#hand-painted sinks from Mexico

[mexican-tile-store]

Used in proportions, this color duo brings a calm and soothing feel, however, if you, on the contrary, want to create a bold statement with your decorative tiles from Mexico, mixing types of tiles and patterns will help you achieve that. Just have a look at the picture above. This kitchen showcases a transition between a rustic and  Moroccan style where white and blue tile backsplash is the first area that draws our attention. The kitchen counters are also decorated with Mexican Talavera tiles in a solid, dark blue color. Even though the designer used just two colors, this kitchen does not feel dull or one-dimensional at all. Check our Web page for the broad collection of kitchen tile murals or Mexican tile in lots, or high relief tiles to complement your dream kitchen.

[darth-mortem]

Here is my new SoapGhost+AleRudy fic.

Ghost and Soap are on leave in Mexico, and on the last day, Alejandro gives Simon some advice that leads to an unexpected result. 1735 words.

The hot Mexican sun began to sink towards the sunset, painting the endless sky in hundreds of shades of red and orange. It was still light, but garlands of multi-colored lanterns were already lit above the tables and the bar outside. There was nothing but desert and hills around, but Ghost, who sat at the counter with Alejandro, knew that Monterey was somewhere to the south and the US border to the north. This complex was about halfway between them: an indoor restaurant, an outdoor bar with music to dance to, a truck stop, and a small motel. Truckers, bikers, and tourists traveling to Mexico by car, as well as smugglers and bandits stopped here for to rest. The the latter, however, were especially quiet today because Los Vaqueros, led by their commander, Colonel Alejandro Vargas, as well as two members of TF 141—Lieutenant Riley and Sergeant MacTavish—were resting here. 

You can keep reading here or on Ao3

“It’s good that you came to us on leave.” Alejandro said, taking his glass of whiskey.

“Yeah.” Ghost answered, smoking his cigarette. “Thank you for inviting us. And for this party.”

“It was Rudy’s idea.” The colonel smiled a little crookedly. “Like you, I’m not too fond of it all, but it doesn’t hurt for the boys to have a little fun.”

“Looks like they’re really having fun.” The lieutenant said, glancing at the dance floor.

Several Vaqueros crowded around Rudy and Johnny, who were dancing to some Mexican song. They were holding beer bottles and laughing merrily as they moved quickly and rhythmically, one opposite the other. Ghost involuntarily stared at how easy and casual Soap was dancing. The lieutenant didn’t know if Johnny learned it somewhere or if it was a natural ability, but it was impossible not to admire the way he moved his hips. Rodolfo, however, was no worse, and two sergeants seem to be having a dance battle to the whistles and cheers of the Vaqueros. If someone were to look at Riley and Vargas sitting behind the counter now, they couldn’t help but notice how identical their gazes were, directed at the dancers. They were full of tenderness, warmth, and love that were not characteristic of these tough and harsh warriors.

Alejandro twirled in his fingers the wedding ring that hung on a chain around his neck, along with his dog tags. Simon smiled quietly, shaking the glass in his hand in time with the music.

“Hey, Lt.!” Johnny turned and waved at Ghost, then went back to dancing.

Simon’s smile grew wider; then he suddenly sighed and sipped his whiskey. Alejandro looked at him with a slight frown and asked:

“What’s wrong, hermano*?”

Ghost didn’t answer immediately. He looked at Johnny and Rudy, sighed again, and reached into his jeans pocket, touching something that was lying there.

“I wanted to propose to him while on this leave.” He said it quietly. “But somehow there was no right moment, you know.”

The colonel raised his eyebrow in surprise, not imagining that Riley could be so indecisive. However, then he remembered how he hesitated himself, how he waited for the best moment, and how, as a result, everything turned out completely differently than he had planned. He began to talk about how any moment was right for soldiers like them because their lives were unpredictable and could end at any second. Ghost listened to him, but then the shouts and laughter from the side of the dance floor grew louder, and they both turned their gazes there again.

The music changed, and Soap, cheered by the delighted audience, jumped onto the table. Smoothly swaying his hips, he slowly took off his T-shirt and started twirling it over his head. Rodolfo stared at Johnny for a few seconds. Then he joined and started to move in time with Soap, undoing the buttons on his cowboy shirt.

Alejandro put down his glass and stood up, frowning. Ghost followed his example. They looked at each other and made a determined move to the dance floor to stop their partners, who had crossed all boundaries of decency. At least, the colonel thought that was what they were going for, but the lieutenant had other plans. He walked slowly, clutching the object in his pocket with his fingers, and meanwhile, Alejandro was already at the table, extending his hand to Rudy.

“Hey, cowboy,” he said, smiling, “why don’t you come with me?”

“So, Ale?” Fired up by the dance, Rodolfo, in his unbuttoned shirt, laughed merrily and took the colonel’s hand extended to him. “Do you have a stallion that I need to ride?”

The Vaqueros let out a restrained chuckle, enjoying the sight. Alejandro’s gaze became absolutely mad, and Rudy finally jumped off the table, holding onto his hand. Whispering something in the colonel’s ear, the Vaqueros sergeant dragged him to the motel to the applause of their soldiers. Ghost noticed the same chain with dog tags and a wedding ring as Alejandro’s around Rudy’s neck.

“And what aboot ye, Lt.?” Soap’s voice snapped Ghost out of his thoughts, and he looked at his sergeant, who continued. “Dae ye want a private dance tae?”

He smiled and tossed his T-shirt into Simon’s hands; the Vaqueros exchanged glances, anticipating the show to continue.

“Actually, I want something else.” Ghost said. “I want you to marry me, Johnny.”

There was silence after these words. Everyone held their breath, and Lieutenant Riley pulled out a wedding ring from his pocket and handed it to Sergeant MacTavish.

Johnny, half-naked and standing on the table, suddenly felt awkward. He had imagined this moment many times, but he was sure that Simon wasn’t ready for such a serious step. And so, it turned out that the lieutenant wasn’t just ready but also completely disregarded the situation and the audience.

“Is that... a proposal?” Soap asked quietly, and a blush covered his cheeks.

“Negative.” Ghost answered firmly. “It’s an order!”

“Well… So aye, sir!”

Johnny reached out, and Simon put the ring on his finger before lifting him off the table, grabbing him by the waist, and kissing him passionately to the whistles and cheers of the Vaqueros. 

The party continued, but without Ghost and Soap. They went to their room, which was next door to Alejandro and Rudy’s, to celebrate their engagement, just the two of them. They took a bottle of whiskey but didn’t even touch it; as soon as the door closed behind them, Johnny pressed his whole body against Simon, kissed him again, and pulled him into bed.

It was dawning when Soap finally fell asleep. Tired and happy, he lay naked with his arms and legs spread out so he occupied almost the entire wide double bed. Ghost could move him and lie down too, but instead he covered Johnny with a thin blanket and leaned down, kissing his temple. Then he pulled on his jeans and balaclava and left the room, clutching his cigarettes.

It was very quiet around: the music wasn’t playing, the bar and dance floor were empty. The dawn sun painted the sky a soft pink in the east, while it was still dark above the lieutenant’s head. He lit his cigarette, took a long drag with pleasure, and, unusually for him, a warm and joyful smile appeared on his lips.

Not so long ago, Ghost thought that he would never be able to feel happy again. The terrible trials that befell him didn’t let him go even in his sleep, and he learned to live with them until a ray of sunshine called Johnny MacTavish appeared in his gloomy life. His warmth and irresistible cheerfulness melted the ice that bound Lieutenant Riley’s wounded heart; now he could feel joy, smile, and love again.

The door’s creak and footsteps distracted Ghost from his thoughts. He tensed, but immediately relaxed again when Alejandro sat next to him on the stairs and also lit a cigarette.

“Can’t sleep?” The colonel asked.

“Yeah, something like that.” Ghost smirked, glancing at Alejandro slyly. “I followed your advice.”

“What advice?” Alejandro raised his eyebrow.

“I proposed to Johnny.” The lieutenant said. “Didn’t wait any longer. And he said ‘yes’.”

“You what?” The colonel stared at Ghost, forgetting about the cigarette in his fingers. “When?!”

Riley briefly told when and how everything happened, and Alejandro laughed. Then he stopped abruptly, looked at the lieutenant again, and shook his head.

“What?” Ghost asked. “You said that every moment is good for this, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but not this moment!” Alejandro exclaimed. “Not the moment when your boyfriend is dancing striptease on the fucking table! However, never mind. ‘m happy for you, hermano!”

“Thank you.” The lieutenant nodded and stood up. “See you later.”

Alejandro waved and lit another cigarette.

Ghost quietly returned to the room. It was hot here despite the open window, and Johnny managed to throw off the covers. Looking at him tenderly, the lieutenant took off his boots and jeans, adjusted his balaclava, and lay down. Soap didn’t wake up but stirred, clinging to Ghost and wrapping his arms and legs around him. It was even hotter that way, but Simon knew it was impossible to push Johnny away, and he didn’t really want to. Smiling, he kissed the sergeant’s sweaty temple through his balaclava and closed his eyes.

Rodolfo hadn’t been sleeping so soundly, so when Alejandro entered the room, he opened his eyes and lifted himself up on his elbows.

“Where have you been?” He asked, yawning.

“Smoked.” Alejandro answered and smiled. “I met Ghost and he told me that he proposed to Soap when we went away. Can you imagine it?”

Rudy opened his mouth, really trying to imagine, then laughed, shaking his head.

“I’d like to see how they’ll tell their children about it, if they ever have them.” He said it cheerfully and continued, trying to copy Sergeant MacTavish’s Scottish accent. “Well, yer dad proposed tae me while I was standing half-naked oan th’ table where I’d been dancing after drinking tequila ‘n’ beer.”

“That sounds terrible.” Alejandro laughed, taking off his clothes.

He lay down, hugging Rudy, who rested his head on the colonel’s shoulder, fingers fumbling for the wedding ring on the chain around his neck.

“Te amo mi corazón.**” Alejandro whispered. “Let’s get some sleep.”

Rodolfo smiled happily, closing his eyes, and they quickly fell asleep to rest before returning to their hard but much-needed work. 

*Hermano (Spanish) – brother

**Te amo mi corazón (Spanish) – I love you, my heart

[pricegouge]

WIP Wednesday for accountability purposes

Still plugging away at the slasher trucker!141 fic, now with a slight tonal shift from the last snippet I posted

CW for alcohol, smoking, drug use (not by reader but she does make jokes), and extremely brief description of animal harm

The bar sits back from the road down a small slope, as if nestled by the dusty landscape - a hidden chest of glittering incandescent and neon bulbs, oil slick from the assembled nearby trucks painting what remains of the crumbling tarmac aurora. They line the lot on either side, backed up until their trailers overhang the paved lot itself, carving footprints into the hard earth. Between the two lines, the valley of the lot funnels you toward the boisterous building, music and laughter spilling out its seems. 

You'd rolled up the windows when the sun set so you're not quite prepared for the chill that greets you as you step out of the car. You hug your flannel closer to yourself, making a slow turn as you assess the assembled cars. You've been to enough dive bars to know the real warning signs; the get the fuck out of dodge before you decide to try and fight a blooded Nazi kind of signs. Thankfully you don't see much here beyond standard watch your drink and don't let your bare ass touch the toilet seat kind of vibes so you resign yourself to a night of babysitting, coming around the nose of the car as you bring a cigarette to your lips.

Laura is giddy with excitement, dragging you along with her hands tucked through your elbow as she whispers excitedly about all the possibilities a dive bar off a forgotten county road in nowhere New Mexico might offer.

"Yeah? You gonna do some blow off the shuffleboard table by the end of the night?" You joke.

"And get sand in my nose? Please," Laura scoffs. "I'll do it off the sink like a normal person." 

You grin, holding the door open for her. "Go ahead and find us a spot, I'm gonna do my dirty deed," you wag the cigarette at her illustratively. 

"Yeah, yeah. Don't take too long or else all the lonely rednecks'll think I'm looking for company." 

"If you ask pretty they'll take you to the bathroom," you wink, flicking your nose. Laura just laughs as she steps through the door. You let it drop behind her, fishing your lighter from your pocket as you step toward the edge of the porch. There's a loud group on your left, smoking more than just tobacco by the smell of it. You don't mind, but neither do you want to partake, so you stay a good distance away, listening in as the loudest of the group tells an animated story about the time he hit a deer and it ran off with his headlight cover. He's not a great story teller, but the assembled group laughs loud enough to drown him out half the time so maybe your perception is skewed.

[mslizzybeth]

I lived in a tiny corner house for over 20 years. I lived with my mom,  dad, and 2 younger sisters. We had a cat and a dog. When they passed, we had another cat and another dog.

