There were other options. Not having a second baby wasn’t the end of the world. 

It just felt like it sometimes. 

Even if you didn’t have your next child, you knew that both of you would love them all the same. But that didn’t change the fact that you wanted to keep trying — just a little longer. 

“Baby,” Javier brushed his knuckles against your cheek. “You good?”

“Hmm?”

“You zoned out there on me.” Javier’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You good?” He asked again. 

“I’m very good.” You assured him, leaning up to press a kiss to his lips, “I am, however, going to run to the bathroom real quick.”

Javier caught your hand, “Hey, I love you.”

You brought his hand to your lips and kissed each knuckle. “I love you too.”  You winked at him as you took a step back, “The tie looks good on you.” 

He grinned back at you and flipped you off. 

[dustedmagazine]

Dust Volume 7, Number 1

Phicus

Another year, another volume of Dust, which means we’ve been collecting these brief, pithy reviews for seven years now.  This time around, we sample the usual cornucopia of genres, from ambient death metal to Iranian punk to noisy skree to shoegaze-y lookalikes to polyglot global dj grooves, with the usual stops in free jazz and improvisatory environments. Contributors include Jonathan Shaw, Bill Meyer, Ian Mathers, Jennifer Kelly, Bryon Hayes and Andrew Forell.  

Aberration — S/T (Sentient Ruin Laboratories)

Aberration by Aberration

Not sure what “ambient dark death metal” is, but recently formed band Aberration claims to play it. The “ambient” bit may be a nod to the drone that sometimes resonates deep in the mix of the three songs on this 10” EP. Other than that, Aberration’s music sounds pretty typical of the death metal created by bands on the primitive, murky end of the genre’s sonic continuum. Some of the musicians are in other, more established projects: John Hancock plays guitar and provides vocals in the widely admired death doom outfit Void Rot, Dylan Haseltine plays bass and sings for the blackened death metal (mostly black metal, it seems to me) band the Suffering Hour. Those bands have much more specific musical identities, and their intense records express the players’ clarity of vision. Perhaps Aberration wants to live up to its name, presenting something unprecedented, an unpleasant mutation — and hence, perhaps, the decision to release the vinyl version of the EP on an unusual format. That’s sort of fun. The music is not. But that’s nothing new in death metal, and to be honest, these songs don’t warrant the announcement of a new sub-subgenre. They are just fine, if you like your death metal atavistic, cavernous and claustrophobic. But an aberration? Nope. Maybe a weeping pustule. In death metal, isn’t that enough?

Jonathan Shaw

 Steve Baczkowski / Bill Nace — Success (Notice)

Success by Steve Baczkowski/Bill Nace

Dallas is synonymous with a sort of excess that begs to be perceived as success. Old TV shows, memories of oil, nation-splitting politics, you name it; it’s bigger, badder and gaudier in Dallas. A tape of a free improv show that was recorded at a Dallas bookstore might not fit your preconceptions of longhorn accomplishment, but go ahead and tell that to Steve Baczkowski and Bill Nace. If they answer at all, they might let you gently know that it’s your problem, and then pop in the tape. This 42-minute-long recording will hook you by the belt, take off into the stratosphere, drag you through an asteroid belt, and deposit your cindered remains by the bar (yes, The Wild Detectives serves liquor as well as literature) before the tape reverses. That still leaves plenty of time savor the duo’s mastery of transition, from stout-sounded duel to fading filigree framing the sounds of the cash register opening and closing. Yeah, that’s the sound of Success.

Bill Meyer

 Aidan Baker — There/Not There (Consouling Sounds)

There / Not There by Aidan Baker

Unsurprisingly, 2020 doesn’t seem to have slowed Aidan Baker (Nadja, WERL, Caudal, Hypnodrone Ensemble, and many more) much at all. Of the many records released under his own name, the recent There/Not There stands out for being a surprisingly accessible entry to his personal metal/drone/ambient/shoegaze melting pot, even given the opening 20-minute title track. “There/Not There” marries some whispery shoegaze songwriting with a beautifully monomaniacal repeating drone. Over the course of the track, it does slowly transition until we get to a crescendo as intense as any Baker’s done, but even more so than normal the unwary might get lured in by the low key, blissful opening and the frog-boiling slowness with which the tension is ratcheted up. One of the other two tracks is really just a way to section off the real noise-squall coda of “There/Not There” but then “Paris (Lost)” offers a more concise, quieter storm version of the same framework. Like a lot of Baker’s work, it sneaks up on you, but when it hits it hits hard. 

Ian Mathers

Ballrogg — Rolling Ball (Clean Feed)

Rolling Ball by Ballrogg

The Scandinavian combo Ballrogg changes direction once again on Rolling Ball. Founders Klaus Ellerhusen Holm (clarinets) and Roger Arntzen (bass), who are both Norwegian, started out reinvestigating the folksy jazz vibe of Jimmy Giuffre, then sought out a new home on the range by adding slide guitarist Ivar Grydeland. Now, incoming Swedish guitarist David Stackenäs and his rack of pedals have redirected the trio into a technology-enhanced future. Not the sci-fi imaginings of Sun Ra, but a future more like 2019 might look if you stepped straight into it from 1959; in some ways quite familiar, but in others, different enough to be disorienting. The Giuffre-esque and country elements are still there, but when punctuated by minimalist-influenced compositional flourishes and illuminated by the diffuse, digital flicker of Stackenäs’ effects, it suddenly becomes clear that those Viking cowboys didn’t put a key in the ignition before they drove out towards the horizon.

Bill Meyer

 Bipolar — S-T (Slovenly)

BIPOLAR "Bipolar" EP by Bipolar

For a band named Bipolar, with a single called “Depression,” this EP sure is a lot of fun. Two of the band’s mainstays are apparently Iranian emigres, now seeking the more permissive environs of Brooklyn. (The only hint of that exotic origin is in “Sad Clown,” where there might be an imam exhorting the faithful, but who knows? I don’t speak Farsi.) One of them sometimes plays keyboard with the Spits, and in fact, the Spits are a pretty good reference point for these hard, fast, bratty songs. “Virus” pummels a relentless pogo beat, the one-two of the drums rocketing ever faster, the shouted all-hands chorus in tumbling sync. “Fist Fight” is even more exhilarating, with its blaring, roiling guitar blast and adrenaline-raising refrain, “It’s a fist fight. It’s a fist fight.” There’s nothing profound here, but it’s a good time.

Jennifer Kelly  

 Bosq — Y Su Descarga Internacional (Bacalao)

Y Su Descarga Internacional by bosq

Bosq, a globally omnivorous DJ formerly based in Boston (real name Benjamin Woods), recently moved to Colombia, perhaps to get closer to his source material. The Colombian influence is certainly strong on Y Su Descarga Internacional, which opens with a scorching “Rumbero,” featuring the Afro-Colombian star Nidia Góngora. Dorkas, another singer from Colombia, follows immediately with “Mi Arizal,” an intricately textured dance track which erupts with fiery bursts of Latin brass. Justo Valdez, whose Son Palenque did much to define the Cartagena sound in the 1960s and 1970s, drops by for two of the album’s best tracks: a rollicking “Mambue” and the hand-drummed, bass-thumping hand-clapping “Onombitamba.” And yet the album doesn’t just document the singers and artists of Bosq’s new home. Kaleta, a Benin-based Afro-beat artist who has worked with Fela Kuti and Eqypt 80, takes the lead on funk psych “Omo Iya” and the stirring, horn squalling “Wake Up.” Bosq knows how to pick collaborators, and there’s not a dud track on the disc, but wouldn’t almost anyone sound like a genius in company like this?

Jennifer Kelly

Deuce Avenue — Death of Natural Light (Crash Symbols)

Death of Natural Light by Deuce Avenue

If you are a lurker of the cassette underground, you may remember a West Virginian outfit called Social Junk appearing in the mid-aughts. This duo offered up crackling melodic scree, blown out murky fuzz and semi-coherent mouth sounds like an industrialized version of The Dead C or a new wave outfit newly recovered post-coma. Noah Anthony, the male half of Social Junk, has since moved on to releasing solo material under both the Profligate and Deuce Avenue monikers. The latter is the more recent project and is quite minimal compared to his other work. With Death of Natural Light, there are no cold wave rhythms and vocals à la Profligate. What’s left is a dank, steamy vapor. Contrails of filter-swept hiss slowly develop into a more enigmatic and darkened tonal palette. The ominousness continues to thread its way into the second half of the cassette, fittingly entitled “Blood Turns Black”. Loops of nocturnal jump scare fodder coalesce into rhythms that provide skeletal forms to foil the menace of the more oblique textures. Those who enjoy their horror in slow motion will latch onto these sounds like a facehugger to… …well, a person’s face.  

Bryon Hayes   

 Fleeting Joys — Despondent Transponder (Only Forever)

Despondent Transponder by Fleeting Joys

Let’s start with the obvious. Despondent Transponder sounds a lot like MBV’s Loveless, with wild sirening guitar tones, waves of noise-y feedback, thunderous drumming and sweet, fragile lyrics engulfed in the swirl. “Go and Come Back” has the same fluttering guitar melody as the great “To Here Knows When,” while “Satellite” blusters with the dopplering, dissonance-addled grandeur as “I Only Said.” Fleeting Joys — that was Rorika Loring singing and playing bass and John Loring on guitar and vox — never made any secret of their love of MBV. Despondent Transponder was an homage right from the start. The album was the debut for this Sacramento-based twosome, released originally in 2006, then as now on Loring’s own Only Forever label. And yet, while no one will ever top Loveless, from an ear-bleeding psych-noise daydream perspective, this one has its own particular beauties. “Magnificent Oblivion” surrounds a lullaby-pure melody with a reeling, caterwauling mesh of inchoate sound; guitar notes stream off in bending contrails as Rorika murmurs sweetly into the mic. “Patron Saint” lurches to motion on a Frankenstein bass riff, but softens the brutality with calming washes of vocal hypnotism. It’s all super beautiful and, anyway, even after the reunion, there aren’t nearly enough MBV albums. Plenty of room for a band that sounds so similar.

Jennifer Kelly

 Get Smart! — Oh Yeah No (Capitol Punishment)

Push play: driving staccato guitars, rubbery bass lines, lockstep drums, declamatory vocals and it’s the mid-1980s all over again. Lawrence, Kansas trio Get Smart! — Marcus Koch (guitar, vocals) Lisa Wertman Crowe (bass, vocals) and Frank Loose (drums, vocals) — have that timeless mixture of English post-punk and American indie down. Then see that 33 years after it was recorded Oh Yeah No finally sees the light of day on the back of the band’s reformation. Time and the cycle of musical fashions are fickle beasts and in this case the wheels turn in Get Smart!’s favor. They sound both of their time and thoroughly in tune with the steady flow of recent guitar bands mining this lode of choppy, melodic indie. The Embarrassment, Big Dipper, Pylon and other regional heroes are being rediscovered and reassessed and, here’s the thing, Get Smart! are really good at what they do and this six-track EP is both a testament and, hopefully, a taste of what the future may hold.  

Andrew Forell  

 Rich Halley / Matthew Shipp / Michael Bisio / Newman Taylor Baker — The Shape Of Things (Pine Eagle Records)

The Shape of Things by Rich Halley

If the bolt strikes twice, it’s probably not lightning. The Shape Of Things is the second successful meeting between Rich Halley, a tenor saxophonist based in the Pacific Northwest, and the current members of the Matthew Shipp Trio. The album is, like its predecessor Terra Incognita, a congress of strengths. Shipp’s trio follows the pianist easily into one of his classic roles, that of supplying sonic foundation and harmonic framing for an extroverted saxophonist. Halley fights right into the spaces that they create, rippling easily over the trio’s turbulent surfaces. He works within the broader jazz tradition, sounding equally at home patiently sketching a lyrical line and blowing raw, acidic cries. This ensemble plays achieves a state of centered abandon which feels wilder than Halley’s recordings with West Coast musicians, but fits right into the spectrum that contains Shipp’s work with the David S. Ware Quartet and Ivo Perelman.

Bill Meyer

 A Hutchie — Potion Shop (Cosmic Resonance)

Potion Shop by A Hutchie

Hamilton, Ontario-based producer Aaron Hutchinson has his fingers in many pies. He nimbly dispenses free jazz, hip hop, outré pop and even more enigmatic forms of song. Potion Shop is his debut LP, although he is a long-time fixture in the Steeltown music scene. This immersion in a small, tight-knit domain has led to many fruitful collaborations. Hutchinson features many of his compatriots in these recordings, in which his music snakes alongside their vocal stylings. Mutant 21st century soul singlehandedly played by Hutchinson is a foil for the slam poetry of Benita Whyte and Ian Keteku, the latter of which the producer warps with a vocoder. Sarah Good’s vocals morph into those of a ghostly chanteuse among smeared strings, while the soulful Blankie swims beneath narcotic R&B beats. When imbibing these intoxicating concoctions, you will be immersed in a warmth of familiarity tempered with the unsettling yet exciting sense of the uncanny. Like absinthe, the disquiet is illusory while the intimacy is authentic.

Bryon Hayes  

 Imha Tarikat — Sternenberster (Prophecy Productions)

STERNENBERSTER by IMHA TARIKAT

Imha Tarikat’s principal member Ruhsuz Cellât (stage name of Kerem Yilmaz) breaks with black metal orthodoxy by musically engaging his family’s Muslim heritage. That’s a provocative move in an artform dominated by glib nihilism, rampant anti-religious sentiment and (somehow sometimes all at the same time) ardent claims of Satanist faith. And that distinction at the symbolic level likely doesn’t come near the intensities of being of Turkish descent, living and recording in Germany, in a scene that flirts (and at its extreme margins actively identifies) with fascism. Beyond those ideological and social dimensions is the music. Imha Tarikat demonstrates facility with tremolo riffs and song forms that twist and snake even as they hammer and pummel. But Cellât’s unusual vocal style cuts against convention’s grain, and it’s immediately apparent as album opener “Ekstase ohne Ende” commences. There’s a lot of grunting and hollering, but rather than contorting his voice, shrieking and croaking in mode of most black metal vocalists, Cellât goes for more straightforward intensity. He often shouts, and the lyrics frequently come in bunches, explosive and punctuated bursts of verbiage, but he makes no attempt to distort the lyrics or his voice. I wish my grasp of German were even halfway close to fluent, in order to report on the lyrics’ thematic content with some coherence — because Cellât clearly wants the words to be heard.

Jonathan Shaw

Jon Irabagon / Mike Pride / Mick Barr / Ava Mendoza — Don’t Hear Nothin’ But The Blues Vol 3 Anatomical Snuffbox (Irrabagast Records)

I Don't Hear Nothin' but the Blues Volume 3: Anatomical Snuffbox by Jon Irabagon

Never mind the blues; if you don’t exercise caution, when you’re done playing this loud-at-any-volume recording, you won’t hear nothin’. The latest installment in tenor saxophonist John Irabagon’s series of one-track, meta-blues recordings starts out with a spray of sound as bracing as Saharan sandstorm, but quickly solidifies into a veritable wall of sound. At the outset, Irabagon and drummer Mike Pride engage in a high-speed dance of charge and countercharge which, if heard without accompaniment, would sit comfortably on the same shelf as your Mars Williams and Mats Gustafsson records. But when you put guitarists Mick Barr and Ava Mendoza on the same stage and tell them both to start shredding, the effect is somewhat akin to putting the pyrotechnic specialists in charge of the circus. Subtlety, dynamics and even the oxygen you breath all disappear as everything catches fire. If any of the participants here have effectively bent your ear, you ought to listen all the way through once. By the time it’s done, you’ll know in your heart whether you ever need to hear it again.

Bill Meyer    

 John Kolodij — First Fire / At Dawn (Astral Editions)

First Fire • At Dawn by John Kolodij

Where there’s fire, there’s often smoke, and while this tape claims alignment with Hephaestus’ element, it’s more likely to evoke thick clouds. As the capstans turn, the murk of “At Fire” accumulates gradually, filling the room with an increasingly dense atmosphere. By the time you notice flashes of flame, it’s too late. “At Dawn” brings to mind a lesser conflagration — maybe the embers of the previous night’s campfire. John Kolodij (who has, until recently, recorded mainly under the name High Aura’d) pushes his heavily processed guitar sound into the background, where it lurks with a bit of birdsong, and leads with an unamplified banjo and acoustic guitar. Fiddler Anna RG (of Anna & Elizabeth) further bolsters the melody while some sparse percussion played by Sarah Hennies heightens the sense of moment. Once more, a mass of disembodied sound rises up as the piece progresses, but this time the effect is the opposite; instead of getting lost in sound, the listener finds a moment of peace and light.

Bill Meyer

 Lytton / Nies / Scott / Wissel — Do They Do Those In Red? (Sound Anatomy)

Do they do those in Red? by Paul Lytton, Joker Nies, Richard Scott, Georg Wissel

“Do they do those in red?” The title may speak to the particular peculiarities of this combo, which is formed from several pre-existing duos, Joker Nies is credited with “electrosapiens,” which seem to be self-constructed electronic instruments, and George Wissel applies various items to his saxophone to modify its sound. Georg Wissel’s synthesizers come with some assembly required, and it would appear that Paul Lytton, best known for playing drum kits and massive percussion assemblages, confines himself in this setting to the stuff he can fit on a tabletop. What, you think your saxophone is prettier because it doesn’t have anything red jammed into a valve?  

Moving on to the music, while the sound sources are heavily electronic, the interactive style is rooted in good old-fashioned free improvisation. Lytton’s barrage sounds remarkably similar to what he achieves playing with a full drum kit, and Wissel’s lines may be more fractured, but his alto sound has some of the tonal heft and agility that John Butcher exercises on the tenor. The electronicians’ bristling activity brings to mind a debate between opposite sides of the electrical components aisle at the hardware store, but it’s a lucid one, thoughtfully expressed on both sides.

Bill Meyer  

Ikue Mori Satoko Fujii + Natsuki Tamura — Prickly Pear Cactus (Libra)

Prickly Pear Cactus by Ikue Mori, Satoko Fujii, Natsuki Tamura

Pianist Satoko Fujii and trumpeter Natsuki Tamura spent February 2020 touring Europe with their combo Kaze, which they’d augmented with the electronic musician, Ikue Mori. As lockdown wore on, they kept the connection going via Zoom chats between their abodes in Kobe and New York. After Fujii shared her experiences of trying to mic and stream her piano online, Mori suggested that she send some recordings. Mori edited what showed up and added her sounds; Tamura contributed additional elements to nearly half the tracks. Some of them are balanced to sound like live recordings, with Mori’s neon squelches and high-res, bell-like tones gathering and dispelling like real-time reactions. Others feel more overtly constructed, with the piano situated within a maelstrom of sounds like a view of a TV set turned on in a room with a party going on.  

Bill Meyer

 Phicus — Solid (Astral Spirits)

Solid by Phicus

Phicus is the Barcelona-based assemblage of Ferran Fages (electric guitar), Àlex Reviriego (double bass) and Vasco Trilla (drums). The line-up looks like a power trio, and if you heard them two seconds at a time, you might think that they were. Reviriego and Trilla each play in ways that convey a sense of motion, and Fages’ bent notes and serrated harmonics are just the sort of sounds to cap off a display of guitar heroics. But if you note that each track is named for an element or chemical compound, and that the album is called Solid, you might get a clearer idea of their concerns. This music is all about essential relationships, and its makers are more interested in making things coexist in productive ways than they are in re-enacting rituals borrowed from jazz, fusion or free improvisation. That means that even the sharpest sounds don’t hook you, nor do the fleetest charges carry you away. Phicus isn’t interested in settling for the familiar. But if you’re ready to observe that thing that looks like a duck making sounds that ducks never make, you’ll find plenty to ponder on Solid.

Bill Meyer

 Quietus — Volume Five (Ever/Never)

Volume Five by Quietus

Quietus songs unfurl like cream in coffee, spiraling curlicues of light into dark liquid drones amid clanking blocks of percussion. The songs expand in organic ways, picking up purpose in the steady pound of rhythm, strutting even, in a loose-limbed rock-soul-psych way you might recognize from Brian Jonestown Massacre’s “Anemone” or Grinderman’s “I Don’t Need You to Set Me Free,” but quieter, much quieter, and seething with submerged ideas. The words are mumbled, croaked, submerged in surface hum, but when pushed up towards the surface, arresting. “This life can be sunlit hills turned all to their angry sides,” murmurs Quietus proprietor Geoffrey Bankowski in the relatively concise “Reflex of Purpose,” which sprawls anyway, notwithstanding its 2:36 minute duration. The music’s better, though, when it’s allowed to find its slow way forward, unconforming to any pre-existing ideas of how long a pop song should be. I like the closer “Posthemmorrhagic,” the best, as guitars both tortured and prayerful intertwine, and Bankowski breathes slow, moaning poetry into a close mic, and the song revolves in three-time like the last dancer on the floor, not just tonight but forever.

Jennifer Kelly

Ritual Extra — In Luthero (Dinzu Artefacts)

In Luthero by Ritual Extra

In Luthero was performed inside an empty water cistern, and the ensuing reverberations act as microscopic versions of the grander ebb and flow within which French-Finnish trio Ritual Extra operate.  Percussionist Julien Chamla’s cymbal scrapes and tom hits form a backdrop of bomb blasts and shrieking, missives from some war-torn locale long since vacated by the populace.  Steel structures seem to groan and collapse as they are rattled by percussive ordnance. This bleak setting is given a sense of color by Lauri Hyvärinen’s acoustic guitar.  A stew of string scrapes diverges into discrete plucks, which morph into strums.  The metronomic chords are enriched as they bounce around the walls of the cistern, folding in on themselves through echo, becoming a mechanical mantra.  Tuukka Haapakorpi’s voice rises from the ashes, soaring polysyllabically yet wordlessly.  As In Luthero begins to take shape, these vocalizations are almost inhuman: whispers and gurgles that come on in waves.  Later, more anthropoid utterances take shape, yet fall just shy of coalescing into a discernable language.  Across 24 minutes, Ritual Extra musically narrate the pre-history of humankind, the primordial essence from which everything good — and bad — about us originated. 

Bryon Hayes  

 Subjective Pitch Matching Band — Twenty-One Subjectivities in Six Parts (Remote Works)  

Twenty-One Subjectivities in Six Parts by Subjective Pitch Matching Band

Chris Brian Taylor has trod a serpentine path on the journey that culminated in the creation of his first large ensemble electroacoustic composition. His roots are in punk and rave — he still DJs house and techno — but he recently shifted his gaze toward improvised electronics. Rather than stifling his ambition, COVID-19 and the ensuing lockdown encouraged him to think big: he would cast a wide net and compose a piece of music for as many people as he could get to participate. He reached out to friends, relatives, and internet acquaintances to assemble his orchestra, and borrowed the melody and chords from Pet Shop Boys’ “Being Boring” to act as the foundation of the work. Twenty people responded from a variety of musical disciplines, and all agreed to participate remotely. The composer gave each player audio cues to work with and encouraged the performers to respond subjectively. They could either stay true to the pitches provided, harmonize against them, or play ornamentally. Taylor collected the resulting tracks and structured the resulting thirty-minute piece of music based on what the respondents provided. Dense yet graceful, the composition unfolds like a slow-motion blaze. Flames of sonority form a sinuous body from which sparks of discrete sound leap heavenward. There is nary a moment of silence, as Taylor weaves a plethora of long tones together to form an undulating core over which stabs of piano, guitar and percussion materialize momentarily. Naivete didn’t keep Chris Brian Taylor from aiming as high as he could with this piece, and we are the benefactors of this ambition, rewarded with a rich and complex sonic brew to enjoy.