The two houses beside ours were rented multi-family style homes. We witnessed a parade of neighbors coming and going.We heard the arguments through open windows and doors. We watched many celebrations unfold–Birthdays, anniversaries, and cultural holidays.We met all the pets that lived on our block. As time passed, we watched the street get damaged. There were potholes and cracks everywhere.The street signs fell down from wear and tear. The sidewalks started to separate. Slowly the town came in to repave the street and replace the signs.

We spent all of our free time outside making the most of each season. In the spring, our laughter and shouts filled the air as we ran around, playing games like Cops and Robbers and chanting hand games – “Shame, Shame, Shame, I don’t wanna go to Mexico no more, more, more” To beat the heat in the summertime, We always hooked up the Slip 'N Slide. In the Fall, we were the only house on our street to decorate for Halloween. Complete with caution tape, fake blood and tombstones. We had the spookiest house on the block.. And by the time winter came around, we had snowball fights, built igloos, and even a few snowwomen to celebrate the season.

WHile we played, our parents started doing some DIY home renovations. We ripped up the old blue carpet because it was bad for my mom’s allergies. We changed the ugly tiles in the kitchen to something a little more modern. The walls got a fresh coat of paint making the space look clean and new. The bathroom, which had been falling apart with shower tiles dropping one by one, was updated with drywall and a new sink and toilet.

The doors in our bedrooms kept jamming so we removed the doorknobs. The front door started to give us trouble as well and we kept getting locked out. So we purchased a brand new beautiful door.  Over the years, we went through 10 phones, 5 mattresses, 4 couch sets,   3 microwaves,  2 refrigerators, all within 1 home.

Our house witnessed 3 proms, 3 high school graduations, and 3 first days of college. Our house was the setting for a whole bunch of sleepovers, fights, tears, and laughs. The house remained a witness to our past. Now, when we drive past that tiny corner house, we can't help but wonder about the new stories and experiences it continues to hold.

[peachetteprice]

Days of Old | John "Soap" MacTavish

Summary:

It's never easy to watch something drag the life out of a loved one's eyes.

Content Warnings: mentions of cancer (severe), mentions of chemotherapy and radiotherapy (severe), suggestions of depression/anxiety-like behaviours (moderate), sexually suggestive themes, angst...

Word Count: 1.4K

Johnny, who didn't explicitly cry, but who also did nothing whilst the tears wept down his cheeks as you stood behind him in the bathroom, electronic shaver in hand as you let fall strand after strand of his grand mohawk in preparation for his up-coming chemotherapy regime.

He was more sunken around the cheekbones, then, hollowed out to resemble someone much thinner, with much less overt brawn than the boyfriend whose muscle you'd always loved. He couldn't lift you over his shoulder anymore, and he groaned every time he stood up from the sofa, but he was still yours. He spent a little more time getting ready in the morning, hunched over the sink to brush his teeth and wash his head, and he often hadn't the energy to hop into the shower for a full-body soak, but Jesus if he didn't conserve every ounce of motivation to smarten himself up in a suit and tie for a simple date night in your flat.

If he did succumb to the fatigue whereby stepping into the shower felt like climbing a rock-face in the boondocks of Mexico, he'd lower himself into the bathtub and you'd dote on him, straddling his hips in the warm water, providing him with all of the pampering he deserved for as long as he liked (and collecting swathes of bubbles to make wizard-like beards and elaborate clown-hair on his chin and head, of course).

And when he first openly sobbed at himself in the kitchen, looking at you with a forlorn expression, like a broken man, as he explained, most devastatingly, that he couldn't open the bleedin' jar of mayonnaise to make himself a chicken sandwich, you took that sucker with pride and bashed the plastic end of a knife into the rim to loosen the seal before - pop - it opened, and you joked that he was finally joining the club of people with exceptionally weak wrists, which he managed a laugh at.

On days when he had to visit Glasgow Royal Infirmary, he was undoubtedly nervous.

Always had been, apparently.

Used to entertain himself with a Hot Wheels toy car and roll it along the paint lines on the wall in the children's ward like it was his own personal racetrack. Treated the hospital like it was a playground just for him, like he did most things as a child. Maeve, his eldest sister, told you that. A sweetheart, she was. Compiled a care basket for him when he went for his first round of chemo, for which his other three sisters pitched in to give him a bountiful supply of Terry's chocolate oranges - his biggest guilty pleasure - what could only be described as a lifetime supply of cheesy rom-coms and hard action movie DVDs - his second biggest guilty pleasure - and a heartfelt card that said 'get better soon or I'll take your job with those hunking men', scrawled by his youngest sister, Elsie.

Keep him laughing, she whispered to you as they handed him the hamper. It's no good for a smile like his to be wasted.

So, if there was ever an opportunity to do something silly, you would do it. Like the time in January when the surrounding schools shut due to heavy snow and you, along with every parent and child, drove to the nearest park to showcase how brilliant - meaning pathetic - you were at walking on frozen ice, following which you ended up in A&E with a sprained ankle, which was entirely worth the pain, if only to watch that cheeky grin flourish on his face when you wallopped into the frost.

Or the time when you'd 'accidentally' negated to put the timer on the oven, to come back to burnt Cumberland sausages that had him sat on the floor in the doorway, creasing with laughter until his belly ached as you tapped onto the counter what was, by that point, nothing more than a stick of carbon that, when you cut into it, was pure charcoal.

Or even when, in waiting for the radiologist to step back into his office, you became ardently inquisitive toward one of the decorations on the wall above his computer. It was a thick wooden frame of numerous compiled family portraits, and, after noticing a cute cat on the brick wall within one of the photos that begged to be pointed at - in one embarrassing moment - the covering of the photo fell, sending, what Johnny described as 'the Louvre' amounts of broken glass over the entire length of the man's desk.

Johnny had never howled so loudly before, having to nuzzle his face into your neck to maintain some level of composure as, with the most befuddled expression, the radiologist re-entered the room as you explained that the unknown cat in his family photograph - which, in a surprising turn of events that sent Johnny into madness, was not even his cat - caused you to leave his office a crime scene.

"He's gonnae hate ye for that, lass." Johnny creened into your ear as the radiologist stepped out to grab a few papers from the printer. "Bet he's thinkin' about a dozen ways to tack that on the end of a non-deductable."

It was difficult to stay poised as Johnny's giggles emanated through the office. If anything, they would have thought you were one with kidney cancer with the scowl you had to keep on your face to stop from bursting.

When the radiologist did return and swept some of the broken glass from his desk, he leant over his knees to present a wad of paper. And, through a rambling conversation of terminology that definitely went over Johnny's head - and yours, but you nodded like you understood everything - he ended his monologue with the rather unporovoked, ecstasy-inducing fact that Johnny's cancer was... gone?

And then neither of you spoke.

And the radiologist panicked and asked if you'd heard him; if you'd understood what he meant by all that he said, and it was only at that point when you lost the scowl, and all previous emotion came to boiling point, bubbling beneath your skin, bursting its banks into such a wide smile that you thought your cheeks might have ripped at the seams.

"Gone?" You quieried. "As in..."

"Well, yes." He stammered. "For now, it seems that the cancer has gone, but, like we say to every patient, it will be a period of five years with intermittent check-ups to see whether the cancer has fully disappeared..."

You turned to Johnny. The look on his face was indescribable. But if you did your best to, it was a mixture of stupifying disbelief, unfathomable alleviation, and ineffable glee.

He could barely speak.

"I - does that - so - are - is it--"

It took him five minutes of stuttering just to get a simple question out.

And after all had been said, discussed, reasoned, and fortified, it was time to leave the hospital, not to return for weeks until another check-up; no more chemo, no more radio - a journey in which, for the first time in a long time, Johnny was giddy all the home.

You could see it in his gorgeous blues. They no longer dove across the passing scenery like he was searching to place his gaze on something better, something that might take the misery from inside his mind, but that he could never locate. When he looked at you and caught your thigh with his palm, it was not just a place for him to rest. It was him, coming home, like he had done when he was exhausted from a mission back in the field, scouring for the one person who made him feel grounded; tangible:

You.

And in the evening, after gorging himself on the largest pepperoni pizza you'd ever seen, belly plump with food, he simply let you crawl over him, pressing much-needed kisses over every inch of his naked body, squeezing him tight whenever the dread of losing him swept in again, tighter than you'd ever hugged him because you'd been scared to hug him tight before, but now had no reason not to. You wanted - no, needed - him to know that he would never have to be afraid of the fear of losing you, of losing himself, because the nightmare that plagued him would never pull him back, that was fact, and you would never let it take him away from you again, like it had before, even if it meant wrenching his cold body from your bare hands.

| Masterlist |

[amitapaul]

15/8

8/4/24

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#24GloPoWriMo

Prompt Dated : 2024 April 8

Response No : 1

Poem No: 15

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Prompt : Write a poem that centers around an encounter or relationship between two people (or things) that shouldn’t really have ever met – whether due to time, space, age, the differences in their nature, or for any other reason.

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Featured Poem :

Today, we have two featured participants: (1) Behind Door Number 3 and Orangepeel, where you’ll find very differnt, but compelling, takes on Day 7’s postcard prompt.

1

Behind Door No 3

Postcard, unwritten.

The sound of his laughter,

as slick as watermelon seeds,

tastes like the feeling of

bare feet running through

a sprinkler made rainbow

hovering above the thick

scent of a shaded, mown lawn.

There is a wicker porch chair

proposing a seamless, wide-angle

view of this scene; its empty

cushions missing the welcomed

weight of your presence, and

the posture of all the stories

you would have told.

2.

Orangepeel

Postcard to the Ex

There's a bear in the back yard

and piranhas in the kitchen sink.

The kids are dressing like clowns

and the bank took back the TV.

The car lost a wheel and a door.

Someone painted our windows black.

Your favorite chair caught fire,

and last night during the storm,

a huge tree limb crashed

through the bedroom ceiling

and onto your side of the bed.

Wish you were here.

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Poetry Resource :

Our featured resource today is this animated video of a talk given by the poet Jane Hirshfield on the art of the metaphor.

The Elephant in the Room, Still waters run deep.

Fog

The fog comes

on little cat feet.

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.

Carl Sandburg

****

Mother to Son

BY LANGSTON HUGHES

Well, son, I’ll tell you:

Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

It’s had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor—

Bare.

But all the time

I’se been a-climbin’ on,

And reachin’ landin’s,

And turnin’ corners,

And sometimes goin’ in the dark

Where there ain’t been no light.

So boy, don’t you turn back.

Don’t you set down on the steps

’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.

Don’t you fall now—

For I’se still goin’, honey,

I’se still climbin’,

And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

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Prompt : Today, we challenge you to write a poem that centers around an encounter or relationship between two people (or things) that shouldn’t really have ever met – whether due to time, space, age, the differences in their nature, or for any other reason.

Our ( optional) prompt for the day takes its inspiration from Laura Foley’s poem “Year End.”

Year End

I want to bury him

though I doubt it's appropriate

for a butterfly.

Perhaps I'll climb the icy hill,

trudge through woods and slippery snow,

to place him as close as I can to sky,

in the field he would have floated over,

on his way to Mexico,

if October hadn't been too cold for flight.

The orange-and-black-winged beauty

thrived, in his screened-in cage,

lit with purple happy lights,

and fed every day by hand,

his proboscis dipped in honey water,

until, on Christmas day,

he birthed three sacs of sperm,

a rare gift for me these days.

Finding no mate,

he folded his wings and died,

face pressed into the New Year's daisy

I gave him, as a human lover might.

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Poem Title : Lost in Sugga Falls

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We sat on the warm wet rocks of the graded gentle Sugga Falls

Named after the fabled Parrot of the legend of lovers

An Australian priest sang about in the unfamiliar language of the Munda tribe

With brushwood and ferns and mosses filling in the gaps

Left by the teak, sal, arjun, aasan, mahua, semal, palaash trees

For the sands of the Koel river and her husband explained

To the doctor couple from Delhi the healthcare needs

Of the local population. Trout leaped in the sunlit stream and I thought

One could not be closer to heaven, so I asked her

How long she would stay and she replied

“ I miss the bright lights and the malls.

I’m leaving next week. How soon do you think my husband’s deputation papers will come through ? “

Blind, blind, blind. And thus lost around us everyday.