Bryon Hayes  

 TV Priest — Uppers (Sub Pop)

Uppers by TV Priest

TV Priest works the same corrosive, hyper-verbal furrow as Idles or, in a looser sense, the Sleaford Mods, spatter chanting harsh, literate strings of gutter poetry over a clanking post-punk cadence. The vocalist Charlie Drinkwater snarls and sputters charismatically over the clatter, a brutalist commentator on life and pop culture. The band is sharp and minimalist, drums (Ed Kelland) to the front, guitar (Alex Sprogis) stabbing hard at stripped raw riffs , bass (Nic Bueth) rumbling like mute rage in the back of the bar. And yet, though anger is a primary flavor, these songs surge with triumph as in the wall-shaking cadences of “Press Gang,” the blistering sarcasm of “The Big Curve.” This is a relatively new band, their first and only tour cut short at one gig by the lockdown, but the songs are tight as hell on record and likely to pin you to the back wall live. “Bad news, like buses, comes in twos,” intones Drinkwater on theclearly autobiographical “Journal of a Plague Year” against an irregular post-everything clangor, loose and disdainful and hardly arsed to entertain us; it’s as fitting an anthem as any for our lost 2020. But when band gets moving, as on the chugging, corroscating “Decoration,” it’s unstoppable, a monstrous thing bursting “through to the next round.” Sure, I’ll have another.

Jennifer Kelly

Voice Imitator — Plaza (12XU)

Plaza by Voice Imitator

Voice Imitator, from Melbourne, Australia, rips a hard punk vortex through its songs, ratcheting up the drums to battering ram violence, blistering the guitar sound and scrawling wild metallic vocals over it all, with nods to noisy post-hardcore bands like the Jesus Lizard and McClusky. “A Small Cauliflower” takes things down to a seething, menacing whisper, Mark Groves, the singer, presiding over an uneasy mesh of tamped down dissonance and hustle. “Adult Performer” is faster and more limber, all clicking urgency and sudden bursts of detuned, surging squall. All four members—that’s Per Bystrom, Justin Fuller, Groves and Leon O’Regan—have been in a ton of other bands, and the sounds they make here have the rupturing precision of well-honed violence. If you like Protomartyr but wish it was lots louder and more corrosive, here you go.

Jennifer Kelly

 Sam Weinberg / Henry Fraser / Weasel Walter — Grist (Ugexplode)

Grist by Sam Weinberg / Henry Fraser / Weasel Walter

Ornette Coleman once called a record In All Languages; these guys ought call one Any And All Possibilities. Saxophonist Sam Weinberg, bassist Henry Fraser and drummer (this time, anyway) Weasel Walter are scrupulous student of improvisation in all its guises, and they’re ready and able to use what they know. You could call it free jazz, for they certainly know how that stuff works, but they’re under no obligation to swing; that’d be a limit, you see. This music bursts, darts, expands and contracts in a sequence of second by second negotiations of shape and velocity.

Bill Meyer  

 Chris Weisman — Closer Tuning (Self-Released)

Closer Tuning by Chris Weisman

Chris Weisman is a Brattleboro, VT songwriter, in the general orbit (not a member but seems to know a bunch of them) of the late, great Feathers and one-time member of Kyle Thomas’ other outfit, the fuzz pop band Happy Birthday. A shunner of all sorts of limelight, he is nonetheless very productive. Closer Tuning is one of five albums he home recorded and released in 2020. You might expect a certain lo-fi folksiness and there is, indeed, a dream-y, soft focus rusticity to the tangled acoustic guitar jangle, the blunt down home-i-ness lyrics. And yet, there’s a good deal more than that in Closer Tuning. The chords progress softly, gently but in unexpected ways, a reminder of Weisman’s jazz guitar training, and the sound is warm and enveloping and every so slightly off-kilter, as if filtered through someone else’s memory. Cuts like “Petit Revolution,” with its close shroud of harmonies, its eerie, antic guitar cadence, feel like Beach Boys psychedelia left out in the garden to sprout, or more to the point, like Wendy Eisenberg’s brainy, left-of-center pop puzzles. “My Talent” is hedged in with blooming bent notes and scrambling string scratches, but its center is radiant, weird, astral folk along the lines of Alexander Tucker. “Hey,” says Weisman, in its slow dreaming chorus, “I gave my talent away.” Lucky us.

 A.A. Williams — Forever Blue (Bella Union)

There’s a dim and shadowy corner where heavy music, orchestral music and post-rock all meet, and A.A. Williams’ music resides there as naturally as anyone else’s. That’s what you might expect when you get a professional cellist who fell hard for metal as a teenager and then started writing songs after finding a guitar on the street. After an EP her first LP is the kind of assured, consistently strong debut that balances calmly measured beauty with the kind of crushing peaks that give that sometimes hoary quiet/loud dynamic a good name. At its best, like the opening “All I Asked For (Was to End it All)” and “Dirt” (featuring vocals from Wild Beasts’ Tom Fleming), Forever Blue is as gothically ravishing as you could hope for, and by the time it ends with spectral lament “I’m Fine” it might tempt even those not traditionally inclined that way to don the ceremonial black eyeliner.  

Ian Mathers

[harmandmac]

Because the fans are waiting (introduce the drum sound for a bad joke) @likeanorangeonatoothpick

Here I go!!!

Season 2

1) of course their first encounter in the rose garden. We love a romantic scenery

2) the almost kiss in Colombia. Mac giving it all and Harm was ready to taste those lips. Yes yes.

3) oh, the Appalaches. The way they opened their hearts and shared their sad story. So in that ep I pick two scenes, when he explains about Sarah, and when Mac explains about Eddie.

4) Their dance at the Ball. “I don’t see you as my sister” MY JAM

5) Mac breaking into Harms apartment with food as a white flag when Harm sandbag her. I mean. They HAD to eat in his bed? Unnecessary yet totally necessary

SEASON 3

1) when Mac finds Harm outside jag before she leaves. The first shed tear from her and again, soft Harm

2) the “Hallmark moment” they shared. He wanted to see the tattoo. He openly said he didn’t want her to leave. And Mac words about men he never forgot

3) THE KISS. THEIR FIRST KISS. Convince me otherwise but I’m sure halfway that kiss Harm knew it was Mac

4) Russia??? Mac watching him sleeping. Ugh babes

5) Harm going after Mac when she locked herself in her apartment because she was embarrassed after drinking again.

SEASON 4

1) baby deal. No more descriptions

2) Harm saving Mac’s life when she stopped breathing in the submarine

3) their goodbye before he leaves JAG

4) Harm staring at her after he got his eyes fixed. The man was in love

5) again, Russia. The way Harm was in pain when he find out his fathers death and the way Mac couldn’t hide it and cried his pain as well.

SEASON 5:

1) ETERNAL BRIDGE. Nuff said

2) the stolen glances at the surface warfare ball

3) Jealous Harm trying to pick under the magazine to see if Mac was in topless

4) Mac jealous right after she saw Harm in the restaurant with Renee. Priceless

5) when they talk about young love while helping the students

SEASON 6

1) lifeline kiss (Well, the entire episode should be number 1)

2) Harm’s visions about Mac. Specially the one when he went to touch his breast sksksks

3)When they share glances right after Kate Pike leaves. The love in their eyes

4) same episode as number 3), when Harm stare at her left hand with the ring. The hurt in his entire face. In that moment he thought he lost her forever

5)well it actually don’t include Harm physically, but when Mac was changing the tires and Alexi told her she was in love with him

SEASON 7

1) “Come to me” oh my god I hate Renee for ruining it

2) “what about back at the beginning” BE STILL MY BESTING HEART

3) body heat is very important in a desert night amirite?

4) “would you leave Renee?” “Yes” The moment I wanted to scream and punch Mac for not waiting

5) their “work dinner” and she telling him to not be easy but be good. Girl WHAT I-

SEASON 8:

1) “Ah I’m also dressing” “I can help with that too”. EXCUSE ME

2) noodle sharing. Married idiots

3) Harm breaking up in tears and Mac holding him. There’s so much to love there

4) then they talk about the baby deal again because they so wanted it

5) Harm dreaming of Mac when she left to Paraguay. I know I know

SEASON 9

1) “the offer still holds” GOD I HATE THE WRITERS BUT I LOVE THIS SCENE SO NVM

2) BATHTUB IRRUPTION “I forgot how beautiful you are” 😭

3) Mac testifying for Harm so he could get Mattie’s custody.

4) their almost kiss also in Paraguay. Fuck you Clayton Webb

5) it don’t have Mac but when Mattie ask Harm if he is in love with Mac. His soft “yes” I am: a puddle

SEASON 10:

1) 4% Solution. The scene at the hospital is just the most beautiful and pure thing ever

2) I AM pROPOSING. Those kisses makes me warm and fuzzy

3)Harm searching for options so they still could get a chance at making a baby. He wanted it all with her

4) Harm and Mac sitting in the sand after they found Webb. I know is a sad ending, but the little moments of honestly are something very important when it comes to them

5) the entire scene at McMurphy’s. They are so touchy and openly in love.

[adesertdaydream]

Sacrifices Chapter 3 Tease

So while i’ve definitely been enjoying all of the soft Carrillo feelings and moments i’ve been able to deliver in the last 2 chapters, we all know that good things never seem to last forever in the Narcos fandom. I’m hoping to post a full chapter tonight or tomorrow but I’m definitely excited to tease everyone with a little angsty morsel! Enjoy!

In your years of living life and working in Colombia, you had learned that rarely did events go perfectly to plan. This lesson has been harder learned at times than others and you were sure now that you had been naïve to believe that this would be any different. Your vision is blurry and the ringing in your ears has drowned out all other sound. Your body feels heavy and you are suddenly too weighed down by an invisible force to even turn your head. You struggle to inhale, a choking sensation in your chest preventing you from getting a full breath in. As you feel the last tendrils of consciousness leaving you, blackness crowding in from the edges of your vision, your last thought is of Horacio.

[rmjagonshi]

Whole Again Chapter 24

Whole Again on AO3

Getting their passports stamped should, theoretically, be simple. It was unlikely that there were too many people around at his time of night. Stanford checked his watch; roughly eight in the evening. Maybe the office wasn't open. But with the storm they sailed through, it was unlikely that the Port Authority was closed as ships were likely seeking refuge. Stanford wanted to move forwards with this…circumstance. He still hadn’t made up his mind about what was happening. He wasn't sure if he could make up his mind. But his sailing partner no longer wished him any harm. This was an experiment. Empirical testing. What would his partner do when exposed to others? The unicorn necklace prevented him from doing any real harm beyond basic human action.

It wasn't as if they actually could avoid people forever.

Stanford waited as he watched the body of his brother walk along the dock to the office of the Port Authority. He watched even as he tethered the ship to the mooring piles, following him out of the corner of his eye. It was also a test for himself. Could he let…his partner…go off on his own?

Stanford barely got the ropes tied before he leaped off the ship after Stan.

He caught up to the body of his brother in front of the Port Authority Office. The lights were dim, but on, and Stanford could just see the silhouette of a man sitting at the front desk through the front window, the light from a television flickering in the corner.

Stanford placed a hand on the back of his partner’s shoulder, eyes snapping to the rainbow threads around his neck. He hadn’t even realized how tense he was until the sight of the necklace released it. His mouth twisted into a false smile as he peered into his partner’s face. But Stan didn’t look at him. His eyes were wide, mouth a tight, white line.

He was frozen.

It didn’t take Stanford long to figure out why.

He read over the bold letters fastened to the side of the building. It didn’t read ‘San Juan’.

They had missed Puerto Rico by several hundred nautical miles.

“We have to leave. Now. Sixer, we gotta go.” Stan had turned to him, gripping his bicep in a bruising grip and trying to pull him back to the ship. Stanford held firm.

“We can’t. We’re out of supplies and our electrical is out. We’re lucky we actually made it to port.” He was used to being the voice of reason. And if they had any hope of leaving Colombia, they needed to have their electrical repaired. Stanford could do it himself with enough supplies, but he wasn’t the engineer Fiddleford was. He would like to have some assistance just so he didn’t electrocute himself.

Stan shook his head, muttering strings of words that Stanford could just make sense of.

“Why here? It HAD to be here, didn’t it? No other fuckin’ port we coulda hit? Not safe for us. I LEFT IT! I left it here. Fuck you, Sanchez. Two years, I ain’t going back.”

“Hey. Breathe. You…we look different, now. Two days. Tomorrow we get food and supplies, and the day after I’ll fix the wiring. We’ll lie low.” Stanford gripped Stan’s arms, holding him steady.

Stan’s face was ridged. Eyed narrowed and jaw clenched. His jowls twitching in time with his rapid pulse.

“There isn’t really an alternative, is there?” But Stan wasn’t really asking a question.

There was. There was an alternative. Stanford’s eyes snapped to the fibers peaking out of the white shirt collar. But that wasn’t really an option either.