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Poet : Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia

Poem 15/8th Day

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[rusticahouse]

Complementing the rustic charm of terracotta sinks are Mexican Talavera tiles, renowned for their vibrant colors and intricate patterns. Originating from the city of Puebla, Mexico, Talavera tiles are meticulously hand-painted using techniques that have been passed down through generations of artisans. Each tile tells a story of tradition and heritage, adding depth and character to any surface they adorn. In the context of bathroom design, hand-painted Talavera tiles serve as the perfect backdrop for terracotta sinks, creating a visually captivating ensemble that celebrates the beauty of handmade craftsmanship. Whether used as a backsplash, accent wall, or flooring, these tiles infuse the space with a lively energy and a sense of cultural richness. To achieve a harmonious aesthetic in your bathroom, consider selecting Mexican Talavera tiles that complement the natural hues of terracotta sinks. Opt for patterns and colors that echo the warmth of the clay, such as earthy browns, deep blues, and vibrant yellows. By creating visual synergy between the sink and the surrounding tiles, you can achieve a cohesive look that exudes elegance and sophistication. In addition to enhancing the aesthetic appeal of your bathroom, incorporating handmade terracotta sinks and ceramic, Mexican tiles also allows you to support traditional artisans and sustainable practices. Each piece is crafted with care and attention to detail, ensuring that your bathroom becomes a showcase of artistry and authenticity.

[kandadiff]

Taste of Venom : The Devil in Disguise

~

Ed and Draven sat in Makayla’s art room, paintings or sketches covered the three of the walls, the last wall was all windows that looked out to the expansive backyard. Rio was watching Renee just below them, helping her fill up water balloons in an attempt to beat the hot summer heat.

Since hearing of my dream, Edward couldn’t get it or you out of his head. He refused to believe you died. No, you were lost. Lost at sea, or lost in another country but you'd come back to him...eventually. But when I had my dream, he felt his heart stop. He heard some whispering about me from the maids in the mansion or some throwaway comments from Negan or Simon about my connection with witchcraft and the odd dreams I had. He finally asked Draven about the dreams and he felt his heart sink when she told him, those dreams come true. He tried to ignore it but the tugging in his mind refused and Negan would let anyone talk to me and he didn't really want to tell Draven. Her questions were enough to start to question him and when he wouldn't answer she followed him to Makayla. Who else was as connected to possible witchcraft then Makayla? Draven insisted she go with him - to keep him from doing anything stupid and he was grateful for that. He could handle gangs and killers but possible black magic - he was scared.

"What about her dreams?" Ed asked looking down at his hands. His anxiety was at an all-time high.

“Her dreams don’t always come true.” Makayla admitted looking at her niece running and laughing in the lush green grass. Ed relaxed slightly.

“But you saw it too.” Ed said pulling out a cigarette. He offered one to Draven, she accepted and then one to Makayla. She shook her head. “Shit, can I smoke in here?” She nodded going to open the window. She handed them both a lighter once they puffed a few clouds she spoke.

“I did- but that’s doesn’t mean anything.” Makayla shrugged. "I dream a lot. It could be symbolic for all I know."

There was a few moments of silence until Ed asked. “What about the witch women?”

“No," Makayla quickly shook her head, clearly it was a sore spot. "I don’t go to them.”

“Why?” Draven cocked an eyebrow. “Who are they?"

“They do Voodoo but they practice It’s black magic. Blood magic. Its a family in... brightmoore. The grandmother did the ritual the only time I went there.” Makayla said candidly. “She only brought me there once when she was trying to find Harley but” she shook her head. “They took us to the basement, burned these herbs that are supposed to weaken the barrier between us and the other side. They were chanting and saying prayers in French or Latin. I’m not sure. Then they gave her some bloody thing from an animal and asked her to eat it.”

“What?” Draven grimaced and Ed recoiled a bit. Makayla nodded.

“It looked like a mash of brains or something." She ran her hands through her hair. "I couldn't eat it. It was-" she made a face. They had me stand to the side and beat on a drum. "They chanted over it and when she ate it, they cut her palm open and poured it in a cup. I wasn’t sure what else they put in it but she passed out - I was freaking out but the granddaughter, Tatianna, she calmed me down. After about an hour, Kay woke up but her eyes were red - like bloodshot and her skin really pale. She looked really sick but she said she saw her mother. A couple of days later she went down to Mexico and found her.”

“Damn.” Draven said recalling the memory of me coming home with Makayla holding me up. I had claimed I had gotten food poisoning but the way Makayla acted always threw her off. “I remember that.”

“Yeah.” Makayla nodded holding her arms close to her. “After that her dreams became more frequent.”

“She saw her mother?” Ed asked leaning forward. “How?” Makayla shrugged. Could that work for him?

“It’s real dark. I felt so sick and nauseous plus they don’t tell you anything- it’s scary and I asked her not to do it again." She twisted her bracelets on her wrists. "You don’t understand how close to death she looked.” She shivered “I brought her back to the house hours later. I was so scared she was going to die, she passed out in the car three times I almost took her to the hospital but everytime I tried - she woke up and told me not too.“ she sighed and picked fuzz off her skirt. “Why? Did she do it again?”

Before Draven could answer Edward interrupted her. “Yeah, and Negan is pissed. He needs someone to answer for it. I figure if we know who did it maybe they could help her.”

“Oh jeez.” Makayla shifted running her hand through her hair. “How bad is it?”

“She’s been locked in her room for a couple of days now.” Draven said eyeing Edward before putting in a performance for Makayla. She’d question Ed about it in the car. “It’s a long shot but we figure if anyone knows. It would be you.” Makayla sighed deep in thought.

“Just an address, Mick” Ed said softly “they won’t know you said anything. No one will.”

Makayla sighed and took a nearby pencil and paper from her sketch pad, scribbling down an address about 35 minutes away. "Her name is Marie Prudence. I'm pretty sure this is her address but if not, ask about her... everyone there knows her."

~

They found Marie fairly quickly, pulling up to the white dilapidated house. "What do you plan on gaining here?" Draven asked grabbed Ed before he could get out of the car. "Whats the plan?"

"You didn't have to come, Dre." He said looking at the house.

"I want to know what the plan is?" Draven said and Ed smiled at her shrugging. She rolled her eyes and they both got out from the car making their way to the door.

~

At first Ed, didn't believe Marie or her family. The old woman took a liking to Draven instantly whispering something to her about a deceased boyfriend wanting to talk with her. He wanted to say it was fake, until Marie told Draven 'he wants you to know, that he loves that you're still wearing the bracelet he gave you.' Now, she had a meeting to explore this further with Marie. When Edward privately brought up his inquiry to Marie, she refused.

"Why?" He asked but the old woman shook her head.

"No! I cannot find her!" She shook her head.

"Please - I can't." he ran his hands through his long hair, clearly stressed out. "I don't have anyone else to help-"

"I'm sorry boy but" The old woman shook her head, waving her long finger in his face. "- the energy around is too dark. I cannot help you and I suggest you stay away from it for your own good." They were rushed out shortly after that. Draven rushed to the car to make a phone call, leaving Edward walking towards the car deep in thought puffing on a cigarette.

"Wait!" A voice caught his attention and he turned around. He noticed the girl in the house just moments before. Marie introduced her as Tatianna, her granddaughter and while she stayed mostly quiet throughout their interactions he knew she was listening carefully. "I can help you." Edward cocked an eyebrow looking her over. "My grandmother might not want to do it but I can."

Ed snorted. "You can do it, but she can't?"

"My grandmother is good at what she does but she doesn't like to go out of her comfort zone. I can."

"You can help me find someone?" Ed asked and she nodded, the gold jewelry she was wearing jingled as she moved. "When?"

"I can do it tonight." She said and Ed nodded. "Not here." she handed him a piece of paper with an address written hastily on it. "Bring something that you have of the person you want to find, a piece of silver and $20,000."

"$20,000?!" Edward said making a face.

Tatianna chuckled "Yeah, I don't do this for free." He looked down at the address and nodded. "Meet me there at 11 remember to bring it all and don't have plans for tomorrow. You won't make it."

~ ~ ~ ~

"Just relax." Tatianna whispered to Ed, running her fingers over his bare chest. The crimson liquid cold on his skin as he tried to relax. He shivered under he touch or maybe it was the fact he was nude, save for a silk red blanket strewn over his waist. Fae, a blonde with massive lip filler, Tatianna introduced as her girl carefully poured salt around him in a circle. "I need you to pay attention to me." Tatianna said, Ed turning his attention to her. "Keep yourself inside the circle. Do not leave it! No matter what." She stuffed the watch you gave him just a few months before you went missing. "If someone asks for it, do not give it to them. Give me your hand." He obeyed and she took out her blade, slicing into his palm. He hissed but squeezed his fist the blood dripping into a cup swirling with black liquid. "Ready?" Edward sucked in a breath, nervousness filling his body, but nodded. She pressed the cups to his lips and he took a gulp of the sour liquid. Fae laughed at his face and Tatianna smirked. Both woman took a drink of the liquid and started to undress. Edward stared up at the ceiling, you being the only girl on the forefront of his mind.

"I'm done." Fae said and Tatianna stood up. They stepped away and Edward looked around him. Candles smoked all around him, in the shape of a star. Tatianna handed face the cup and placed on a black hood with two cuts in it for her eyes, Fae did the same, the only clothing on their naked bodies. Edward looked up at the ceiling breathing out carefully as the girls began to chant around him.

He closed his eyes trying to steady his anxiety. The symbols on his body started to heat and the candles around him flickered wildly. He gasped feeling the heat of the candle intensify and he felt the flame start to lick at his body. The symbol on his chest burned and he grunted in pain, his muscles tightening as his eyes shot open. He turned toward the side, no longer seeing the girls, but hearing their soft chanting - no longer seeing anything. Just the yellow flames of the candles around him. They pricked and nipped at his skin and he yelped felling the intense heat of the symbol burning into his flesh. He screamed the pain making his hands shake and he looked down at the white circle around him, forcing himself to remember Tatiannas warning not to cross it. No matter what.

The candles blew out, instantly freezing the room. He let out a breath, seeing the white of his breath in the darkness. He no longer heard the girls and called out to them. "Tatianna?" He waited for a few moments. "Fae?" Suddenly the candles re-lit but the heat did not return with the light. Instead, Edward felt his heart pounding in his ears as he saw he was now a room alone. it wasn't the same room, well it was decorated the same but the walls were different. Stone paved the walls and floor and it smelled of fire and brimstone, a movement on the wall caught his eye.

A crucifix, Fae had placed on the wall slowly turned clockwise until it was upside down and he looked around quickly feeling like someone was watching him. He quickly stood up looking around at he room, shadows dancing along the walls from the flickering candle flames.

"Edward." He quickly turned around hearing the love of his life's voice. "Eddie!"

"Adi?!" He called out looking all around him. "Adi? Where are you?!" He heard the desperate strain in his voice.

"I'm here, Eddie." She called out to him. It echoed around him and he spotted her by the door. His voice caught in his throat and he felt tears sting his eyes seeing her. She smiled at him and slowly walked toward him stopping just a few feet from the circle of salt. She held out her arms for a hug. He stepped forward until the front of his food crunched the salt and he stepped back, Tatianna's words echoing in his head. Don't step out the circle, no matter what. She pouted. "Don't you miss me, Edward?"

"More than anything." his breath was shaky. The lump in his throat making it hard to breathe and speak. "Where are you, mama?" He blinked back the tears. "Where can I find you?" She shrugged sitting on a chair. Ed frowned trying to reach out for her but she was too far. "Adi! Please tell me!

"You can't find me." She stated simply shrugging as though it were some big joke. "Now, come sit with me." She patted the spot next to her.

"No!" He shouted frustrated. "No! I need to find you!"

"Why?" she walked over to him stopping just outside the circle. "You want to save me? You wouldn't save me before I disappeared. What makes you think you can save me now?"

"I can. I will! I promise you!" He said reaching out for her but she dodged his grasp, giggling.

"How?"

"Tell me where you are! I'll find you! I can! I'll take the jet or a boat or anything! I'll do anything to find you just tell me where the fuck you are!" He shouted and she looked at him with wide eyes and suddenly turned towards the door.

"I hope you mean that." she said sadly and moved towards the door. He saw her bow to someone and heard the deep footsteps. The candles went out again but the footsteps neared him. Heavy but calm stomps, not rushing to him walking with an eerie confidence. The room temperature went from ice cold to boiling hot. Sweat forming on his brow. The drops beading down his body while he waited in wide eyed anticipation. He felt the presence just in front of him. It wasn't playful or familiar like hers was. This was cold, foreign and frightening.

The candles flickered on and Edward jumped back. Standing before him was a man. He was distinguished, with dark black hair and blue yes so bright they priced right into his soul. He was tall, taller then Edward and stood in a casual black suit. His aura reeked of power so grand it was suffocating. For a moment they stood in silence.

"Who are you?" Edward asked, breathing heavily. The air around him was oppressing, as though someone was sitting on his chest. "Why are you here?"

"You called, I came." He said simply, his eyes not leaving Edwards and no matter how much he wanted to he couldn't look away.

"Who are you?" Ed asked.

"You know who I am." He pointed at the symbol painted on Edwards chest. "That is my symbol." He glanced back at the door. "Did you like my surprise to you?" Ed saw her again, peeking out from the door. Ed felt his heart sink.

"Do you have her?" He growled and Lucifer looked at him with a smirk.

"You'll be happy to hear, young Arianna, is not here. not with me."

He breath a sigh of relief. "Wait! Do you know where she is?"

"Yes."

Edward paused for him to continue but when he didn't he asked. "Where? What happened to her?"

"She was lost in the ocean." Edward let out a shaky breath, his head swirling and he stumbled back. "But someone found her and helped her."

"Where is she now?!"

"You told her your willing to do anything to find her." he smirked "Is that true?" Edward stared up at him, hearing his heartbeat in his ears. The tension hung in the air while Edward debated on how to react.

"Yes."

The man smiled and stepped back, He put out his hand. "I can help you find her. I can make you strong enough to do it yourself. I can give you things others don't have. To permanently keep her safe. With you."

"What do you want?" He asked carefully.

"Your loyalty and your servitude."

"I can't-"

Lucifer shrugged "I understand. Its not for everyone." he looked around calling her over. She stepped next to him, Edwards heart aching deeply as he saw her. "Say goodbye, sweetheart. This might be the last time he sees you."

Edward reached for her but Lucifer shook his head, taking her by her shoulder and walking towards the door. "Wait!"

~

The room swirled in a thick smoke, black enough for the girls to choke on their words, coughing on the heavy smoke. In a panic, Fae ran to the window throwing it open, the smoke pouring out of the room and into the night sky. She pulled off her black hood seeing Tatianna was on the floor, bent over coughing her lungs out. Fae quickly tore the girls hood off her head gasping when she saw the blood leaking out of her eyes, nose and mouth. "Tati!"

Tatianna looked with wide eyes at her girlfriend, gripping her hand tightly. Then her eyes moved towards the circle Edwards body was in. His eyes were closed and the symbols on his skin still perfectly painted on him. She sighed in relief and smiled at Fae. That was until she heard the sickening sound of sizzling coming from the mans body.

The circle of salt once connected into a perfect circle, was dusted away in one spot and in an instant. Edwards body sparked and ignited in a blue fire, his body peeling away in ash. Fae screamed and Tatianna rushed to the sat attempting to quickly fill the circle that was until as soon as she touched it - her and face went flying into the wall. Both hitting there head hard and blacking out.

~

[inkandalchemy]

Set you on fire Save your bottle rocket. I could set you on fire with my eyes, start the smoldering using the heat that rolled in with the clouds this morning spitting sparks into the hollow valley and burning brush from these blackened arroyos. Secrets must be told closed-mouthed. Whispered, drawn out long and slow like holding plums in your mouth and sucking them dry. I don’t fear abandonment but I do fear apathy and chill. I worry about admiration that ends in organized disappointment. I want a love that gathers itself in flames and burns itself to the ground every night as the moon rises and calls our names. Hands thick with paint, songs on my lips and a swing in my hips, I lose myself again, turning myself inside out again, just to feel something that isn’t there. Lying to myself so as not to break my own heart. I fear my own low expectations and growing old too fast, losing the wild side while time spins softly on a Saturday morning. Pen strokes paper, paintbrushes sunbathe in the sink, and the desert light drapes itself into a curtain across neat rows of beans and kale. I wish for harvest. I wish for lightning. Remember how I took your hand and led you to my room, to that sweetness of candle and sigh? I’m sure of who I am and who am not. Beautiful and strong. I speak the truth to myself, no matter how hard. I am nurturing and soft. I get shit done. I can’t promise the world but I can promise that you will never be bored. #poetry #isaidit #downwithmediocrity (at Albuquerque, New Mexico) https://www.instagram.com/p/CnPYRAnuILt/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[novaiya]

Diamonds and Rust - Arthur x Reader (NSFW)

Summary: It’s been six years since you left it all behind; the Van Der Linde gang, the outlaw life and Arthur Morgan. Since then you’ve gone straight, becoming a rancher and a wife. What will happen to all of it when Arthur comes bursting back into your life, bringing with him all the feelings and desires the two of you once shared?

Words: 3,274

Warnings: smut, female reader, pregnancy.

A/N: I’m very, very proud of this fic and I really hope you guys like it as much as I do. I wrote the entire thing in basically one sitting (blame it on excitement and inspiration). The idea came to me after listening to Joan Baez’s song Diamonds and Rust (and that is of course where the title comes from). Give it a listen, it’s a beautiful song! If you prefer, you can read it on AO3 here.

Well, I'll be damned, here comes your ghost again - Diamonds and Rust

You knew he was around as soon as you heard about a big group of people, men, women and children, passing on wagons through your town. The shopkeeper in the general store said that the group looked like bad news, the look with which they eyed everything and everyone belonging only to people who were running from something. On another day, you were at the train station, posting a letter, when you heard one of the postal workers say the name “Tacitus Kilgore” while rummaging through a bin. That sealed the deal for you, and you knew it wouldn’t be long before he found you.

For the next few days you couldn't do anything but wait, expecting him to barge back into your life at any moment. Your husband noticed your absent-mindness, and tried to inquire, but you waved him away, blaming your mood on overworking.

Your husband didn’t know your past. You told him that you ran away from home when a group of outlaws attacked your house, killing your parents and stealing anything worth selling. That wasn’t entirely a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. What you omitted to mention was that later when you had nowhere to go, another group of outlaws found you, took you in and became your new family. You spent the next few years with them, moving from place to place, robbing, killing, and stealing. It was there that you fell in love for the first time.

Shortly after you joined the gang, you and Arthur became a great team, and later on, a strong couple. As the time went on though, you realized that you couldn’t live on the run forever; you wanted a family, a stable life, a house with a kitchen and a bath. You shared your feelings with Arthur, and he promised you that everything would change, that the two of you would run away, to Mexico, or maybe California, and start a new life. The new life was always at the end of “one last score,” which never seemed to come.

After yet another similar conversation, you realized that if you didn’t leave at that moment, you never would. The moonlight casted its light on Arthur’s sleeping face as you looked at him one last time, burning the image of him into your memory. Without turning back, you mounted your horse and left.

Although seeming asleep, Arthur was awake the entire time. He felt you leave the cot, stand next to it for a few minutes and then leave. He heard the hoofbeats in the quiet night, becoming softer and softer until they completely disappeared. He wanted to go after you, bring you back, but he realized it would be selfish. What you wanted, what you deserved, he couldn’t give.

.

It's been a week since you heard the name “Tacitus Kilgore” in the post office,   and Arthur still hasn't shown. You let yourself relax, thinking that maybe it wasn’t him in the first place, or maybe he has forgotten about you. It’s been six years after all.

Few days later, your husband had to go take care of his mother couple of towns over. He asked if you wanted to go with him, but you declined; someone had to stay and take care of the ranch, protect it from cattle rustlers and wild animals.

You helped him load up the wagon, making sure to pack extra clothes and food for the trip. You kissed him, the kiss being longer than what was necessary for a trip that would probably take only three days at most.

The wagon disappeared in the tall trees as you stood at the entrance of your ranch, waving your hand until there was no one to wave to. The cold, fresh morning air filled your lungs as you took a big gulp of it. You turned on your heels, heading back inside and preparing for a day of work.

Your day was mostly spent tending to the cattle and cleaning up. When the sun started to set, painting the sky a mix of purple and red, you went into the main house and prepared dinner. You pushed the food around on the plate. The suffocating emptiness of the house made you once again think about expanding your family. The time was perfect; the ranch was making money and the house was the right size with two extra rooms sitting unoccupied and being used for storage. But, it seemed that it wasn’t for you to decide; you and your husband have been trying for months now, yet nothing was happening.

Trying to muffle the thoughts in your head, you got up from the table and took your plate to the sink, leaving it there to be cleaned tomorrow.

.

The cotton nightgown felt cool on your skin as you changed into it. The oil lamp on your bedside table was just bright enough to illuminate the clock on the wall, indicating that it was far past your bedtime, and if you wanted to get anything done tomorrow, you should go to bed right away. You sighted, getting ready to go under the covers when you heard a knock on the front door, as sudden as thunder on a sunny day. You froze, your body trying to decide whether to fight or flee. You carefully left your bedroom, mentally cursing when the floorboard creaked under your feet as you inched closer to the front door. Another knock came. Your eyes flew to the shotgun by the door. Your breath came out shaky as you were preparing to grab it, open the door and shoot straight through whoever it was.

And then you heard it, his voice saying your name. You felt like you were drenched in cold water, six years worth of bottled up emotions and feelings flooding straight through you. Without thinking, you opened the door, meeting face to face with his blue eyes.

"Arthur."

.

The only thing illuminating the living room and the two of you was the fire from the fireplace. You could feel the heat from it kissing your bare arms. You went into the kitchen, bringing back one shot glass and a bottle of whiskey. You poured a glass for Arthur, placed the bottle on the table, and sat down on the couch next to him.

He downed it in one go before silence fell over, nothing but the occasional sound of wind howling outside.

"Beautiful ranch you got."

"Thank you," you said, keeping your answer short and not looking at him.

You could feel the weight of his stare on you; it’s been six years since he last saw you. You've changed so much, and at the same time, haven't changed at all. You still kept your hair the same length, still had the same longing gaze in your eyes, yearning for more in life. He saw that you still had a scar on your hand, the one you got when an O'Driscoll pierced it with his knife. Arthur said it would fade with time when he was bandaging it. Looking at it now, he realized that things don’t fade away so easily.

His eyes lingered on your hand for a moment, noticing a ring on your finger, the gold band shining brightly in the dimly lit room, taunting him.

"So, you got married?" he said, his voice laced with venom as he spoke the last word.

"I have," you replied, casting your eyes down to the golden band. "Couldn't wait for you forever." Your words pierced right through him, leaving yet another wound he would need to tend to later. For the past six years, he held a naive, wishful hope that when the time would come, you’d be there, waiting for him. The idea, as absurd and foolish as it was, kept him hopeful for the past six years.

"What's his name?"

"Don't," you said, turning around to Arthur for the first time since you sat down. "Don't do this."

The two of you fell silent once again, and you used that moment to look over Arthur. You could see the traces of the person you loved six years ago; he still had the same scars scattered across his face. His eyes, although sadder now, still had the same color to them. His arms, the ones that held you on many nights, still had the same muscular shape.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, catching your eyes. "It was my fault the things ended up the way they did."

You didn’t say anything, casting your eyes downwards, so he continued.

“I was awake, you know, the night you left.”

You gulped down, the memories of your departure from the camp filling your mind.

“I should’ve never let you go.”

"I should’ve never left." The words left your mouth before you could process them. You have promised yourself to never vocalize these thoughts, the thoughts that a part of you that never left him, that have been longing for him for the past six years, felt.

The atmosphere in the air shifted. You could feel the change in Arthur's eyes and his demeanor. He reached out and took your hands in his, running his thumb over your knuckles and your golden band. His other hand reached up to you, cradling your head and bringing the two of you closer. You could feel his breath on your lips, smelling of the whiskey you poured him a few minutes ago. Your mind was on fire. For a moment, you felt that you were six years in the past, sitting on a bed in a crummy hotel room in some beatdown town. The law was on your tail, but you didn't care. Nothing mattered when you were with Arthur.

He pressed his lips against yours and in an instant, you forgot where you were. Your hands moved on their own, reaching and waving your fingers into his hair, deepening the kiss. He groaned against your mouth, his hand leaving yours and moving up the curve of your body, over your hips and your waist, stopping around your chest. You felt him palm you over your chemise, and for a second, you felt your mind clear. The guilt came in flooding. You felt his tongue lick over your bottom lip and you winced, breaking the kiss and trying to get away from him, pushing yourself deeper into the couch.

"I can't do this," you said, more to yourself than to Arthur.

You felt his hand on your knee, hot against the cool skin. You wanted to move, wanted to slap his hand away, but you didn't. His hand inched higher up your leg, reaching the end of your chemise.

Arthur looked at you, his hand still on your thigh. "You tell me to stop and I will. I will leave and never bother you again."

You hesitated for a moment, battling with yourself till you finally said, “Stay.”

.