Stan’s eye found his, following Stanford’s gaze to his exposed collar. Stan gritted his teeth and gave one firm jerk of his head. NO.

Stan took a deep breath, hands going slack on Stanford’s biceps. His eyes steely and piercing.  

“Fine. Two days. But you do what I say. Keep yer head low and follow my lead.”

Stanford nodded once, jaw tight.

Stan gave one last squeeze before releasing him.

The the glass door wedged against the floor as Stan tried to push it open, a screeching filling the front room and covering up the ding of the overhead bell.

The man at the front desk startled, feet slamming to the floor from their position on the side table. The television was blaring some action movie.

Stan’s posture changed the instant he crossed the threshold. His shoulders rose and squared, mouth twisting into a smirk, eye flashing. Stan was a showman, though and through. Stanford had refused to go on one of Stan’s ‘Mystery Shack” tours, despite his brother’s goading. He still felt that the museum was a mockery of the real paranormal, but he understood the appeal of false danger. Seeing Stan flip his appearance so completely was a marvel. A mask so flawless, Stanford would have never known otherwise.

A trait, it seemed, he had always had.

Stanford shook his head to ride himself of the thought. It was creeping. Slowly creeping like vines or a plague over every happy memory he had. Days of beach combing, riding their bikes on the board walk, birthdays and Hanukkah celebrations. All of them tinged yellow, black veins worming their way into every memory.

Later. I can deal with this later. Focus on the ‘here and now’.      

The man at the counter eyed them warily. Pulling out a log book and flipping a switch on the register.

They logged the ship, but their passports gave the man pause. Twins from America on a dinky refurbished fishing vessel were not the most common of sights. Apparently, they were odd enough to warrant a second look as the man passed a scanner over the back page of each book to verify their authenticity.

“You don’t have eyepatch in photo.”

Stan gave a half-hearted laugh and flipped up the novelty eyepatch, now real, for the guy to see.

“Boating accident. Cable snapped. Still healing.”

It was still healing, technically. The skin knitting together rapidly and causing puffy scars to lace across his eye and bridge of his nose. The patch didn’t cover everything, edges of scars peeked out from behind black cloth. The man looked ready to be sick, but accepted the passports and stamped them. After some negotiation and a substantial bribe, they paid their tourist and mooring fee. And there wasn’t much left over.

Stan was still grumbling about the bribe as they left the Port Authority office, grimacing as he thumbed through the few bills he’d gotten back after exchanging what money they had.

“We’ve got just enough for a taxi and one night. We’ll have to hit a bank tomorrow. Looks like we’re eatin’ whatever we can get from a gas station.”

They had walked back to the boat to collect their bags. Stanford had pulled out his phone and was attempting to look-up a map of the area, but was struggling to find a signal. The battery indicator blinked and turned red. Less than 20% left.

“Don’t bother. I snagged a map as we left.” Stan tugged the folded map from his sleeve and handed it to Stanford. ‘I’ll get us packed. You call a taxi. I don’t fancy walking more’an a quarter mile ‘less we have’ta.” Stan was starting to slur his words again. It was best for them to get rest soon.

Stanford called the taxi service listed on the map, speaking in slow and formal Spanish and asking the man on the other end to slow down and repeat himself a few times. In the end, the man had simply shouted at him in broken English, “Port Authority. Two old gringos. Got it. Ten Minutes.” Stanford frowned at the phrasing, he’d have to ask Stan what this word meant later.

After nearly half an hour sat waiting in the parking lot, the dull mustard yellow car pulled up beside them. Popping the trunk so they could load their bags. Stan pulled open the passenger door to talk with the guy as Stanford took the backseat, unfolding the map to locate the nearest exchange bank.

Stan the the driver talked back and forth in Spanish, laughing occasionally as they rode. Stan flipped up his eyepatch again and their driver just whistled long and low at the scars. He thumbed back at Stanford a few times, and the driver gave a wide smirk. Stanford tuning them out. Streetlights and headlights from passing traffic rhythmically illuminating the inside of the car. Stanford, once again, regretted not receiving the bionic eye implant in Dimension St-34M_P4nK. His eyesight had always been bad, but the years were catching up to him and his night vision was going faster than he was comfortable with.

“Ya know, I like yuz. You’re good people, eh? Not like them snooty gringos that come through on them yachts.” The man was speaking English for Stanford’s benefit. Stan just laughed. “Tell you what, Flat rate. And I’ll take ya’s ta the The Sanctuary. Fancy, but safe for gringos. Don’t want ta get caught up in any cartel shits. They been pickin’ you gringo tourists up fer ransom more an’ more. Damn fuckers practically run e’erythin’. But ‘cuz they gringos, poliza don’ do nuttin’ abou’ it. Ahe, ma English is bad. But you know.”

Actually, Stanford didn’t. He had no idea about the current politics of the world. He hadn’t bothered to do much research before they set off. He knew the U.S. was currently in a sort of war with Iran, but that was the extent of his knowledge. No wonder Stan was uncomfortable being here. Stanford felt sorry for the people that had to live through it.

He was starting to see the byproduct of that kind of criminal activity. Everything from store fronts to parking lots had gates and bars. The windows on some second-floor buildings were also barred. Fire escapes if they had any, stopped short of the ground by about eight feet. The sidewalks were sparse. No benches, only the occasional bike rack. All empty. There was hardly any greenery. No lawns or patches of grass. No plants or trees. Not even piles of leaves from the changing seasons. A claustrophobic cage of concrete and steel.    

They pulled up to a concrete wall on the river side of the street. Stanford could make out the tops of spindly trees and the top of some peaked roof building. The gate was closed, but a gentleman in the guard station flipped the leaver without giving them much notice, pulling the gate back. The area beyond the gate was radically different from the one they had just driven though. The grass was green and lively, even in late December. The trash that had lined the road was gone, instead there were the plants and trees that were common in city sides in the U.S.

Their driver pulled up to the front building, flipping a switch on the meter box so that the numbers rolled down. Stan paid as Stanford pulled out the bags. He checked his inside pocket again, thumbing the glass vial through the fabric. The RV and El Diablo, and a few choice weapons were safely tucked inside in case of emergency. They had separated the size changing crystal and flashlight, the crystal now hanging from Stanford’s neck on a loose cord, tucked inside his sweater.

“’EY, Stanley! You call me if you need more rides, OK? I give you discount.” The driver called out from the window, waving at them.

Stan called back from the entrance. “Will do, Maxi. Thanks for the ride.”

The entry for the Sanctuary was like walking into a cathedral. Tall arched ceiling, and tiled floors lined with plush rugs. Chairs and sectionals were pushed against the wall and in little clusters, decorative plants hung from wall hooks and sat on end tables. A brief sniff of the air told Stanford that they were real.

Ain’t no way we can afford this. This is gotta be a five-star hotel. Fuck hotel, this is a resort!

Stanford was inclined to agree with his partner, but before he could respond, they heard shouting from across the room.  

As they approached the front desk, a man in a silk robe that easily cost more than the Stan O’ War II was complaining loudly to the clerk about the humidity in his room. Both brothers stopped a good distance from the volatile man.  

“The air is too stale! Now I’ve been waiting for half an hour for someone to do something about it, and you say he already came!”

“Sir, I sent someone up but…”

“That homeless looking man?! Of course, I wouldn’t let him in. So he can rob me? Are you crazy? Can’t you send someone more respectable?”

Stan frowned, mouth grimacing and nose wrinkling at the level of disrespect the man exuded. Stuck up snob!  

The clerk sighed, looking defeated. “I’ll see if someone is available.”

“Oh, I know how you people are. That means you won’t do shit. Fine! Here. Twenty U.S. dollars. Worth a fortune to you people. Now send someone to fix the humidity in my room!”

The man slammed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and marched away, furiously wrapping his robe around himself and stuffing his hands in his pockets.

A flash of white dropped in his wake and fluttered to the floor. Stanford ran over to it without thinking. It was silk, soft as sin and running over his fingers like water. The corner was embroidered with a gold curl and the initials M.B.

“Sir, you dropped your handkerchief.”

The man paused, hallway to the elevator when Stanford called out to him. He turned, red faced and scowling. His eyes scanned Stanford’s appearance and sneered. It wasn't the first time Stanford felt self-conscious about his looks. He was dressed in a weather-beaten blue jacket, his classic read cable knit and salt crusted jeans and boots. He also hadn’t shaved in several weeks and was finally starting to grow a beard.

The man sniffed, wrinkling his nose as some imperceptible smell and reached out to take the handkerchief back, but paused when he caught sight of Stanford’s hand. Even after all these years and though countless other dimensions, nothing quite put him on the defensive as someone noticing his hands.

‘Mutant!’

Stanford felt his stomach clench, and the age-old fear crawled up his spine again. But he wouldn’t run. Not this time. He didn’t need to.

“Ford…”

He ignored his partner’s call, choosing instead to smile at the man as he held up the handkerchief. Just far enough from him to be offering it, but close enough that the man would have to enter his space to claim it.

The man said nothing, simply marched up to Stanford, snatched the silk square from him and bolted to the elevator doors.

He heard his partner give and audible sigh when the elevator doors closed with a ding.

He turned back to Stan, tucking his hand in his pocket and adjusting the bag strap on his shoulder.

Stan just gave him a soft smile before turning to the counter and the much-relived desk clerk. Poor doll.

Stan spoke to her in Spanish, soft and pleasant, with a slight air of flirtation. The woman gave them both an amused look. But when she named the price of a room, Stan’s smile disappeared.

They didn’t have enough. The taxi ride, even with the discount, had eaten just enough into their cash that they were short. Even the smallest room available was out of their budget. Not to mention the late check-in fee and registration fee for not having a reservation.

Stan groused, reluctantly pulling out his bank card and handing it to the clerk. They had wanted to keep their profile low, paying in cash left an electronic trail. The clerk scanned the card, the machine beeped, then buzzed. The card had been denied.  This was a problem.

But the clerk felt sorry for them. She walked them over to the entertainment plaza building and unlocked the doors so Stan could use the ATM. There were several lined up against the front wall of various banks. Stanford was quite fond of the Automatic Teller Machines and the bank cards that came with them. They were infinitely more convenient than carrying around large wads of cash, but they also were left open to electronic errors. The credit chips in used in the multiverse were better; they were tied into your unique genetic code so that even an alternate universe version of you couldn’t hack into your bank account.

But the ATM also denied Stan’s card. Their account had been frozen. Suspicious purchases bought in Iceland. With all that had happened, neither one had thought to check-in with the bank to let them know they were in Iceland. Now they were stranded with little more than $50 U.S. dollars in a very dangerous area with a ship with a fried electrical grid and no food.

“DAMNIT!” Stan kicked at the wall, swearing again as the concrete absorbed the impact and a wave of pain rolled up his foot and leg.

“Wha’dd’ya wanna do, Sixer? Suppose we can go sleep on the boat, but that won’t do nuthin’ for food. An’ we don’t have enough to get ‘er looked at either.” He sighed, flopping against the wall and giving Stanford a tired look. “Suppose we could try and give’em a call, but I don’t suspect we’ll get an answer this time a night.”

They stood in silence a few moments, the poor clerk standing by awkwardly, fiddling with the keyring and hoping these old men would make up their minds so she could go and do her job.

Stanford glanced at her from the corner of his eye, frowning. He pulled his phone out and called the only number he could think of. “Hello. Maxi? Stan’s brother. You know anywhere we could make some quick cash?”

*~*

Stanford had been hoping for a late-night pawn shop, maybe even an advanced loan establishment, just enough to cover the night until they figured out their bank account. Maxi had gladly driven back and picked them up, taking them further into the city and following back roads filled with trash and broken wood pallets.

Stan and Maxi had spoken so rapidly and so hushed that Stanford didn’t bother keeping up. Maxi dropped them off a few buildings away from an old storage building located behind an animal feed storefront. Maxi leaned in close to Stan, whispering something urgent. Stan only nodded in reply before reaching for his wallet. “Not this time. This time on me. You call me when it’s over.”