He covered your body with his, pinning you against the couch. His lips moved against yours in a dance that the two of you knew well, having rehearsed it for years and years before. One of his hands was back on your thigh, massaging the skin as he moved dangerously close to your heat. You felt his fingers run over your clothed slit, pressing against your clit and making you push your hips towards him.

His lips left your mouth, moving to your neck, kissing down your throat and to the crook of your neck. You could feel yourself getting wet as he kept kissing you all over, his fingers drawing lazy circles over your clothed clit. He removed himself from you and pulled off his suspenders. You sat up, your fingers reaching out and working on the buttons of his shirt before throwing it on the floor. You ran your hand up his body, through his chest hair and stopping over his heart. You could feel it beat wildly against his rib cage.

You felt hazy as he kissed you once again. In a minute, your chemise was on the floor, joining his shirt in a pile and leaving your top half naked to him. He laid you back down on the couch, sitting on his hinges between your spread legs. He made sure to burn this moment in his memory, the image of you spread under him for what was probably the last time.

He pulled your drawers down, revealing you completely to himself. You felt like you should cover yourself, not let a man that wasn't your husband see you like this, but this wasn't just another man, it was Arthur. Being like this with him felt natural.

He paved his way down your stomach with kisses, finally reaching your glistering cunt. The first touch of his tongue against your slit made you moan, and you instinctively reached out with your hand, waving your fingers into Arthur's hair. He kept going, lapping at you and pushing all the buttons he knew would have you coming apart in minutes. You threw your head back, moaning his name when you feel him push a finger in you, his tongue turning its attention to your clit. You could feel your release approaching when he added a second finger, picking up the pace. The movements of his fingers were deliberate, working in tandem with his tongue. You started to move your hips in time with his fingers, your body giving in to your carnal desires.

Your toes curled and your whole body shuddered as you came. Arthur kept going, heightening your pleasures until it all became too much and he retreated. The sight of his lips, wet with your juices, made a fire ignite in your belly once again. You pulled him down, crashing your lips against his, moaning at the taste of you.

He was grinding his hips against you, the bulge in his pants hard and heavy. You broke the kiss, reaching down with shaking hands towards his pants, popping the button open and taking out his cock. He moaned your name, closing his eyes as you wrapped your fingers around him. You ran your hand up and down, relishing in the sound of his debauched voice moaning your name. After a while, he took your hand away from his length and kissed over your knuckles. Letting it go, he pulled down his pants, the last article of clothing joining the others on the floor.

He sat in his naked glory between your legs. He was just as you remembered him; big, strong and muscular. The air around him was filled with virility. Your primal urges filled your mind as you wanted nothing but to be filled by him. He sensed your longing, seeing it in your eyes, and smiled.

His lips found yours once again, kissing you so much that you couldn't think about anothing but him. You felt the tip at him at your entrance, slowly pushing in. Your hands found his biceps, holding on to him as he pushed deeper, stretching you around his shaft. He stilled when he was all the way in, trying to compose himself. For a moment, all that could be heard where the sounds of your combined breaths, haggard in the quiet living room. The light from the fireplace illuminated your naked bodies.

Finally, he moved, pulling halfway out of you before slamming back in. You clung to each other, your bodies molding into one. Your legs wrapped around his waist, letting him deeper into you as your hands clawed at his back, leaving red marks behind. The feeling of him inside you was intoxicating; he was made for you, hitting all the right spots, the sheer girth and length of him filling you perfectly. His lips were on your neck as he thrusted in and out of you, taking in your scent and the taste of your skin under his lips.

Arthur couldn't get enough of you; his eyes raked over every part of your body, taking it all in. You could feel his hands everywhere, holding on to your hips, massaging your sides, cupping your breasts. He wanted to feel every part of you. His touch was inebriating, heightening your pleasure to an unimaginable level.

You could feel yourself nearing the edge, and so did Arthur. His movements became sloppier and out of rhythm, his desire for peak overwhelming.

He moaned your name, bringing your attention to him.

"I'm gonna cum," he said breathlessly, "where-"

You didn't let him finish, cutting in and saying, "Cum in me", not thinking about the repercussions of your words, your mind high on desire.

He dropped to his elbows, crashing his lips against yours as his movements became slower but rougher. You moved your hips meeting every one of his thrusts. The feeling of your tongue against his, your hands on his back and your warmness tightening against his shaft all became too much, and he came with a moan of your name, spilling his seed inside of you. The feeling of him coating your walls drove you wild, and you came a moment later, your legs shaking.

The weight of Arthur over you felt like a warm blanket, keeping you safe and shielded from the world outside. You could feel his staggering breath on your neck as he tried to bring his breathing down. You held each other like that for a few minutes, not moving. Two sweaty bodies, entangled in each other.

At some point in the night, the two of you moved to the bedroom, soiling the bed that you and your husband shared with your combined moans and desires.

You spent the rest night in Arthur’s arms. He held you tight against him as he told you about his travels and the state of the gang. You told him about the ranch, and how fulfilled you felt by the work. Both of you tried to avoid the subject of marital status.

You fell asleep to the beat of Arthur’s heart, your head on his chest, his in your hair.

In the morning, the two of you had breakfast, and he stayed till the evening, helping you with some of the chores around the ranch, playing family that the two of you never had a chance to become.

You watched him drive away on his horse, following the speck of him with your eyes all the way over the plain till it completely disappeared. You stood by the entrance of your ranch for a few more minutes. Out in the distance the chickens chirped. You still had to milk the cows and go to the general store. Breathing out, you looked up into the sky before turning back towards your house and your life.

.

Few months later.

You stood at the top of a hill, overlooking your ranch with your husband next to you. Cold wind blew through your hair. Winter was coming. You had to start making preparation for the colder months; make sure the cattle were healthy, create a water plan, add feeders and forage among other things.

Another rush of cold air made you shiver and pull your shawl tightly over your shoulders. Your husband's hand found yours, interlocking your fingers and making you look at him. He smiled at you. his eyes full of love and excitement, before turning back towards the ranch. You held your gaze on him for a moment longer, studying his features, before too turning towards the pasture, one of your hands in his, the other on your growing belly.

[mydisenchantedeulogy]

Blood in the Water [Chapter One] At Its Source [Leon S. Kennedy]

The hospital’s LED lights came to life, panting the walls in flickering hues of red as a woman in a stained lab coat rushed down a narrow corridor with a preteen in her arms. It was a nightmare. Orderlies scattered like cockroaches towards the exits as the chaos spread around them. And though she did her best to keep the youth ignorant to it, pressing her head down with such a force that she was certain unintentionally hurt her, the screams were far too loud; so much so the emergency sirens were but a murmur in comparison.

There was no time to comfort her, not with them lurking around the corner.

With a plan in mind and an exit in sight, the faceless woman tore her ID card from her coat pocket and held it near the scanner on the door. To her horror, the LED light turned red.

“No! Fuck!” she cried. Her stomach knotted in fear.

Rushing to clear the blood from her card, she tried again but was unfortunately denied. A wet gurgle from the opposite end of the hall brought goosebumps to her arms, urging her to peek over her shoulder in a panic; fear of the unknown got the better of her. A musty odor permeated the damp air, growing stronger every wasted second as they ambled closer. Her grip eased as she turned and tussled with the ID scanner, slamming the palm of her hand against the metal door in protest.

“Open … come on open.”

Her heart hammered in her chest. She was certain they were upon her; the stale air made her curl her nose in disgust, but she dared not to face them. Why was her ID card not working? Had she been forsaken? Again and again, she tried. Hot tears blurred her eyes.

Then at last, to her surprise, the LED light turned green.

She shoved open the door and ran through just as a shrill noise pierced her itching ears.

Avery woke with a start and darted her teary eyes around the barren room. Where was she? It took her a moment to recognize her bedroom; the plain walls inside her unit that her landlord insisted she not paint eased her fear. She had a nightmare; another one. They were beginning to be a constant nuisance for her, so much so her therapist was having trouble pinpointing what may be causing them. Hell, she wasn’t sure either. But one thing was certain; the same two people – the faceless woman and the preteen – were always present in them.

Who were they? Avery didn’t know, but her therapist theorized that each was a version of herself, the guardian, and her innocence. She needed to know what that meant. Was a part of her missing? Her childhood was a blur, all but the illness. And what were they running from? Perhaps the darkness clouded her thoughts, threatening to devour her forgotten memories. She grunted in annoyance, hearing the constant shrill beep of her bracelet echo around the room. It was time for her medicine.

Avery shut off the alarm and got out of bed. Ambling over to her closet, she picked out a cute blouse and a pair of dark jeans, taking them into the bathroom adjacent to her bedroom. After using the toilet and getting dressed, she stood in front of the sink and looked at her image in the mirror. She looked as tired as she felt; yesterday’s eyeliner was smudged making her eyes appear sunken and lifeless. Avery sighed and washed her face, then walked back into her bedroom feeling a little less tired.

Like clockwork, her watch went off again to remind her to take her medicine. She picked up the plastic bottle, reading the label on the front; Deferasirox then took out a tablet and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Avery wasn’t sure the extent of her disorder, but she had inherited Thalassemia from her mother and had to take Deferasirox to treat chronic iron overload. She wasn’t dependent on blood transfusions, so that was a plus.

As it dissolved, Avery messaged her therapist and told him about her dream. She didn’t expect a text from him for a while, so she drank her water and left her house, purse in tow as her shift was soon to start.

Costa Prisma in northern Basalto Mexico was beautiful in the spring. Avery had moved to the seaside town from Nebraska in 2006 when her employers transferred her; that was four years ago. So far, she loved it. The residence was nice and the money she earned paid enough for her to rent a large apartment near the water. She lived alone, but she preferred it that way.

Driving her Chevrolet Cobalt across town, past the whitewashed buildings, she took a smooth gravel road down to the base of a manmade ravine. A sign in Spanish read: BioVerse Research Facility; quarry ahead, urging those who were trespassers to turn around at the guard booth.

Avery took out her laminated pass and stopped behind the crossing barrier as the guard, Humberto came out of the booth. It was a warm morning, so his white uniform showed signs of sweat stains beneath the arms as he waved at her.

“Buenos días, Miss Andersen,” he greeted.

“Morning,” Avery retorted.

She showed him the pass as a precaution and waved to him as she drove ahead once the barrier was lifted. Avery parked her car at the foot of the valley in a crowded lot where the facility sat; BioVerse. As far as she knew it was a privately owned building with three departments and over seventy rooms, dedicated to the study of biology.

Avery began working with BioVerse in 1999 as an intern after she graduated with a bachelor’s degree in wildlife conservation. Then in 2005 she got her master’s degree and began her career as a Zoologist. The company was nice enough to allow her a chance to work for them, but in doing so, she had to transfer to their sister facility in Mexico. It was an opportunity Avery could not pass up, the opportunity of a lifetime.

Breathing in the fresh warm air, Avery peered over at the rock quarry at the far side of the facility. It had been abandoned in 2000 when BioVerse bought the land, she was told. But before that, the miners of Basalto cultivated the basalt prisms, tall columns of rock that decorated the walls of the ravine outside Costa Prisma; it’s where the state and town got its name. The lake at its base was claimed to be over twenty meters deep and spread as far as the next town. Avery often dreamed of taking a dip in it; the water was so clear, but there was far too much work to do.

She entered the building and passed through the open lobby, waving to Brooke behind the reception desk as she entered the elevator. But before the doors closed, she heard a shout, and a familiar woman came racing towards her in a rush to get on board. Avery held the door for her, laughing as the said woman clung to the bars inside the cart trying to catch her breath.

“Thank you for that,” Sophie mentioned.

Her West Country accent was thick with exhaustion.

“It was no problem,” Avery retorted.

Sophie straightened out her lab coat and pressed the button for the second floor; the microbiology department – she was a novice geneticist, but BioVerse integrated their departments. To show her appreciation she also pressed the button for the third floor as well.

“So I don’t forget,” she started. “Javier asked me to come up and collect a sample from Xolo today.”

Avery raised a brow.

“Another one? Javier has been poking at him all week.”

“It’s necessary though. His DNA could help us better understand why he can regrow limbs in a matter of hours. You know how important that is,” Sophia explained.

Avery knew. But poor Xolo couldn’t get a moment’s break.

The doors opened and Sophia walked out onto her floor, turning to look at Avery once again.

“I’ll be up as soon as I grab a syringe.”

Avery shook her head in agreement, sighing as the doors closed. At least she’d have time to feed Xolo before she came.

Once the doors to her department opened, the said woman walked out and hurried to her lab, passing the Herpetology and Entomology centers. Avery opened the door and went inside, grinning as she saw Xolo’s tank on the table. Her little golden albino axolotl sat at the bottom, unaware of the evil that awaited him.