Stan patted Maxi’s shoulder and got out of the passenger-side door, Stanford following after. They walked silently to the old concrete building before turning down the side ally. A red glow from a burning cigarette emanating from the darkness. Warning bells were going off in Stanford’s head, signaling that this was all kinds of wrong. That they were much safer heading back to the ship and fishing off the dock, but Stan grabbed his jacket sleeve and tugged him forwards. He tried to catch Stan’s eye, but was only met with worn matte black.

They could hear shouting and the clanking of a cowbell from inside. The barking of a hound echoed after. A fighting ring. Dogs, cocks, people. It didn’t really matter which, all that matted was that they should keep walking and find someplace safe.

But Stan wouldn’t let him go, wrapping his fingers around his wrist and thumbing the Vegvisir band wrapped around Stanford’s wrist.

Fat lotta good it’s doing! Leading us here. Should just chuck it.

Don’t. It looks good on ya. Besides, you like it. You wear it all the time.

Stanford shook his head, ignoring Bill’s words and instead focusing on where Bill had led them.

“Best be moving on grandpa. Ain’t nothing here for ya.” The bouncer regarded them briefly before flicking the ash off his cigarette.

“Here to make a bet. Word is the money’s good tonight.” Stan responded, unswayed by the size of the bouncer.

“Got any cash?”

Stan pulled out a few bills from his breast pocket, flashing them briefly. The bouncer nodded, dropping his cigarette and crushing it under his heel before leading them inside.

“Ya need to check in your bags, gramps. We ain’t a bunk house.” Stanford’s grip tightened on the strap of his bag. They weren’t carrying anything valuable. Least not in bags. Stanford resisted the urge to check his pocket for the glass vial again.

The low bark of a bull mastiff drew Stanford’s attention. The hound had a muzzle strapped to its head, but it didn’t look like the metal was going to stop it if the dog was determined to bite.

“Aie, Aie, shut up. Stupid mutt.” The bouncer unlocked a side door, more a closet than anything, and held out his hand for their bags. With some reluctance, they handed them over, pausing a moment in front of the hound’s nose before they were tossed unceremoniously on the floor and the door was locked again.

“You wanna bet, go see Mitch. He’s at the front table.”

Stanford could just make out the man muttering as they walked, “Stupid fag gringos.”

It was only then that he realized he was still holding Stan’s hand. He let go, tucking his hands in his pockets a moment before Stan leaned into his side and whispered harshly in his ear. “Don’t do that. They’ll think you’re gonna pull a knife or somthin’. No one’s gonna care about your hand here.”

Stanford did as he was told, smoothing the cloth of his jacket instead.

They reached the front table where a short balding man sat smoking a cigar and thumbing through some bills from a metal cash box. A chalk board sat propped against the wall to his left, a few names and tallies etched on its surface; odds ratios in bold under each match-up. There were four matches written up, the top two crossed off, already taken place. The third was raging on beyond the doors, passed the crowd. The fourth had been X-ed out. A single name in one column and a blank space where the challenger should be. The odds for the named fighter were 4:1 on.  

“’Ey. Match just started, you wanna make a bet, you do it here.” The man flicked his cigar into a plastic cup on the table. “Won’t be much money ta be had tonight. Newbie dropped out. They’ve been lookin’ fer someone ta take his place, but ain’t no one step up yet. All too scared of Pedro. You still wanna make a bet, you can. But this is the last match of the night. Neither one the house favorite.”

Stan took a moment to contemplate the scoreboard before answering. Even if they bet everything they had, they wouldn’t make very much. It might get them into a room with a mattress on the floor, but nothing in the way of supplies. But who to bet on? Stanford peeked in the open door to watch the fighters. There wasn’t any indication which one was whom. The shorter fighter looked like he had the advantage, but it was the first round and neither looked outclassed. He still thought this whole idea was stupid, but the next words out of Stan’s mouth cornered sensible in a dark alley and beat it for its pocket change.

“How much to enter?”

Stanford whipped his head to look at his partner, even more convinced that Bill had lost his ever-loving mind! Not that he’s ever had any sense, but at least he wasn’t this irrational. No one Stanford had ever met had ever had such a lack of common sense. No one but Stan.

He still hadn’t decided on what to call this…hybrid person. Partner seemed the best fit now. Stanford ignored the shit-eating grin that reverberated down their mental connection.  

“Hah, funny grandpa. I like you. Tell ya what, you bet on Antonio, he’s more likely to win. Still only 3:1, but it’s better than nothing.

Stan just grinned wider. He cracked his neck, rolling his knuckles and squaring his shoulders.

“How much to fight?”

*~*

The money guy had called down the owner, realizing Stan was serious. No amount of protesting from Stanford dismayed him. The owner was enormous. Easily over six foot and built of solid muscle. He wasn't thin either; torso thick and bulky and arms as wide as Stanford’s neck. An ex-pro boxer by the looks of it. He was intrigued by Stan’s request, but had laughed at him too. Telling him he could enter if he wants, but they would just throw his carcass out in the back alley when he died.

“I’ll be fine. Just let me in the ring and I’ll show ya what I can do.”

“You’re outta your mind gramps. But sure. You wanna fight, go ahead. Tell ya what, you survive, I’ll pay out $100,000.”

Stan grinned, dollar signs glittering in his eye. “Dollars?”

“Pesos, grandpa. Pesos.”

Stan let out a dark and dry chuckle. “And If I win?”

“Jackpot’s sitting at 2,350,000 pesos.”

Stanford had called him crazy when they shook hands, Stan just shrugged him off.

Stan had gone back to the check in closet to pull out a pair of loose-fitting shorts from their bags. Stanford had followed him, closing the closet door behind them. An audible click echoed in the tiny room.  

“This is crazy. We can still get out and get back to the docks. We can think of something else.”

“Nope. Mind’s made up. I’m doing this.” Stan didn’t even bother turning around as he undid his jeans.

“You’ll die! You can’t use magic anymore.” There wasn’t much space in the side closet. It was only big enough to store the patrons’ stuff, if they had any. “Not unless you expect me to take that off you. Is that what your expecting? Goad me into…”

“No!” Stan shouted, head snapping up. He took two steps to stand closer to his brother. “I don’t want that.” Stan’s hand thumbed over the scar on Stanford’s cheek, still visible though healed. He frowned at the memory, of straining to seal the wound closed even as his magic dwindled. Apology dying on his lips. Instead, he simply smirked and patted Stanford’s cheek. “I don’t need magic to win this. We need money. This will get us some.” He stepped back to pull his jeans off, tugging his socks and shoes off along with them.

“You’re being reckless. You’re putting yourself needlessly in danger to...” He flapped his arms looking for the appropriate wording, averting his eyes and trying to keep the blush from his cheeks, “To show off, apparently.”

“Maybe.” Stan…winked…maybe, but his face soured with his next words. “But if we’re going to argue about ‘needless danger’, we should talk about how you walk headlong at anything even remotely out of the ordinary. You have no idea if things might be friendly or not, but no, you just have to go study it.” Stan had pulled on his shorts and was stuffing his clothes into Stanford’s bag.

“That is the inherent danger in field study. And I understand and calculate the level of danger before I approach. This is just suicide! I can understand gambling, Bill, but this?! Do you have any idea how illegal this is? How much danger we are really in?”

Stan’s shoulders tensed at the name, hands stilling on the bag he was hunched over. His knuckles turning white as he clenched and unclenched his hands.

Maybe Bill was just looking for a fight. If that was all, Stanford could oblige. But Stan’s voice cut through the building tension.

“Yes. This isn’t my first round in a cage fight.”

Fine. If Bill was going to play Stan’s history, he’d bite.  

“You aren’t young anymore. You haven’t kept your body in peak condition for decades.” But Stan had stood up by then, turning and shedding his shirt in one swift motion, letting it drop on top of the bag. He held his arms out, loosely set on his hips and he straighten his back and flexed.

Looking at Stan now, Stanford picked up on all the little things that reminded him they weren’t young anymore. His hair was the most prominent. Gray. All of it. Stan was always hairy, even back in high-school, but it had only gotten worse with time. At least his body hair had. Stan was balding. The hair at the back of his head only hid the skin beneath in the faintest of light. Next, his gut. Stan hadn’t aged well. Though, now with the understanding of what Stan had been doing the past forty years, Stanford can’t blame him. But there was no question that Stan was packing more weight than could be hidden. Pecks more flab than muscle. And without the help of his girdle, it was, for lack of a better word, ‘hanging’ out there for everyone to see. Stan’s face carried so many lines now. Lines zipping back and forth across his forehead. Creases bordering his eyes and puffy eyelids. Forced laugh lines from his years of being a wannabe carnival barker. Lips chapped from the salty air. Pockmarks and discoloration around his jaw. Skin sagging a bit around his neck.

He was a dead man walking if he followed through with this.

“Let me fight instead.” The words were out of Stanford’s mouth before he could stop them.

“No way.”

“I’m fitter than you. I may not have the raw strength you do, but I can hold my own.”

“Not happenin’ Stanford. I can put myself in danger. I won’t put you there.”

Stanford’s eyes blinked before a dark laugh passed his lips, brought forth from decades of grief and hate.

“’You won’t put me in danger’, huh?” He snarled, ripping back the fabric of his jacket and sweater to show the scarring on his wrist. A dark band with radiating veins to his forearm and the back of his hand. Two more on his other wrist and neck. Permanent burns. Charred tissue beneath the skin. Courtesy of the torture he’d endured to keep the world safe from Bill. “What about this then? What about after I shut down the portal? You’re so worried about putting me in danger, you weren’t then.”

“I’m not that person anymore!”

“Bull shit you’re not! I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. You act just like you always did. Selfish and self-serving. I was just too blinded by your flattery to notice!”

“Stanford, I…”

But there was a knock on the doors seconds before it snapped open.

“Hey gramps. Boss wants ta know if yer ready?”

Stan walked past him, reaching the door and walking into the entry way.

The owner led them back into the tiny side room with a sink and drain in the center. Stanford stood to the side and watched as the owner and another guy inspected Stan’s physique. The owner’s eyebrows jumping in surprise at Stan’s muscle mass despite his age. It was clear Stan was a boxer, or used to be, with the way he carried himself. It was something the owner of this little underground boxing ring had picked up on. Stan flexed when asked, jabbed at the air to show off his form, and tested his grip on the owner’s fingers. Even Stanford caught the slight wince and creaking of bone when Stan squeezed. Stanford’s fingers twitched with every touch, eyes trained on the rainbow fibers, now visible, resting against Stan’s collar bones. The two men left after a few short minutes to draw up the odds, mumbling about how tonight was going to be interesting.

“You can still back out.”

“Can it, would’ya. Win or lose I get somthin’. And I intend to win.”

The door creaked open and a kid pokes his head in the gap. He glances over at Stan a moment before tossing Stanford a roll of tape, shaking his head. They could hear shouting and something like glass breaking. “Pedro ain’t happy he’s going against an old man. I’d say your goodbyes, amigo.” The kid slipped out, closing the door quietly. Stan was standing in the middle of the room doing some light stretches. Shoulders rolling back and forth in their sockets, trapezius shifting under surprisingly tight skin.

“He was impressed. Ya see that look he gave me? Like he found a gold nugget where he thought was gonna be dog shit. Ha!”

“Bill…”

“Stop with that! I ain’t him!”

“You aren’t Stan either.”

“More now than I was then. Just let me do this.” They fell into an awkward silence as they waited.  

The owner came back, trailed by what Stanford assumed was ‘Pedro’. Pedro was short, bit shorter than Stan’s height, but he was stacked. The kid was hardly older than 20, abs sculpted and hips thin. His muscles visibly shifted with each movement, veins popping up on his skin. His jaw was chiseled and smooth. He looked like a poster boy for some band or car magazine. On the surface. But there was something there rippling just beneath the surface that clawed at the air between them. A beast barely restrained by a thin rope. The veins in his neck and face pulsed. Teeth looking more like fangs in the dim light.  

Stanford did not like Stan’s chances against Pedro. Hell, he didn’t like his chances against Pedro and he was in better shape than Stan. The kid, and he certainly was compared to the two of them, exuded so much testosterone that Stanford could smell it. It was obvious why this kid was the house favorite. His eyes held a level of rage Stanford was unfamiliar with. The kid wanted blood. He’d been denied a challenge and now he was going to take his anger out on Stanford’s partner. He gulped.  

The kid turned to the owner, speaking in rapid Spanish, gesturing to them both. Stan shouted above the bickering, “¡Oye! Como el infierno, te dejo tocarlo a él!”, standing in front of Stanford, pushing him back a step. But the owner shook his head and stood firm. “Fine, gramps. I’ll fight you. Kiss your fag boyfriend goodbye, cuz you ain’t walking out of that cage. I’m gonna kill you.”

Stanford gaped at the kid’s words, but Stan just grinned and held out his hand. “I look forward to it.”

The kid scoffed, reaching out to squeeze Stan’s hand, hoping to feel the bones break under his grip. Stan returned the grip in equal measure. Bones not breaking or creaking, but instead, clamping around the kid’s hand like steel. His grin split his face in half when the kid flinched.

Pedro pulled bag, and strutted back to the main room, likely getting ready for the match.

The owner, who’s name Stanford had neglected to remember, watched Pedro go, turning back to them both with a shrug.  

“Last fight’s still on. I suspect it’ll be a long one, so you got time. We’ll call you. And you’ll have to take the eyepatch off. What name you wanna go by? Gotta call out something when the match starts.”

Stan thought about it for a bit, humming as he twisted the question in his mind. After a moment, he smirked, ripping the eye patch off and letting the boss get a good look at the healing scars covering the empty socket.

“The One-Eyed Beast.”

*~*    

They weren’t allowed gloves. No protective gear. Not even shoes. Just tape. Stan’s glasses tucked into the collar of Stanford’s sweater.  

“Too many people trying ta sneak in weights and blades. Bare hands means I can’t hide nuttin.”

Stanford’s hands shook even as he meticulously wrapped each of Stan’s knuckles. The white tape stood out against the tanned skin. Cool and textured verses warm and soft. The contrast cut through Stanford’s psyche. Like he was replacing the smooth flesh with something inhuman. Weaving the tape around each finger, stabilizing his metacarpals and wrist. His fingers slipped on the tape as he tried to tuck and tie it off. Once, twice. His hands wouldn’t cooperate.

His mind kept flashing back to Stan’s opponent. He didn’t know why, but the kid scared him. Something about the kid…man terrified him. His eyes weren’t human. The man was an animal. Stanford could see it in his movements, the way he sized them up. He was no more tame than the bull mastiffs being walked around on lead, snapping and growling at any perceivable threat.  

Stan wove his untapped hand through his fingers. Clasping them tight and squeezing. “I got it. It’s ok.” Stan pulled back to finish the knot before starting on his other hand.  

Stanford bit his tongue until he tasted blood.

A knock on the door came far too soon. They were preparing for the last match of the night.

Stan was up and out of the door in a few short strides, Stanford trailing along behind him, a bundle of nerves.

The chalkboard propped up on the wall had been altered. ‘One Eyed Beast’ in the challenger column beside Pedro. 10:1 odds. He’s surprised it wasn't lower. People were lined up to place their bets, ecstatic that Pedro was going to fight tonight.

They followed their escort to the main room, weaving in and out of the people lingering and milling about. Guard dogs growling and barking as they walked past. They were standing in front of the cage now, Pedro already inside and looking ready to tear the head off the next person who crossed him. That next person, unfortunately, being Stan.

A brief hush swept across the crowd. They had seen who was up. An old favorite against a newbie. An old newbie. Stanford didn’t let their age bother him much, least not when they were running circles around dangerous anomalies. But here. Around other people. Their age was distinct. They were in their sixties. Wouldn’t know it for how easily they kept up, but they were getting older. Stanford woke up with twinges of pain he didn’t remember having before. And Stan had apparently been fighting back pain since his late forties.

But the man standing in the cage wasn’t the man Stanford had been helping to wrap his hands. No. Like crossing the cage threshold had changed him. He stood taller. Stan’s biceps pulled taut against the skin, curving and accentuating his arms. His gut was still there, but he’d lost weight in the months at sea, and the top level of flab hid a strong torso. Stan was thick. Had always been. He’d been a heavyweight since those first lessons all the way back in middle school. His legs were still as thick as ever and had grown more definition as they became accustom to the sea. The overhead spotlight gleamed off the sweat already forming on Stan’s skin. He was practically glowing. A force of nature now stood where his brother once did. He held himself steady on the uneven and unstable elevated cage. More a plywood slab braced on random stacks of cinderblocks. Chain link fencing weaved around the structure and was attached to the ceiling and floor. He didn’t look scared or nervous. Hell he looked downright gleeful.      

A thickly accented jeer echoed from across the room.

“The hell is this?! Get this gringo grandpa outta here.” Angry responses and jeers erupted in waves through the crowd. Stanford felt the hackles rise up on the back of his neck. He and Stan could handle being out-numbered, but not like this. There were well over a hundred people clamoring for a chance to make a bet. But despite the jeers, Stan was calm. His face plain, perhaps even a smirk, as he eyed his opponent.

A deafening clang rang in Stanford’s ears. The cage door had slammed closed. A ‘referee’ was locking the heavy padlock and chain. Too late to make a run for it.

This was insanely foolish. Even more so than restarting the portal. At least Stan had the misfortune of not fully understanding the ramifications of opening the link to other dimensions. This, Stan had full knowledge of the consequences. And he was still standing there. The unicorn necklace still sparkling against Stan’s throat. The spell was supposed to be a protection against Bill. Against his powers to manipulate the world. He could only hope that wasn't the only thing it protected against.

Stanford flexed his hands repeatedly, eyes trained on the two fighters. A speaker mounted somewhere overhead crackled and sputtered, announcing the beginning of the next match. Cheers and boos echoing from everywhere as the fighters were introduced. Stan seemed to relish in jeers and heckles. When he didn’t react, the voices grew louder, bottles and crumpled paper cups being flung at the cage to bounce off the fencing.

Stan just grinned.

The clang of a cowbell broke through the crowd’s noise. The match had begun.

There weren’t rules in underground fighting. Anything went. The winner was the one who could walk out.

Pedro came in with a flurry of punches, aiming for Stan’s torso and head. Stan braced and took the beating. Blow after blow to ribs and arms. Stray fist connecting with his face. But Stan hadn’t faltered yet. When Pedro pulled back, readying a roundhouse, Stan’s left fist connected with his jaw. Pedro stumbled back. He wiped the sweat from his face and glowered.

A scream, pulled from the bowels of hell, clawed its way through the kid’s throat. He dove to grab Stan’s torso, but he shifted, trapping Pedro in a headlock and pulling him off balance. Fists wailed on Stan as the kid tried to free himself. An arm wound around Stan’s leg. A knee to the kid’s jaw. Pedro was released. Stan taking four steps to the other side of the ring.

He was using the kid’s rage and confidence against him.

Pedro recovered quickly, eyes blazing at being humiliated by an old man. He charged again. Fists low. Stan sidestepped, but Pedro anticipated the move. His aim struck home.

Stan doubled, gut and chest taking the damage. Quick and light jabs countered some of Pedro’s blows, but not many. Stan took a step back. Then another. He was being backed into a corner. A second later, the kid dropped to the floor, legs pulled out from under him was a subtle sweep.

Stan danced around him, putting distance between them.

Downed twice by an old geezer. Pedro was livid.

But the clanking of a cowbell singled the end of the first round.

The guy taking bets was walking around the crowd, calling out odds and taking more cash from eager patrons. He passed close to Stanford, notebook and a spool of tickets in hand. Stanford watched him, eyes flicking back and forth between Stan and the man collecting bets.

It couldn’t hurt.

A second ring of the cowbell started the next round, but Stanford had lost his place near the front of the crowd. He could see flashes of movement over the tops of people’s heads. Shouting and grunts. A dog growled and barked from somewhere to his left.

Stan’s voice rang above everything. A sharp grunt of pain. Stanford pushed people aside, knocking over drinks and scattering empty bottles. He was prepared to climb the damn cage when a strong arm looped around his waist and pulled him back. One of the bouncers. He was let go and shoved back behind a faded red line drawn around the ring. A man at his side, drunk off his ass, stumbled with him.  

“Hey, gringo. You gotta stay back, or they’ll kick you out. Don’t worry, your money’s on Pedro, you’ll win.”

Stanford just turned back to the cage.

Stan was winded. But so was Pedro. The kid had an arm wrapped around Stan’s neck, free hand flying repeatedly into Stan’s chest and gut. But Stan jerked Pedro’s leg to the side, sending the kid wobbling back. Sta was on the defensive. Only fighting back when the kid caught him. The kid was trying to get him in a headlock, but Stan weighed more. He leaned and threw them both to the floor. He used the opportunity to pin Pedro’s arm. The kid had no leverage. Stan’s elbow came down on the kid’s nose. A sickening crack. Stan let go and stood with a stumble, taking position again.

Pedro charged, leaning away from Stan’s swing and barreling headlong into Stan’s left side. His blind side. Stan’s back connected with the cage. He was cornered. Pedro pummeled him, fists flying to any place they would land. Face, neck, chest, gut. Stan sagged. And audible crack cut through the fervor.

Stan’s knuckles connected with Pedro’s temple. It was the window he was waiting for. Stan returned each blow with one of his own. Four more to the temple. One to the left side of his jaw, then the right. A swift uppercut to the gut. Stan alternated between high and low jabs, leaving Pedro little opportunity to block. One punch to Pedro’s jaw slid further, cracking across the bridge of his broken nose.

The ref rang the bell, but neither fighter stepped back. Punches flying every half second, Blood dripping from noses. Neither one was bothering to block anymore. Fists came undone and fingers clawed at skin. Nails scratching gouges.

A hand wrapped around the rainbow threads and jerked. But a flash of pink light pushed it back. Shouts from the ref called forwards two man with cattle prods. The poles were slid through the gaps in the cage nearest the two fighters. Stan turned, pushing Pedro into the sparking pole. A scream. The smell of searing flesh. But they just backed further into the center of the ring. Just out of reach.

Fingers dug into a throat and clamped down. More retaliated with pressure to an eye. Knuckles connecting with teeth and jaws.

Bets had stopped. No one knew who to bet on. Shouts and barking and camera’s snapping pictures.

Stanford’s heart was in is throat. He couldn’t swallow, let alone breathe. His ears rang with white noise, not comprehending the sounds echoing in the dingy warehouse. Blood and sweat flung off the two fighters. Four men with cattle prods circled the cage in hopes that they would come close enough to break it up. Every so often the ref would walk around and ring the bell. He may as well have been waving a banner for all the good it did.

But it was nearing the end now. They weren’t going to last much longer. One last punch. One last connection between knuckles and bruised tissue. It was over.  

A body hit the floor with a sickening thud. The crowd fell silent. Blood filled wheezing could be heard from the lump on the floor. The referee shouted something in Spanish, smashing the bell against the cage to amplify the sound. The victor pulled away from the lump to stumble back to the center of the ring. Huffing. Knees weak. Blood flowing freely from his nose. That fucker gave him a hell of a beating.

Stanford was beside the referee in seconds, pushing past him the moment the lock was disengaged. He ignored the shouts from the referee even as the man tried to grab him and pull him back. He twisted out of the grip on his hood and entering the cage. Two steps in, he was beside the lump. Blood splattered around it on the wood dais. The wheezing was intense so near. It was wet, blood and saliva dripping from the parted mouth.

Stanford spared barely a moment beside the lump, racing past and across the ring to his brother. Stan was hunched, legs shaky and hardly holding him vertical. Stanford’s arms were around him instantly, wrapping him in a crushing hug.

“Fuck! Fucking hell! I thought you were dead for sure. God! Don’t ever do that again, you sick bastard!”

Stanford’s words were mouthed against Stan’s jaw and ear. His fingers threading through the sweat damp hair at the back of Stan’s head. He felt more than heard Stan chuckle, the rumble of his voice sending little vibrations against his jaw.

“Heh…I’m alright…nerd. Not outta…the game yet.” He huffed. Stan’s laugh dissolved into wet coughs. Stanford held him tighter, bracing as Stan hung onto his body for support. He only pulled back when Stan winced. He wrapped Stan’s arm across his shoulders, doing his best to hold Stan’s weight. Stan leaned into him, ignoring the blood dripping from his nose smudging over the blue fabric of Stanford’s jacket.