The best part about being a Specialist was that Avery could work with Xolo for however long she wanted. Since she arrived at the facility in Costa Prisma she chose to study axolotls and their environment, getting roped in with the genetics department once Javier took an interest in the regenerative capabilities of her little friend.

Avery walked over to the storage locker and retrieved her lab coat and Xolo’s food from within. Once her ID card was attached to the collar, she stood next to the tank and put in a small handful of blackworms; he loved them but damn did he make a mess.

Hearing a knock at the door, the said woman peered over her shoulder to allow in her guest; most likely Sophie. But as the woman came in Avery felt a tug at her finger and looked down to see that Xolo had bit her, drawing some blood.

Someone is impatient.

It was her fault for leaving her hand in the tank; he thought her fingers were food.

“Oh damn,” Sophie exclaimed. “Your finger is bleeding.”

“It’s fine. Xolo’s teeth are too small to cause me any harm, but sometimes he draws blood,” Avery explained.

She stared at the tiny drop of red at the tip of her finger for a moment, then wiped it on her jeans.

“Perhaps he knows you are going to let me stick him today,” Sophia mentioned.

Avery glanced down into the tank with a frown, watching Xolo eat.

“Against my best wishes little buddy.”

Sophia grinned and leaned against the table as they waited. A thought came to mind and she hummed.

“Did you hear that the mycology department got a new sample in?” she asked.

Avery shook her head. No, she hadn’t.

“It came from someplace in Europe; a new strain of mold I heard. Paisley and her team have been studying it all morning, subjecting it to all sorts of tests,” Sophie explained.

Good for them. Their department needed some motivation. Paisley had been a wreck after the big CEO visit the previous week, having nothing new to show. If it hadn’t been for Xolo and her collaboration with the genetics department, then Avery would have been in the same boat.

“Ready to do this?” the said woman asked.

Sophia shook her head in agreement.

Once Xolo was out of his tank and secure, Sophia drew blood from him. Avery made sure that he was okay before she put him back in the tank, giving him a small pinch of blackworms for his contribution.

As she walked towards the storage locker to put away the axolotl food, listening to Sophia prattle on about her job, a shrill noise permeated her ears. Avery immediately dropped the container with a pained gasp and shoved a finger into her canal, but the noise intensified, so much so that she lost her balance from lightheadedness and fell to her knees. What was going on?

Her body spasmed as she lie on the floor. Was she having a seizure? Avery could feel Sophia’s hands on her, trying to console her, but to no avail. The noise was too loud. Why did Sophia not hear it?

Leaning onto her arms, Avery puked onto the floor. Her stomach was in knots. The last question she asked herself before the world around her faded to black was: is my vomit black?  

[mexican-tile-store]

(via Handmade Ceramic Sinks from Mexico)

Therefore, if your bathroom lacks spark or color, consider adding some Mexican addition in the form of Talavera ceramic, which has been renowned for centuries. Mexico is still the most popular place to find the highest quality and most authentic Talavera, known for its vibrant colors and patterns. Talavera sinks are often used in Mexican-style bathrooms, and they can add a touch of rustic charm to any space. Many designers place them in modern layouts because they work great in diverse areas where antique and contemporary elements complement each other. Handmade ceramic sinks from Mexico come in various shapes and sizes so that you can find the perfect one for your bathroom. You can also choose from multiple colors, including traditional blue and white or more vibrant hues like pink, green and yellow. Whether you’re looking for a simple sink or something more elaborate, you can find the perfect one at a Mexican ceramic shop.

If you’re looking for a more traditional ceramic option, you can find beautiful hand-painted oval or round Talavera sinks. Sometimes our clients choose rectangular Talavera sinks for their kitchen or outdoor kitchenette area. Pay attention to small bathrooms or powder rooms. They also deserve a splash of colors, and the perfect option for those rooms would be a Talavera vessel type of Mexican sink. No matter your style, you can find the ideal sink for your bathroom at a Mexican store. Their installation is relatively easy, so you will probably not need a professional. Consider finding a matching hand-painted Talavera tile that will look amazingly placed against a colorful ceramic sink. From Mexican border tiles, and Talavera solid tiles to impressive high-relief tiles, our experienced artisans can create any design you wish.

[unbridgeabledistances]

soft prompt ideas: comforting each other, cuddling, waking up together/going to sleep, going on a date, idk just being in each other’s company? i’m terrible at being specific but i hope these help!

hi bby<3 thank you so much to u (and everyone else!!!) for sending in prompts, they brought me so much joy and now i have SO many little soft things in the works:’)

yesterday ended up turning into a long day and i didn’t get to finish most of the things i started, but i wrote this while i was freshly showered and in bed and wanted to quickly whip up some bedtime softness to end the day right!! so here is the softest, quickest pre-11x07 bedtime one-shot and ode to the gallagher house, i hope u enjoy<3

--

Ian turned the creaky handle to shut off the shower, stilling the scalding water that had been beating a steady stream onto his body, soothing his aching muscles and weary bones. Ian was tired—after he and Mickey had gotten back from their various security stops around the outskirts of the city, he’d promised to help Lip track down and deliver parts to the people who’d bought the odds and ends of the stolen bikes, and then he’d somehow ended up in Lip and Tami’s living room that was half-packed into boxes for hours, silently sipping a beer and listening to them tag-team their attempts at persuading Ian to convince Debbie into wanting to sell the house— an effort that was a lost cause, and they all knew it.

It was kind of funny— they’d all gotten so close to losing the house so many times before, from being pulled out by DCFS officers to being kicked to the curb by fucking Patrick, to feeling desperate ripples of fear as they watched the house be put up for auction for a bunch of Northsiders and boujee fucking families who picked through the bare skeleton of the rooms as they pleased— so it was funny that after all of that, after their front door being plastered with more bright orange eviction notices than they could count, that the eventual thing driving them out of the house in the end would be a Gallagher himself, just because Lip wanted some extra cash. Ian got it— they were older now, and Lip had a kid to worry about— but he couldn’t help but feel a soft pang in his gut, something muted and dull but still there, every time Lip nonchalantly mentioned “fixing the house up” and “making gentrification our friend” and “getting on with our lives”—even though he and Mickey had readily agreed, at the family meeting that Mickey now had a right to be a part of, that it made the most sense to sell the house and for the two of them to find a place of their own.

And honestly, that prospect was a little terrifying; it sounded silly, but this crumbling house, with its paint stripping away and its roof nearly caving in, had pretty much been the only constant in Ian’s life for as long as he could remember. He had memories, ones that were soft around the edges, of him and Lip and Fiona sleeping curled in the backseats of cars and, on a few of the worst nights, on playgrounds or stoops or streetcorners when Frank and Monica were too far gone— and then inevitably one day, one sunny afternoon, they would come home to this sturdy gray house, and even then Ian understood that this was a place he could always return to. He didn’t really know what a world without the Gallagher house looked like; he always found his feet leading him back to these four walls, even those months when he was living with Mickey and he’d walk the silent moonlit city blocks back home to splash in the pool with everyone on those muggy, late summer nights. Thinking about the comforting sag of the Gallagher house was one of the few things that kept Ian going in the colorless cinderblock walls of his prison cell; the concave mattress of his single bed at home wasn’t much better than the inch-think foam pad he scrunched onto each night in his cell, but it was still familiar, it was still home, it had still held him through all of these years.

Lip wanting to sell the house was just another bitter reminder, along with the changing storefronts of the Southside neighborhood stores, the people walking by with baby strollers and shopping bags of organic groceries, the notches on the closet door that showed how much Franny had already grown, and the tinny sound of Fiona’s voice wafting through a Facetime call, a voice too small and too quiet to fill the absence she’d left behind—that things were always changing, that life wasn’t going to stop for any of them.

Ian clambered out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, scrubbing his face with his hands to try to clear his head. The hallway outside the bathroom was still, the only sound the soft hissing of the radiator—when the fuck did this house get so quiet? There was no boisterous laughter wafting up from downstairs, no clanging in the kitchen, no WWE blasting from the TV at full volume; Lip and Tami had moved out, Liam was grown up and preferred steady conversation to the classic Gallagher screeching, and Carl was either off at the station for the night or doing god-knows-what in the basement— when did silence start to sink into these walls, without anyone really noticing? Even Frank was getting quieter, somehow, giving more blank stares than quick replies when they talked back and forth in the kitchen.

Ian stepped out of the bathroom and crept down the hallway, walking carefully in case Franny was sleeping; there was a comfort in the melody of the creaking floorboards, reminding him of all the nights when he’d lay awake staring at the ceiling, sometimes gripped by the swirling black thoughts he thought he’d never be able to shake off, and he would hear Fiona tiptoeing around in the hallway, checking in on everyone while she tried not to wake them. Ian gripped the handle of the flimsy accordion bedroom door and slid it open as quietly as he could muster, ready to crawl into bed and hopefully snap out of all this wallowing.

And… oh.

The lamp on the bedside table was still on, shining a soft glow into the cramped room— but Mickey was curled up and fast asleep on Ian’s side of the bed, his mouth half-open and his head tucked to his chin, his hair slightly mussed and ruffled by on the pillow he was gripping onto. Ian smirked—he knew it was getting late, and Mickey might be asleep when he got home—but there was something so soft and innocent about the way Mickey was laying, like he was breathing in the scent of Ian’s pillow, that made him stop for a moment before mindlessly crawling into bed next to him. Ian let himself linger in the doorway for a moment, just listening to the steady waves of Mickey’s breathing, taking in the sight of his flushed cheeks and the innocence in his sleeping face that was so bare and open that it almost hurt to look at.

Instantly, Ian felt something bloom in his chest from the pit of uncertainty that had been planted there. The Gallagher house had always been his home—but he realized in a sweeping moment that his best days here, ones where he felt solid and settled and himself rather than someone he was pretending to be, were the days when Mickey was nearby, the days when Mickey was just down the road.

Mickey made up the only other home he’d had, the only other place he’d felt this safe; they’d built a cocoon around themselves in the equally-as-shitty Milkovich house, smoking and laughing and whispering into each other’s skin in the darkness. Even as Ian’s grip on reality felt like it was slipping through his fingers, Mickey’s warm body next to his kept him rooted, in the same ways Mickey’s thrumming presence beside him kept him safe in all the blaring uncertainty of federal prison and imposing cell walls and the press of too many strange bodies in orange jumpsuits. Ian had always felt safe in the Gallagher house—but so much of that, since he was a scrawny fifteen year old, was because of the nights he spent awake in bed thinking up pipe dreams of a future with the loudmouthed kid he worked with at the convenience store, or when he could crawl into bed after a late night EMT shift and feel the solid, grounding weight in his chest as he remembered his road trip with Mickey to the border, and thought about Mickey having some kind of a better life in Mexico. So much of that feeling of home, especially through all of the epic highs and colossal lows, was just knowing that someone out there, by some miracle, loved Ian as deeply as Mickey Milkovich could— knowing he had a doorstep to run to when his own house was infiltrated by Monica and some stranger threatening to take Liam, or a bed to crash in for months when everything else in his life felt like shifting, unstable ground. So much of home was right here, and it always had been.

Ian quietly slid shut the squeaky folds of the door, discarding his towel and throwing a threadbare t-shirt over his head—and then he gingerly stretched out onto the opposite side of the bed beside a sleep-soft Mickey, his body radiating heat and the ends of his hair still damp from his own shower, smelling of the fresh scent of cheap shampoo and very slightly of toothpaste, mingling with the earthy smell of cigarette smoke and the other scent that Ian could only just describe as Mickey. Ian let himself lay there for a moment, listening to Mickey breathing— just breathing.

He reached over Mickey’s torso and shut off the bedside lamp, enveloping the room in a heavy cloak of darkness—but this time the silence didn’t seem so bad with Mickey’s steady breaths punctuating the quiet. He slid a hand over Mickey’s waist, resting his chin on the crook of Mickey’s shoulder and breathing in deep—he could feel Mickey’s heartbeat vibrating into his own chest, feeling the rise and fall of his ribcage as he held him close. Ian felt all the latent tension, the lungful of air he didn’t even know he had been holding, drain out of him—and it started to make him feel weirdly light and giddy to imagine sometime in the near future when he and Mickey would actually have a place of their own, a place where they could ride out the silence together just like this— a place with clutter and creaking floorboards and slanted moonlight of their own.

If the Gallaghers were “getting on with their lives,” like Lip had said—then this right here was the only thing that Ian was moving towards, just like he always had been.