The ref just stood, dumbfounded, holding the cage door open as they stumbled down the steps. The crowd parted and Stanford’s eyes zeroed in on an empty bench. He pushed Stan towards it, ignoring the stares and hushed murmurs following him.

Stan let gravity do the work as he sat, leaning back and to the side to ease the pain in his ribs. The dim light hid much of the damage. But it was bad. Even Stan’s latent healing was going to take time to fix this. That was if his injuries didn’t kill him first. Stanford was running his fingers down Stan’s sides, feeling the cracked ribs and wondering if they needed wrapping when someone tapped his shoulder. A young kid, far too young to be in a place like this, held out a water bottle to him, wide eyed and awestruck. He took it with a nod, squeezing it to check for leaks and tampering. He smiled at the kid when the lid made a crack when he opened it. Stan snagged it from him, hand only partly unwrapped, and downed it in four large gulps. They ignored the men climbing into the ring to tend to Pedro.

The owner was ecstatic. Nearly everyone had bet against Stan to win, and the house had raked in a killing. He’d come over to them after the match to congratulate Stan on his marvelous victory. “Beast you are, huh? Haven’t seen a fight like that in a while. Think Pedro’s out for a while. I’ll send someone over with your money.”

A man and an armed guard approached them while Stanford helped Stan back into his shirt. He spoke to Stan in rapid-fire Spanish, going back and forth a bit before he pulled out a fat envelope from his jacket. The man counted it out slowly, enunciating each bill amount as he went. $1,000,000 pesos. Just over $300 U.S. dollars. Substantially less than what was promised. But Stanford wasn't going to argue with a rifle hung at low ready. It seemed Stan wasn't too keen on it either; he grumbled, but took the envelope and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

Stan raised an eyebrow when the money guy handed Stanford a second envelope stuffed with crumpled bills. $10 U.S. dollars pick-pocketed off some snobby tourist bet on a 10 to 1 odds became $333,325 pesos. It wasn’t much, but was enough to get them supplies and to get Stan the hell out of Colombia. Not bad for a night’s work.

Stan shot him a devilish grin when he tucked his own winnings away. But there wasn’t much time to discuss anything as their bags were tossed at them and they were promptly escorted out of the back door. A voice rang out after them in both Spanish and English: “Get the Fuck outta here! You come back, you die!”

Stan just waved. Leaning heavily into Stanford and limping as the bruised muscles in his side spasmed.

“You bet on me? Thought you said it was a stupid idea.”

“It was. You can barely stand. But it wasn't like I was going to bet against you.”

“Where’d you get the money?”

“Remember the man from the inn?”

“No, you didn’t!”

“You aren’t the only one with quick fingers.”

“HA! Knew you had some rebel in ya!”

“Yes, well, we can celebrate after we get someplace safe.” Stanford fished out his phone to call Maxi again. The cab driver was quickly becoming their new best friend.

“Yeah, think the only reason we walked outta there was because the house won a shit ton.”

*~*

They didn’t go back to the Refugio El Santuario. Not willing to explain how they had come into so much money so quickly. Instead, they had Maxi drive them to the Ribai, bit further south on the main strip along the coast. Not as ritzy, but hey, a pool and room service were classy enough.

They paid in cash. Stanford excusing his ‘drunk brother’, claiming the blood was caused by an overzealous bar fight. The clerk just shook his head and passed them the key card.  

There was an elevator, Thank Christ, that took them to the third floor. Stanford unlocked the room with the provided keycard and stepped in, nudging Stan to wobble to one of the neatly made beds. The soft white sheets and mattress give under his weight as he flops back.

“Ow. Ow Ow Ow. Everything hurts. Bathroom’s yours first. I don’t think I could shower just yet. You signed us in using pseudonyms, right?”

“Yes. I am aware of…your…history. I felt it was appropriate to use a bit of caution.” Stanford walked the perimeter of the room, fiddling with the mechanism strapped to his wrist.

“Hey, Nerdbrain. I get you wanna ‘secure the area’ but you haven’t slept in almost a day. Door’s locked and there’s a secondary lock. Only thing we’re in danger of is getting bedbugs.”

“You’re right.” Stanford’s shoulders slumped as his body lost much of its tension. He removed his jacket, draping it over the nearest chair and sitting down on the free bed to remove his boots.

The sweater came next, black sleeveless undershirt covering his torso. A quick use of the crystal and flashlight and Stanford was opening his medical bag. He cleaned off the blood dripping down Stan’s face. Something he had done more often over the years than he was willing to remember. The suture kit put to the side when the cut on Stan’s cheek closed on its own. Instead, he spent the time cleaning and disinfecting the scrapes and gouges left behind from Pedro’s attack. Stan hissing as the alcohol touched his skin. But he said nothing. Neither of them did. Stanford worked meticulously, smiling faintly when he eyes caught Stan’s. His glasses and eyepatch still tucked in Stanford’s jacket.

He was cleaning the blood from Stan’s hand now. Working the alcohol-soaked cloth under his fingernails. Stan shook it loose from his grasp and ran his fingers over his cheek. Once again tracing the line branded there.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

“I’m sorry I scared ya.”

Stanford sighed at Bill’s words. “No, you’re not. You were going to do it anyway.”

“Yeah, but I still didn’t want to scare ya. And I wasn't gonna let you try either.” Stan’s fingers had drifted lower, passing along his jaw and resting, curled, against his neck. White skin stark against the faint dark band.

“Bill…”

“I’m NOT him, Stanford.” Stan sighed; all fight draining out of him. He was too tired to fight about this anymore. He just wanted to sleep. “I use ta be. Not anymore. Don’t wanna be anymore. Don’t wanna hurt ya.” Stan swallowed down his next words. He wasn't sure if they were real. They felt real. But there were a lot of things that had felt real that turned out to not be.

“How can I know that for sure? You’ve tricked me before.” Stanford was still looking at him. Eyes still soft. He hadn’t left yet. And that gave Stan hope.

“I guess ya can’t. But I’m still askin’.” He shouldn’t. It was too much to ask of his beautiful Sixer. But Ford was right, he was selfish. He wanted things to be alright between them. They’d been friends. More. He wanted that. He was sure Sixer wanted that too. But trust. Trust was a hard thing to piece back together once broken. It wasn't like Stan had broken it intentionally. I wasn’t even his fault this time. Just some memories old and dusty memories from a dead life that he didn’t want to be a part of anymore. He was past that. He wanted to be past it so badly.

“Let me prove it. Give me a chance ta prove it.”

Stanford lifted the hand by his neck, holding it between his own. Fingers curled loosely around each other. Fingerprints tracing over black scars.

Soft, salt chapped lips brushed against Stan’s jaw. Forehead pressed to his temple. Stanford breathed.

“Okay.”

First Chapter

Previous

Next

[arg-machine]

Comics at machine HQ

It’s been a while since arg published a list of graphic novels/comics that he has enjoyed recently, and though he's been busy lately – with the Apocalypse Project, his music and the recently-revived Marvin 1.0 project, for instance – he never stopped reading… and that, good reader, included not just books, but comics and/or graphic novels as well.

So, this week, arg is listing them in this here post. As usual, the list features graphic novels and comics from diverse genres that include crime, horror, science fiction, slice-of-life, literary fiction, biography and more…

If you are looking for superhero books, however, it’s unlikely that you’ll find them here, since arg prefers focusing on other genres [and titles] in his Comics at machine HQ posts.

Comics! We’ve got comics, y’all! And here they are – the comics/graphic novels arg has read and enjoyed in the last few months. All titles are arranged alphabetically, and related titles – or titles from same/similar genres – are listed in the Also recommended sections.

arg has always been interested in good dystopian literature, right from the time when he read Darkness at Noon, Fahrenheit 451 and yes, 1984 during a summer break way back in high school. So given this interest and his love of comics, it’s only natural that he’d be curious about a graphic novel adaptation of Orwell’s classic dystopian nightmare. And guess what? He wasn’t disappointed.

“With evocative, immersive art from Fido Nesti, this vision of George Orwell's dystopian masterpiece provides a new perspective for long-time fans but is also an accessible entry point for young readers and adults who have yet to discover the iconic story that is still so relevant today.” Fine stuff.

Also recommended: Motherbridge - Seeds of Change, Metax, Joyama Volume 1 and Ranx.

"Gitarama, in the Southern Province of Rwanda, 1994. Five-year-old Alice enjoys a peaceful childhood with her parents and little sisters, but life as she knows it is about to change forever as the genocide of the Tutsis erupts, forcing her to escape her village with her family.

It is on the hot roads of the Democratic Republic of Congo, known then as Zaire, that Alice grows up, bouncing from one refugee camp to another, seeking some semblance of a normal life in between violent attacks, with death always lurking around the corner.

With Alice, Gaspard Talmasse delivers a singular testimony, capturing with painfully real emotion a relentless world as seen through the eyes of an innocent child...” Based on actual events and highly-recommended.

Also recommended: Better Place, A Jew in the Communist Prague, World Record Holders and Castaways.

“The true story of drug trafficking in Europe! In Cocaine Coast, journalist Nacho Carretero and Luis Bustos tell the incredible true story of how a sleepy, unassuming corner of Spain became the cocaine gateway into Europe from Colombia, exposing a new generation of criminals, cartels and corrupt officials, more efficient and ruthless than any who came before.

A docu-graphic novel, with lots of action and adventure, Cocaine Coast tells us about the violent past, present and future of drug trafficking in Europe.”

Also recommended: The Ghost in You - A Reckless Book, Sin City: A Dame to Kill For, Clover Honey and Pearl.

“‘Creeping’ is a dangerous online trend that dares participants to spend the night at a frightening location – from crumbling cemeteries to derelict morgues. As more people join in, the competition increases – who can outdo the latest scary destination? 

One group of thrill-seekers determines to find the most terrifying place in the world – an abandoned medieval fortress turned insane asylum fits the bill, but they soon realize they are in for more than they bargained for.

A graphic novel that takes you on a horrifying journey where fun and mischief take a shocking turn into the ultimate fight for survival.”

Also recommended: The Monstrous Dreams of Mr. Providence, Razorblades – The Horror Magazine Year One Omnibus, The British Paranormal Society and Strangehaven.

Cruel Summer takes readers back to “the summer of ’88, when Teeg Lawless comes home to plan the biggest heist of his career. But Teeg’s son Ricky and his friends are starting down the same dark path their fathers are on, and this is about to become the worst summer of their lives.” From the acclaimed world of the Criminal series by Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips.

Also recommended: Judge Dredd: The Complete Case Files, Three for the Money and Other Stories, Amber Blake - Operation Dragonfly and A Righteous Thirst for Vengeance.

“Somewhere on the Eastern Front in 1917, between Poland and Russia. Behind the gates of the Nurk Orphanage, there is a scene of utter devastation: the building lies in ruins, and decomposing bodies are scattered around the place.

Only three children have survived, by taking the most extreme measures… But one of the orphans can no longer bear this harsh way of living. Luckily, he discovers new friends – the only ones? – in the beautiful Victorian dolls lining the shelves, with empty eyes…” Creepy and poignant in equal measure, with some beautiful art.

Also recommended: Criminal Macabre - Spirit of The Demon, The Crows, Fraternity, Cold Bodies, Silk Hills and A Town Called Terror.

“An adaptation of Ibsen’s play: Dr. Stockmann discovers that his town’s thermal springs are contaminated with bacteria, so he decides to warn everyone. But to fix the problem, expensive work would be necessary. The town’s mayor, who is none other than the doctor’s own brother, tries to silence Stockmann.” Highly-recommended.

Also recommended: The Blouse, Behind the Curtain, Summer Fires and Ham-let - A Shakespearean Mash-Up.

“Hendrix – Electric Requiem explores the life, career and music of a true rock n’ roll god – Jimi Hendrix. A compelling trip into the mind and world of Jimi Hendrix, Electric Requiem is an exhilarating ride, from Jimi's difficult beginnings in the South, plagued by racism, through his global stardom and triumph at Woodstock, and the excessive lifestyle of a rockstar. A rockstar who, even with all his experiences, never forgot where he came from…” Highly-recommended.

Also recommended: Ballad for Sophie, The Art of Mastantuono, Visual Crime and Mr. Lightbulb.