[rusticahouse]

Mexican-theme bathrooms are known for their vibrant colors, intricate patterns, and a fusion of Spanish and indigenous Mexican design elements. These bathrooms offer a warm and welcoming ambiance, making you feel as if you’ve stepped into a Mexican hacienda. The key to achieving this style lies in the choice of decor elements, and one standout piece to consider is the Talavera sink vanity. Talavera ceramic is a type of majolica pottery, originally brought to Mexico by Spanish artisans in the 16th century. Today, Talavera has become synonymous with Mexican craftsmanship, known for its hand-painted designs and brilliant colors. When it comes to creating a Mexican-style bathroom, the hand-painted Talavera sink is a true work of art. The hand-painted Talavera sink reflects the rich Mexican heritage through its intricate patterns and vivid colors. From floral motifs to geometric designs, each sink is a unique masterpiece. These sinks are meticulously crafted by skilled artisans, showcasing the essence of Mexican culture and history in every brushstroke.

If you want to add a touch of elegance to your bathroom, consider an oval Talavera sink. Oval sinks offer a sense of fluidity and softness, which can balance the bold and vibrant colors often associated with Mexican-style bathrooms. This classic shape complements a variety of vanity styles, from rustic to contemporary, making it a versatile choice for your bathroom. Oval, ceramic sinks come in various sizes and colors, allowing you to choose the one that best suits your design vision. The smooth, curved edges and artistic patterns of an oval Talavera sink bring a harmonious and balanced look to your bathroom space. Vessel sinks have gained popularity in recent years due to their distinctive appearance and ease of installation. In the context of Mexican-style bathrooms, vessel sinks are a fantastic choice. These sinks sit on top of the countertop, making them a focal point of the bathroom’s design. Vessel sinks can be found in various shapes, sizes, and colors, allowing you to select one that complements your bathroom’s overall style. When paired with a Mexican Talavera bathroom vanity, the combination of the vessel sink and intricate patterns of the hand-painted Talavera sink creates a stunning visual impact.

[kandadiff]

Van Der Wulff : Tell Me Lies

~

As soon as my passport was scanned at the Mexican border, Manuel Ramirez-Calva was informed by a couple of his men. He kept it a secret from his wife of a year hoping to surprise her when he found me. He sent his men to search up and down for me but coming up empty he grew more and more frustrated. He was assured I had to be somewhere in Mexico and there was not a space in Mexico his empire and connections couldn't get access. He also knew the longer he kept it a secret the more likely it was to spill out.

He moved to his wife favorite part of the fortress that made up there house. He smiled seeing her in the colorful room, paint splattering covering her bare legs as she finished her painting of the two kids she missed the most. She had been working on it for months, using teh only photo she still had of them as her reference. Guilt weighed heavily on him, here I was in Mexico and even he couldn't get to me. "Mi Amor." he called to her, his heart still swelling when she gave him a lopsided smile. He eyed the maids in the corner. "🌶Leave us." he said, the two woman bowing there head and quickly going out the door.

"Manny" Harley smiled motioning for him to come closer. "I was practicing my Spanish." Her thick New York accent always put a smile on her face. "Maria says in no time, I'll be speaking like a pro." He smiled at her with a sigh, his heart growing heavy with the news that even though I was in Mexico, I was basically a ghost. He opened his mouth to speak only to be interrupted by a frantic knocking on the door. "🌶enter." Harley called out, her accent making Manny smile.

"Jefé" One of his higher ranking man came in. He bowed his head respectfully to Harley before turning to Manny. "🌶This is about the..." he hesitated for a moment. "🌶girl." Harley looked at Manny with a raised eyebrow but Manny didn't give anything away. He moved towards the man but Harley stopped him.

"What girl?" she asked, paint from her fingers getting on Manny's jacket.

The man looked from Manny to his wife and back again. Manny nodded "You can tell us both."

"There was a massacre in Tijuana." The man explained. "We got a tip that a good amount of the Diablos were shot up." Manny, being the leader of the Rey De La Muerte gang, didn't care for the many gangs that popped up along side his territory and none were as annoying as the Diablos. He was happy to hear of there demise but what did that have to do with anything? "Big Carlos and his cousin check the house before the cops arrived and" The man pulled out what looked like a small booklet from his pocket and handed it to Manny. "They looked and all the bodies there were male. She didn't die there as far as we know. But thats all we know."

Manny flipped over the book in his hand, the United States emblem embroidered the front. It was a passport. Manny got a sinking feeling in his stomach that intensified when he flipped open the book. My name, date of birth and address that was next to the picture confirmed it was me, along with the glossy smiling picture smeared in blood. Manny closed his eyes for a moment gripping the passport hard. He had been so close and now with the diablos I could be anywhere.

"Manny" Harleys voice forced him to open his eyes again and he quickly tried to shut the passport. But she was faster then him and took it from his hands before he could. The sharp heartbroken gasp she let out stabbed at his heart. She looked up at him, her large blue eyes swimming with a storm of emotions but quickly a stifling sadness overcame her.

"Oh god no" she shook her head pressing the book to her chest. "No, no, no, no!" she cried out and Manny ran to her. He held onto her tightly as he quickly explained what his surprise was supposed to be. But she was wailing in his arms. Her fingers pressing to the pictures frantically wiping at the blood as though thats what would bring her child back to her. She pressed the picture to her chest pressing herself into her husband as he spoke in rapid fire Spanish to his men. "My daughter is still here, Manny. I feel it." she said and he looked down at her, his expression instantly softening.

"I know, I know and I promise you, I will find her."

"If you have to" She said looking up at him with a fire in her eyes he'd never seen before. "burn down all of Mexico to do it. I want my daughter back!"

~

"You should eat." Katya said gently pushing a plate of chicken and rice over to Edward. The boy sat with his head in is hands, frustration racially seeping out of the pours in his body. Him and Katya had spent hours asking around town, trying to speak to locals with no help from Shawn's helpers. They were too busy tending to his busted face to be of any service. Ed even got a call from Marcel that said he spoke to you and the time difference made it just past 4 in the morning in Greece. To many hours had passed, you could be anywhere.

"Not hungry." Ed mumbled out pushing the plate away. They were still in Negan's mansion, Ed had threatened to kill the entire staff if they were to attempt to kick him or Katya out. He knew he had to call Negan and was now dreading that call. This was supposed to be simple but instead, Shawn fucked it all up. His mind wandered to what would really happen to him if he killed him.

"I know what you are thinking," Katya said leaning on the table and opening a beer and pushing the plate back to him "And I want to do it too but we can't." She chuckled under her breath pressing the beer to her nose and making a face. She took a long sip, the face she made made Ed give a small laugh. "This taste like shit." She offered him some and after a moment he took it, his lips curling at the sourness. They shared a laugh before Edward looked at his phone again. "Do you want me to make the call?" Katya asked "I do not mind telling him his son is a big idiot and it might be better if he were here. He speaks Greek, we need someone here on our side."Edward was about to speak but instead he heard the distance knocking at the front door. Him and Katya looked at each other before quickly moving to the front door.

A mousy maid looked confused at an envelope jumping when Edward shouted at her. "What is that?"

"I- I can't-" She said looking around frantically. She called out for another worker when Katya noticed the writing on the envelope had Shawns name on it. Katya held out her hand but Edward just yanked it from her hands making her jump back. He tore at the envelope his face grimacing when he saw what was inside.

The first thing he pulled out was a Polaroid of you in some bed, with dirty clothes, messy hair and a wound on our head with the words 'Miss her, yet?' He growled tearing out the other contents but seeing familiar looking cards he threw down the envelope causing the items to fall in a messy pile on the floor.

"THIS WEAK, PSYCHO, PIECE OF SHIT! HE SET US UP!" Edward shouted and Katya's eyes widened when she got closer to the pile on the floor. looking up at her were playing cards. All of them were Joker cards.

~

Negan leaned back in his chair as his mind went through all the scenarios that could possibly running through the Joker's head. But that was the problem with psychopaths, wasn't it? Who knows what they were thinking? Maybe this was his way to teach Shawn, you don't take what isn't yours. Or maybe he wanted to prove that he could pull off something under everyones noses. But thats all speculation. Especially that the Joker was to busy to discuss anything at the moment, instead sending his son to the compound.

If it was all to prove something then where were you? What was with that morbid picture that Edward had texted that he received, that was originally addressed to Shawn?

"Sir," one of the girls knocked on his office door. "Robin is here."

He nodded at Simon and they met Robin in the living room. The tall boy looked uncomfortable and Negan eyed him carefully. Sensing his presence robin greeted him and Simon politely.

"So," he said, bag were clear under his eyes. It was obvious he wasn't sleeping much in the past week. He was paler too. "When's adi coming back?"

Negan looked at Robin for a while trying to figure out just what Robin knew or if he knew anything at all. "Well thats what I wanted to discuss with your daddy today. Instead he sends his little boy." Robin made a face at the name but said nothing. "Seems now no one can fucking locate her." Robin raised an eyebrow at him. "any idea about that?"

"What do you mean?" Simon pulled out his phone showing robin the contents of the letter Edward had sent him pictures off. "What the hell is this?"

"Looks like Joker cards." Negan shrugged. he briefly explained what Edward had found leaving out exactly how you looked in the polaroid.

"Why is it in Greece?" He looked up at the two men and he instantly knew what they were accusing him - or more precisely his father of. "You think Joker had anything to do with this?" Anger grew in his voice as he spoke, walking closer to Negan. Unlike many others, robin held no fear for the man - at least not in this moment. Simon places his hand on the gun on his hip but Negan motioned for him to keep it holstered. He wanted to see how this played out. "Joker is looking for my actually missing sister and you think he had time to fucking to to Greece and try and out do your pathetic excuse for a child?"

"He was with you the whole time then?" Simon questioned, his eyes boring into Robins. Robin didn't give him an answer instead kept his eyes on Negan.

"Did you ever think of your boundary-less son was trying to cover his own tracks? Especially with Edward and Katya there?"

Negan nodded calm in the face of Robin's anger. "There is no way he could have done it then, huh. I wonder who they came from then. Shawns been in and out for the last day but he muster really though ahead if he got about 50 playing cards to be delivered just as Edward and Katya were arriving." He scoffed at Robin's jaw tightened. He laughed and started to walk out but stopped himself. "Oh shit, I forgot I had to show you what else Ed sent me." He motioned for Simon to hand him the phone and he pulled up the picture of you that was in the envelope. Robin was taken aback, his tired eyes scanning the picture as though he expected it to be a figment of his imagination. But it was real. The worst things he thought could happen to you were real and there was proof and his father was the biggest culprit.

"I'll send it to you," Negan said pulling the phone away from the stunned boy. "Have a good night, Robin." With that the two men walked out of the living room leaving Robin with racing though as he dashed out of the house. His mind set on Joker.

~

[managedmischiefs]

north//chapter sixteen

genre: angst

warnings: prison, stabbing, solitary confinement, mention of deaths

word count: 3.2k

summary: spencer is spiraling. amelia is too. being apart is weighing on them and hope has run out.

pairing: season 12 spencer reid x oc

like, comment, and reblog :) enjoy!!

SPENCER

Guilt is a feeling I'm far too familiar with. Guilt is something I can't escape and guilt is something that has run my life. Guilt always seems to follow me wherever I go like a black cloud floating over my head.

I always thought that strong panic could easily outweigh guilt, but clearly, I've learned my lesson. As I hear the coughs and cries and screams of agony from the other prisoners on my cell block, the panic settles in my body.

Rossi told me I was a good person. He swore I wouldn't be changed by these people and this place and he was wrong. He was so utterly and horribly wrong and I know if he ever finds out about this, he would be so disappointed in me.

And Amelia. My beautiful, sweet, innocent girl. What if she found out about this? What if she finds out that I purposely poisoned a batch of drugs? What would she think? Would she hate me? Would she leave me? I'm barely surviving prison but I wouldn't survive her leaving me. I could never survive life without her.

But I'm doing what I can survive. But I had a million ways out of this situation. I had a million ways to get myself out of moving those drugs and instead any of those other simpler, cleaner, easier ways, I chose to poison them. I chose the way that would cause pain and suffering for those who have wronged me, and I unintentionally chose pain and suffering for the one person who has helped me out in here. And now that Shaw is gone and off to the infirmary, what's going to happen to me? Now that my protection is gone, am I at risk again?

But then the panic starts to dissipate. The panic dissipates and all I feel this guilt. Overwhelming, suffocating guilt. I feel horrible. I feel like the worst person to walk planet earth. I am the worst person to walk the planet. I watch all these men get rushed onto gurneys and run down hallways on the arms of correctional officers and it makes my heart sink.

I'm officially one of them. I didn't even want to move the drugs. I was so adamant about not allowing this contraband to be distributed to the inmates and I did everything I could to not have to move them, but I got pushed against the wall and held down, literally and figuratively. I had no choice.