“Saga is an epic space opera/fantasy comic book series created by writer Brian K. Vaughan and artist Fiona Staples. The series is heavily influenced by Star Wars, and based on ideas Vaughan conceived both as a child and as a parent.

It depicts two lovers from long-warring extraterrestrial races, Alana and Marko, fleeing authorities from both sides of a galactic war as they struggle to care for their newborn daughter, Hazel, who occasionally narrates the series.” A new chapter has begun only recently, so now would be a great time to get into this epic… well, saga!

Also recommended: Star Wars: Obi-Wan, The Sandman: Preludes & Nocturnes, Bioripple, Taarna the Last Taarakian and Twig.

“The West African nation of Atala is thrust into an era of unrest and dysfunction after their beloved president turns vicious dictator. With the country on the brink of civil war, the WindMaker – an ancient hero of the Atalians – mysteriously returns in what appears to be an effort to save his people.

The only problem is that his spirit is reincarnated into the last person anyone expects to help – the president's head of security!” A nice Afro-Futurist book… and probably the closest this list has to a superhero title!

Also recommended: The Blood of the Immortals, Image! 30th Anthology, New Masters and Dark Wing Unstable.

And that brings us to the end of this short list, folks! Visit The Apocalypse Project [on tumblr, too!], and stay tuned to machine HQ blog...

Header image features artwork from Mike Allred’s Madman comics and from the John Constantine/Hellraiser series.

[kettumbar]

FTWG

Feed The World Global Foundation

What is  FTWG?

Feed The World Global Foundation is a charity born with the aim of nourishing the body, soul and mind of the collective.

From food banks to financial support for medical expenses, we at "FTWG Foundation" want above all to help people develop their potential and with this goal in mind we would also like to establish collaborations with teachers and instructors to create projects for the benefit of communities. Creating scholarships that will allow individuals to participate in courses and seminars offered on psychology, mindfulness, non-violent communication and paths for children and vulnerable populations. Our greatest dream is to create internal channels of development in the communities that need them, with the aim of creating a sustainability of well-being and wealth, om fighting hunger in the world to creating a reality of prosperity available to all.

About FTWG

Feed The World Global aims to be an integral part of the charity sector to aid in reaching to those communities that we are directly in contact with. From our experience, our team has had the privilege of working with other charities in the most challenging places around the world like Bali, India, Colombia and Africa. We’ve witnessed first hand what extreme poverty and lack of basic amenities does to the quality and wellbeing of life of the people. With our experience and cultural diversity within the team, we created the charity to be supplemented by a tokenized project that will serve as an additional charitable medium.

We are proactive in our obligations that has been set out for the long term and with strategic project protocols. The pathway is to begin locally and spread our influence with the acquisition of seasoned investors to various areas both nationally and internationally. Charity Begins At Home has always been a widely acknowledged mantra in societies of all ages, and this is the benchmark of our programme.

FTWG Mission

Feed The World Global was born from the union of visions of how technology can help others. In the last 18 months we have noticed how there is an increasing need for funds for charities and at the same time how difficult it is to find them.

With the creation of “FTWG” we want to make possible, thanks to a long-term project, to support the charity “Feed The World Global Foundation” even in times of serious difficulty.

Ever since the pandemic crisis, life has changed forever as we know it. Adapting to immediate and long term changes will be very critical in sustaining and fulfilling the needs of the underprivileged. We aim to be creative in our services through tokenised projects as outlined in our white paper , in the cryptocurrency ecosystem that is set to become the future in digital financial services. A future that will require digital tokens/coins to process transactions in order to continue without disruption the charitable services that is much needed locally, nationally and internationally.

Token FTWG

FTWG is a token based on Binance Smart Chain. It will be the precursor of the SOMNIUM ecosystem. With any trade a percentage will be devolved to our Foundation.

Main Features

Total Supply: 1000000000

Decimal: 9

STANDARD TAX 5%

Holders Reflection 2%

Charity Wallet: 1%

Marketing Wallet: 1%

Liquidity: 1%

WHALE TAX WITH BUY-BACK FEATURE

If there will be a buy or sale = or >1% of total supply a tax of 15% will be applied.

Charity Wallet: 3%

Marketing Wallet 2%

Buy-Back Wallet: 10%

We will manually buy back the tokens every week and will distribute them to the holders. With this feature, we will generate more liquidity in the pool. Therefore increasing the assets owned by each individual holder.

To learn more about Feed The World Global:

Website: https://feedtheworld.global/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/FTWGToken

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/FTWGToken

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/feedtheworldglobal/

Whitepaper: https://feedtheworld.global/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/FTWG-Whitepaper-ENG.pdf

Telegram: https://t.me/FeedTheWorldGlobalToken

Author: ket tumbar

Bitcointalk Link : https://bitcointalk.org/index.php?action=profile;u=2202323

BEP-20 Address: 0xde4b8cb6dBbA80E80041bA69fa115c5Ec58fb6AE

[pejuangcod]

Feed The World Global

Feed The World Global Aims to be an Integral Part of the Charity Sector

INTRODUCTION

In this age of globalization, time is of the essence for everyone. At this time that digital currency has been introduced to reduce transaction time. The cryptocurrency was originally known as a payment system that allows people to be able to make transactions very fast, without third parties, in a crystalline, secure, and faceless manner. With the accrual and development of the Crypto or blockchain ecosystem, several alternative investment opportunities have flourished, and have proven to be more efficient and profitable investment tools than traditional financial returns. Cryptocurrency is potentially the largest digital asset for investment. because it is user-friendly, secure, and allows to cut down steep transaction costs. It is the maximum thing in the financial market that has proven to be an interruption lifter in financial transactions worldwide. Leveraging blockchain technology, cryptocurrency has managed to set up a decentralized, transparent, and inaccessible accountable system

What is FTWG ?

Feed The World Global aims to be an integral part of the charity sector to aid in reaching to those communities that we are directly in contact with. From our experience, our team has had the privilege of working with other charities in the most challenging places around the world like Bali, India, Colombia and Africa. We’ve witnessed first hand what extreme poverty and lack of basic amenities does to the quality and wellbeing of life of the people. With our experience and cultural diversity within the team, we created the charity to be supplemented by a tokenized project that will serve as an additional charitable medium.

We are proactive in our obligations that has been set out for the long term and with strategic project protocols. The pathway is to begin locally and spread our influence with the acquisition of seasoned investors to various areas both nationally and internationally. Charity Begins At Home has always been a widely acknowledged mantra in societies of all ages, and this is the benchmark of our programme.

Mission

Feed The World Global was born out of a unified vision of how technology can help others. In the last 18 months we have noticed how there is an increasing need for funds for charities and at the same time how difficult it is to find them.

With the creation of "FTWG" we wanted to make it possible, thanks to a long-term project, to support the charity "Feed The World Global Foundation" even in times of serious difficulty.

Since the crisis of the pandemic, life has changed forever as we know it. Adapting to short-term and long-term changes will be critical in sustaining and meeting the needs of the less fortunate. We aim to be creative in our services through tokenized projects as outlined in our white paper, in a cryptocurrency ecosystem that will be the future in digital financial services. A future that will require digital tokens/coins to process transactions in order to continue without the disruption of much-needed charitable services locally, nationally and internationally.

FTWG TOKEN

FTWG is a token based on Binance Smart Chain. It will be the precursor of the SOMNIUM ecosystem. With any trade a percentage will be devolved to our Foundation.

Since the turn of the millennium (and decades before), there has always been a shortage or scarcity of food and amenities. In communities around the world that are on the brink of war, there is about economic depreciation, anomalies, extreme anomalies, and many other unfortunate events. Increasingly, charities are under increasing pressure for robust solutions in an effort to erase the perpetual status quo.

Token: Feed The World Global (FTWG)

Price: $0.0360390

Total Supply: 1,000,000,000

Market Cap: $36,039,031

BNB Price: $476.35

LP Holdings: 53 BNB ($25,037)

Contract: 0xb75634793828e03b7ec4a3eccd856ce399a4fa5a

STANDARD TAX 5%

Holders Reflection 2%

Charity Wallet: 1%

Marketing Wallet: 1%

Liquidity: 1%

Roadmap

To learn more about The World Global Feed, visit the link below:

Website: https://feedtheworld.global/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/FTWGToken

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/FTWGToken

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/feedtheworldglobal/

Whitepaper: https://feedtheworld.global/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/FTWG-Whitepaper-ENG.pdf

Telegram: https://t.me/FeedTheWorldGlobalToken

Author: pejuang cod

Bitcointalk Profile: https://bitcointalk.org/index.php?action=profile;u=2699227

BSC Wallet Address: 0x407920277aF25FEeCE0560e7e288397c93B2835c

[khanshiqqheil]

Feed The World Global

Feed The World Global Aims to be an Integral Part of the Charity Sector

INTRODUCTION

In this age of globalization, time is of the essence for everyone. At this time that digital currency has been introduced to reduce transaction time. The cryptocurrency was originally known as a payment system that allows people to be able to make transactions very fast, without third parties, in a crystalline, secure, and faceless manner. With the accrual and development of the Crypto or blockchain ecosystem, several alternative investment opportunities have flourished, and have proven to be more efficient and profitable investment tools than traditional financial returns. Cryptocurrency is potentially the largest digital asset for investment. because it is user-friendly, secure, and allows to cut down steep transaction costs. It is the maximum thing in the financial market that has proven to be an interruption lifter in financial transactions worldwide. Leveraging blockchain technology, cryptocurrency has managed to set up a decentralized, transparent, and inaccessible accountable system

About

Feed The World Global aims to be an integral part of the charity sector to aid in reaching to those communities that we are directly in contact with. From our experience, our team has had the privilege of working with other charities in the most challenging places around the world like Bali, India, Colombia and Africa. We’ve witnessed first hand what extreme poverty and lack of basic amenities does to the quality and wellbeing of life of the people. With our experience and cultural diversity within the team, we created the charity to be supplemented by a tokenized project that will serve as an additional charitable medium.

We are proactive in our obligations that has been set out for the long term and with strategic project protocols. The pathway is to begin locally and spread our influence with the acquisition of seasoned investors to various areas both nationally and internationally. Charity Begins At Home has always been a widely acknowledged mantra in societies of all ages, and this is the benchmark of our programme.

Mission

Feed The World Global was born out of a unified vision of how technology can help others. In the last 18 months we have noticed how there is an increasing need for funds for charities and at the same time how difficult it is to find them.

With the creation of "FTWG" we wanted to make it possible, thanks to a long-term project, to support the charity "Feed The World Global Foundation" even in times of serious difficulty.

Since the crisis of the pandemic, life has changed forever as we know it. Adapting to short-term and long-term changes will be critical in sustaining and meeting the needs of the less fortunate. We aim to be creative in our services through tokenized projects as outlined in our white paper, in a cryptocurrency ecosystem that will be the future in digital financial services. A future that will require digital tokens/coins to process transactions in order to continue without the disruption of much-needed charitable services locally, nationally and internationally.

Main Feature

5% TAX STANDARD

2% Holder Reflection

Charity Wallet: 1%

Marketing Wallet: 1%

Liquidity: 1%

WHALE TAX WITH PURCHASE FEATURE

If there will be a purchase or sale = or > 1% of the total supply, a 15% tax will be applied.

Charity Wallet: 3%

2% Marketing Wallet

Purchasing Wallet: 10%

Token FTWG

FTWG is a token based on Binance Smart Chain. It will be the precursor of the SOMNIUM ecosystem. With any trade a percentage will be devolved to our Foundation.

Tokenomic

Total Supply: 1000000000

Decimal: 9

Contract Address : 0xb75634793828e03b7ec4a3eccd856ce399a4fa5a

Token Distribution

Circulating Supply

Charity Wallet

Marketing Wallet

Developer Wallet

Important Information:

Website: https://feedtheworld.global/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/FTWGToken

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/FTWGToken

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/feedtheworldglobal/

Whitepaper: https://feedtheworld.global/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/FTWG-Whitepaper-ENG.pdf

Telegram: https://t.me/FeedTheWorldGlobalToken

Author: KHAN SHIQ QHEIL

Bitcointalk Profile: https://bitcointalk.org/index.php?action=profile;u=2550289

BSC Wallet Address: 0xCb8718048fecb50c2369BFD1EAD4B3686f42B86d