And just when I don't need it, Tara shows up. She shows up, waving her doctorate degree in the air, telling me that we need to do another cognitive. Another cognitive. Another cognitive. She needs to dive into my mangled brain yet again to figure out what happened in Mexico just twenty-four hours after I poisoned half of my cell block. Another cognitive could help with Stephen's new way of finding Scratch. What is that new way? She didn't even say. I don't even want to know.

But it's something to do. It's something to distract from the guilt that's eating me alive. It's something to distract me from the things I think when I'm in my cell. It's something to distract me from the images of Malcolm shaking on the floor or Delgado bleeding out. It's something.

But even though it's something, the pain is there. The pain of Mexico resurfaces and hits me tenfold. The pain beats me against my chest and bolts me to my chair, stinging the scar on my hand. This isn't what I need. I didn't need to be reminded of my trauma as more trauma is unfolding before my eyes.

"You're helping Nadie and she's responding," Tara coaches me through the cognitive.

I rack my brain for answers and images and sounds and smells but it just comes up blank. "There's nothing I can do."

"And what about him? I mean, you must feel him in your peripheral vision, behind you somewhere."

"Yeah, he's behind me." It's almost like I can feel him standing behind me now, watching me to make sure I don't reveal his hidden identity to Tara. Why can't I just put Scratch's face there and this can all be over? I can use say it was him and I can collect my get-out-of-jail free card. "I can feel him watching me, and I'm--"

My eyelids fly open, desperate to erase an image that has materialized in my head. It's horrifying and bloody and there's no way it can be true. But it must be true if I'm seeing it. It's true. That's it. This is the big answer everyone has been waiting for and it's the answer nobody believed could be possible.

"What is it?" Tara's voice seems so far away and so distant.

"It was me. I killed her."

Tara's face softens and I don't know how she could possibly look at me like that. "Spencer," I rise from my chair and go rushing to the door, banging on it to alert a guard that this is over and I'm ready to return to my cell, "Spencer, that's not possible. Reid!"

I don't sleep a wink. I don't even lay in bed. I don't want to face the nightmares of me stabbing an innocent woman who just wanted to help my mother. An innocent woman who had a family and a husband or wife and children and a whole life to live. Selfishly, I don't want to see that. And maybe I deserve to. Maybe that should be my punishment for killing her, as if prison isn't punishment enough.

I sit on the floor. I work out until my muscles can't hold my weight. I stare at the wall. I gaze out the window. I do everything I can to stay awake and I'm successful. I contemplate celebrating when I see the sun starting to rise and I jump up to make my bed in the perfect way the correctional officers want it. If it's not perfect, I get in trouble. More trouble than I've already gotten in. I’ll get embarassed, humiliated, degraded, exposed. I don’t need that. I make the bed once, and then twice, and fix it a third time. 

And then Tara waves around her doctorate again. She swears she needs more time with her “patient” and I'm dragged away after breakfast. I'm put in cuffs that dig into the bruises and cuts around my wrists and cuffs that make me bleed and cuffs that I still feel on my skin even after they been taken off.

I cant see the images anymore. I can't do it. I can't continue to be haunted by what happened in Mexico and I can't keep seeing Nadie's face in my head, whether I'm sleeping or not. I don't want to do another cognitive and see, yet again, that I'm a killer. I don't need it to be confirmed to me time and time again that I'm a murderer and that I deserve to be in prison until the day I die.

"I cannot keep doing this anymore, okay? I told you, it was better if you all just stayed away. You're making it worse." It's a beg. It's a plead for Tara to leave and not come back.

But Tara insists. She insists that my mind is just playing tricks on me. She wonders why I don't realize that. She wants to know why I'm not thinking things out. The cognitive yesterday gave her an answer she would rather not have. She confirmed yesterday that I'm a murderer and now she's back to see if she can force my brain to play a trick.

"Spencer Reid is incapable of killing an innocent woman in cold blood."

I lean close to Tara, but not too close. I'm not telling a secret. It doesn't need to be whispered. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

"Look," Tara sighs, "prison is a difficult place. You've probably had to do things in here to survive that you would never think of doing in the outside world, things that make you feel guilty. But the brain has to handle that guilt, has to process it. And sometimes it spreads that guilt around into places it doesn't belong."

Guilt always seems to follow me wherever I go like a black cloud floating over my head. No matter where I go, the guilt is there. The guilt of killing an innocent woman, the guilt of abandoning my mother with basically a stranger, the guilt of leaving my girlfriend behind, the guilt of poisoning other prisoners. It's all there, all the time.

I stare down at my hands, raw and bruised and calloused and rough. "I could see the knife in my hand."

"We know that Scratch uses drugs to change our perception of what's real and what's not," Tara tells me. "He could dose you and tell you that you, I don't know, your favorite color is black and you'd believe it wholeheartedly. He could dose you and make you believe anything he wants and you’d never remember. That's what he does. That's what his drugs do."

She convinces me. I don't know how she managed to do it so easily, but she did. She convinces me to go through with the cognitive and in no time, my eyes are shut and I land back in that dingy, dark motel room with Nadie beside me.

I tell her what seems obvious to me. Someone bursts in the room, I move the knife to get closer to a stabbed Nadie and that's how I cut my hand, there's a mist over my shoulder, I turn to look at who it is but I can't see who it is.

"Do you recognize him?"

"No," I shake my head, scrunching up my face in frustration. He's blurry, but he's spraying me and it's getting more blurry.

"Focus, Spencer. Concentrate on who it is."

I clench my hand, pain shooting up my arms when the cuffs dig into my skin. I squeeze my eyes tighter and focus in on the image, and it actually gets clearer. I can see better. "It's Scratch," I whisper. "It's Scratch. It's Scratch. It's him. And he's drugging me. And I hear him say something."

I can see Scratch's distorted hand swirling around as she sprays me in the face, dousing me with her disgusting drugs. "What does he say?" Tara prompts.

It's time. It's time to go.

I see her holding out a pair of car keys to me, nails painted perfectly black, as she speaks in a sickly sweet voice. My eyes pop open. "Time to go," I repeat, "she says, time to go and then she just walks right out of there like she didn't have a care in the world, like she wanted me to chase her!"

It wasn't Scratch. It was a woman and I'll be here forever. If it was just some woman, there's no way to get me out of here. I'll die in this prison.

"It wasn't Scratch who framed me. It was a woman."

///

AMELIA

///

I'm not sure why I keep going back to the BAU. Nothing good ever seems to happen there, not since Spencer got arrested. The only happy memory I have is getting the smuggled letter from Spencer, but that isn't enough to cancel out the tears and the panic attacks and the pain that I've gone through on the sixth floor of this building.

So I'm not sure why I gravitate back here. It's probably because of Penelope. It's probably because I like to stare at the knick-knacks on her desk or stare at my own artwork on her walls and wonder if I could produce anything even close to that. Penelope herself is a reason to spend almost every day in a federal building filled with guns and pictures of dead bodies. She's one of the few reasons I'm afloat right now. After I throw an appreciation party for Jenna, I'll need to throw one for Penelope.

When I step out of the elevator, the first person I see is Emily. She's hurrying past the elevator, but when she sees me, she halts. And with the smile she gives me, I know something is wrong. For a moment, I debate not even getting out of the elevator so I don't have to face whatever new bad news I'm about to hear, but I know that I'll have to hear it eventually.

I step out, staring down at my tennis shoe-clad feet. "What now? Spencer's trial already got pushed back."

Emily clutches the case files in her hand and waves me along. "Come on, I'll update you."

The walk through the bullpen seems to take a million times longer than it usually does. But Emily finally leads me to the round table room and the first thing I notice is the face of a brunette on the screen. Penelope smiles when I enter, giving me the weakest wave I've ever seen from her.

"Who's that?" I ask, gesturing to the screen.

"That's Lindsay Vaughn." Emily explains, sitting down at the table, gesturing for me to do the same. It's the first time I've ever sat here and I almost feel unworthy. And I can tell I’m taking Spencer’s usual seat. That just feels wrong. I shift unconmfortably, wondering if it would be better for me to stand or move to a different seat. "A long time ago, Spencer had an interaction with Lindsay and her father on a case. Her father was a hitman so at the end of the case, the two of them were put into Witness Protection. Well, apparently, Lindsay left and she teamed up with Scratch."

"So this Lindsay girl is the one who drugged Spencer in Mexico and killed Nadie?" Emily nods. "So does that mean he's coming home?" It's too sweet of a thought. It's too easy. Of course he's not coming home. It's too easy.

"No," Emily shakes her head now, and my chest deflates. I should have expected that. "He identified her voice but there's no evidence. The team is out searching for that now."

"Her voice? How did he do that?" I glance frantically between the two women and watch as they look between each other.

"Okay," Emily leans close to me, and places her hand atop mine, "I have to tell you two really hard things right now. Just take a breath and I know it's hard to stay calm but you need to try," my teeth dig into my cheeks as I nod, but I don't promise. I don't make promises I know I'll break. I don't make promises unless they're to Spencer. "This girl, Lindsay, she killed Cassie and abducted Diana."

My eyes widen and I rip my hand away from Emily's grasp. "She took Diana?"

"She did," Emily reaches for my hand again, but I don't let her touch me. She sighs but continues talking. "She was stalking Reid for a while. She had pictures of him on a few cases, she even rented an apartment right next to his."

"Oh my god," I breathe out, leaning my elbows against the table and putting my head in my hands. "I can't believe it. He's in prison! What the fuck does Scratch and this bitch want with Diana?"

"We don't know," Penelope finally speaks up, "but we're doing everything we can to help Diana and to find her."

I stare down at the wood on the table and take a long breath through my nose, filling my lungs with stale air that leaves a bad taste in my mouth. "You said there were two things. What's the second thing?" I look up now, and I make the mistake of looking at Penelope first. Her eyes immediately fill with tears. It's about Spencer. Well, this is all about Spencer, but this news is Spencer.

Emily gulps and this time, she doesn't try to reach out for me again. "This morning, Reid stabbed himself in order to get thrown into solitary confinement."

I almost don't have a reaction to this at all. My eyebrows just raise in the tiniest bit because I don't believe it. Spencer stabbed himself? My Spencer? My Spencer who wouldn't even kill the spider in my bathtub. He had to catch it in his hands and release it onto the balcony. Someone who won't kill a spider wouldn't stab themself. Why did he stab himself? Why?

"You're not serious," that's the only feasible response I can think to come up with. "That's not--"

"It is, and it's a good thing, I promise." Emily tries to give me a smile but it only enrages me.

Penelope's eyes widen. "Emily, don't pro-"

"No!" I lose my cool, and as my voice raises, tears streaming down my cheeks. I jump out of my chair, knocking it over, but I don't even care. "Solitary confinement is not a good thing! Solitary confinement is where people go crazy and start seeing things! So don't tell me that Spencer stabbing himself is a fucking good thing because it's not! I'm tired of everyone promising me things that fall through! That's not what promises are for! Spencer could go crazy in solitary confinement and that's horrible!"

I turn on my heel and run for the door, pushing past JJ and Stephen, who don't even bother to try and stop me. Surely, they heard me yelling. But I hear heels behind me and I know Penelope has followed me and she's the only person I'd be willing to talk to right now.

She follows me all the way to her lair, and she even opens the door for me, allowing me to enter first. "She didn't know about the whole promising thing, Amelia, I'll tell the team," Penelope says quickly, pulling me into a tight hug when the door closes. "I'm so sorry. I wish I could help with more than just a hug, but this is all I can do."

"I wanna help him," I cry, squeezing her waist. "I don't want him there anymore and I wanna bring him home and hold him and--"

"And we're gonna get him out. We've been working with all the energy we have to get him out and find every scrap of evidence there is to exonerate him. I know you don't agree with Emily, but Reid is safe in solitary. He won't be around the other inmates. He won't be around the people who beat him up, and that's a good thing."

"That might be the only good thing about that. And poor Diana. She must be so scared, and so confused, and so lost. I don't know how she's functioning right now."

"We're gonna find her," Penelope pulls away, rubbing up and down my arms. "We're gonna find Diana, exonerate Spencer, and put Lindsay and Scratch in prison."

I smile through my tears, wiping my cheeks. "I think I'm gonna call Jenna and go home. I don't wanna interrupt you guys but the last thing I want is to be alone."

"That's a good idea. I'll keep you updated if anything happens." Penelope starts to lead me towards the door, holding it open for me.

"Don't." I shake my head, walking to the elevators. "I don't want updates. I just-- just do your jobs. That's all I need. I'll see you soon, Penny. I love you."

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